All Kinds of Tied Down (Marshals 1)

I slowed down, laughing, and he yanked me into him, bumping; his chest pressed into my back. We were both still moving, so he lost his balance when we collided and would have gone down if he hadn’t wrapped an arm around my neck for balance.

His hot breath, his lips accidentally brushing against my nape, brought on a shiver I couldn’t contain.

“Why’d you run?” he asked, still holding on, his other hand clutching the front of my jacket, his arm over my shoulder, across my chest.

“Just to make sure Chickie had fun,” I said, feeling how hard my heart was beating and knowing it had nothing to do with the sprint I’d just led him on.

“Yeah, but you’re cold,” Ian said, opening one hand, pressing it over my heart for a moment before he stepped away from me.

I was freezing the second he moved. “Yeah, I am,” I agreed quickly, patting Chickie, who was nuzzling into my side. “Let’s jog back, get the blood pumping. That way we’ll get warm.”

Ian agreed, and we jogged together along the path, Chickie flying forward, only to come loping back, making sure Ian was where he could see him.

We made a giant loop and made it back home right before we both turned into Popsicles. Since I hadn’t seen Chickie relieve himself, I told Ian he should probably walk him around the block once more.

“But I’m hungry,” he whined.

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. Your dog did not take a shit, and he needs to.”

Ian pivoted to look at his dog. “Chickie!” he yelled.

Chickie took one look at his master and squatted right there on the patch of grass beside the curb. Ian’s expression of disgust and disbelief sent me into hysterics.

“You scared the shit outta the dog!”

“That’s not funny.”

I couldn’t even breathe, it was so funny.

As Ian pulled plastic bags from his pocket, I doubled over, and Chickie came barreling up the steps past him—right to me—and licked my face, very pleased with himself.

“Stupid dog,” he muttered as I continued to howl. “Stupid partner.”

The man was cursed with both of us.

IAN TOOK off his hoodie and pulled on a zippered cardigan of mine before he came into the kitchen and watched me put together our sandwiches. I had picked them up from Bruno & Meade, a deli I loved, and what I liked about it was that it didn’t assemble to-go orders. They gave you everything that came on the sandwich, all the ingredients, but the bread was sealed separately so it didn’t get hard—or soft, depending on which kind you ordered—and everything else came in Ziploc bags or small plastic containers.

“You realize this is the height of laziness, right?” Ian commented as he put sliced bread and butter pickles into his mouth. “I mean, seriously, you could buy all this crap at the store and do this yourself.”

“Oh yeah? The aioli mayonnaise, the chorizo salame, and Ossau you like? Really?” I asked, sliding the plate over to him. “You think I could just pop into a Jewel for that?”

He scowled at me.

“The sourdough that’s freshly baked every day?”

Something was muttered under his breath.

“I got the gouda you like, and the marinated olives too.”

“Are you still talking?”

“Why, yes.” I smirked. “I am.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, grabbing a bottle of his favorite beer—Three Floyds Gumballhead, which I made sure was always there—from the refrigerator before he turned for the living room.

“And roma tomatoes are your favorite, so I made sure I asked for—”

“Yeah, fine, you’re a fuckin’ saint and I’m an ungrateful ass.”

I cackled as he flopped down onto the couch and turned on the TV. The sounds of football filled the room. After a moment he turned around and looked at me.

“What? Need a napkin?”

“No, I have a—you’re not gonna argue?”

“Why would I argue?”

“Ass,” he mumbled, turning back to the game.

I joined him on the couch, sitting close like I always did, and he took some potato chips off my plate. “Go get your own,” I said, smacking his hand away.

He shoved me with his shoulder and I almost dumped my plate.

“What’re you doing?”

“Don’t be stupid,” he retorted, nudging my knee gently with his and then leaving his leg pressed against mine. “Since when don’t I eat off your plate?”

He was right. I would let Ian do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. I was his for the taking—as were my potato chips.

Chapter 3

IAN LEFT about one in the morning and had promised to be back at seven to pick me up for breakfast. When he wasn’t there by quarter after, I called him, but it went straight to voice mail. Since I didn’t want to be late and the walk to the train platform would take too much time, I decided to drive my truck. I so seldom drove the Toyota Tacoma, I had thought on numerous occasions about selling it. But inevitably, someone needed help moving practically the moment I’d start to seriously consider the idea. And today I was glad I still had it as I headed in to work.