Stolen September: A Military Romance

“Tank!” Bea squeals.

I rub my cheek against her nose, sharing the mess with her.

“I love you, Mrs. Andrews.”

“I love you too, Mr. Andrews.”

Unable to hold myself back, I pick Bea up and carry her to our bedroom.

“Tank, you made the bed!”

I chuff, placing her down in the middle and caging her in my arms.

“No Honeybee. I never unmade it.”

“Never?”

“I slept in the recliner. I told you I was never going to spend another night in bed without you.”

“Mom turned my bedroom into a craft room. I guess I wasn’t sleeping in a bed without you either.”

“I don't want to spend another night without you.”

“And now you don’t have to.”

“Did you miss me?” I ask. It’s our thing, and I wait for some silly metaphor that’ll make me laugh.

Her hands caress me and she tugs me down to her lips, whispering, “I missed you like a bee misses honey, and flowers, and sunshine.”

My chest gets tight and I nearly choke the words out. “Ah, all the things it needs to survive.”

She murmurs, “Always.”

Epilogue

Bea

My hand slaps my bare thigh as I stop inside the house at the base of the stairs, catching my breath. “Bruiser, get back here with my shoe!”

This mutt is going to be the death of me. The little trickster nabbed the flip-flop off my foot as I was getting the mail. He loves the sound my shoe makes as it flicks on my foot with each teasing step. My chest heaves and sweat trickles between my breasts as I shake out my short dress. The humidity is awful today, and I say a little prayer that dog hasn’t grabbed another shoe. Old Navy is about an hour away, and I don’t relish a drive there and back for a half dozen pair of flip-flops at three dollars a pop. I buy my flip-flops in bulk with this puppy. Wryly, I muse, I’m not entirely sure how much I’ve missed Tank this time.

We were stationed to Fort Bragg seven months ago, and my husband has been deployed six months of that time. I probably miss him about as much as Bruiser would miss my flip-flop if he ever came back with it. Fort Bragg has been an adventure, with a missing shipment of furniture, which put us back at square one without a proper couch or dining room table all over again. I was determined to not use our joint credit card, after learning my lesson last time. Luckily a family down the street was moving and their two teenage sons were more than happy to move the furniture for ice tea and store-bought cookies.

A dart of black fur races by me and I step out of the way with barely enough time before I’m almost knocked down. It’s pointless to call Bruiser’s name again. That damn dog barely listens to me. He goes nuts when someone comes knocking on the door. He’s terrified the UPS driver and the mailman, countless times barking at the front window like they’re going to be his new snack. He’s a real joy to get into his crate, which he’s almost grown out of. When Tank comes home that’s the first thing on my list I need his help with.

Bruiser worms his warm body with silky fur next to mine, glancing up with his puppy eyes—dark, fathomless orbs that reflect nothing but love. He puts his head down and wiggles his butt, tail thumping, and I shake my head. He is supposed to be the runt of his Labrador litter, which is how Tank adopted him for free when one of the families on base had a batch of unexpected puppies. Kind of a two-for-one deal, seeing as how my husband presented him as a deployment present. We don’t plan on having kids for a while, so this lump of coal-dark love is the equivalent of my push present. So even though Bruiser is my dog, he loves Tank unconditionally and conveniently forgets who feeds and walks him the second my other lump of handsome broad shoulders comes home.

Bruiser gives a low bark.

“Shush, you big baby.”

I pat his head and scratch behind his ears.

“You miss Daddy, don’t you?”

He perks up and barks louder this time, running off. There’s plenty of mischief for him to get into between now and tomorrow, when Tank is scheduled to get home.

Standing up, I brush myself off and walk into the kitchen. I find my mangled flip-flop on the tile floor and toss it in the garbage. The navy blue plastic foam that matches my dress is mangled beyond repair. It’s warm enough that I don’t need shoes in the house, and I putter around looking for something to do—anything but wait, because that’s the hardest part of being separated from Tank. I finally mastered my Instapot, and have a roast cooking now so I don’t have to stress about prepping anything tomorrow. I want him to come home and be completely mine, with our mutual attention spoken for.