LITMIR.BIZ

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he wasn’t sold on the scarf thing.

      She popped back up to her feet. She was wearing skintight jeans and some oversize purple sweater thing that had big holes in it, but she seemed to be wearing a black tank top under it, so the holes didn’t show off anything important.

      Seriously, there had been moments in time when he thought this would be a good idea?

      “Thanks for letting me keep her the extra week.”

      “Look, you can keep her. Period.”

      Cara wrinkled her nose. “You can’t just give me your dog.”

      “You bought her sparkly shit, and she clearly likes you better than me. Besides, you can bring her with you on workdays. It’s not like I don’t have enough dogs to keep me company, and she’s only mine because someone knew I didn’t turn away strays.”

      “Wes.”

      He already didn’t like the way she said his name. It gave him feelings he’d rather not diagnose at the moment. It was one of the great things about the army. Everyone said Stone or his rank in the same harsh bark. No emotion to discern in that environment. Just do your job right and no one gave you a hard time for being poor or shy or anxious or helpful or nice, either.

      They needed to get on that professional, detached playing field. He gave orders. She followed them. The end. “Are you ready to work?”

      “Oh! I almost forgot.” She shoved some papers out of the way and put her bag down on the spot she’d cleared. Carefully, she pulled out a big plastic container.

      “I made you a pie.” She unclipped the clasps on the lid. “It’s kind of my version of a personality test.”

      “Pie as personality test?”

      She nodded, her lips a brightly painted pink smile. She lifted the lid with a flourish. “I give you octo-pie.”

      Wes stared at the bizarre-looking pie. It was indeed an octo-pie in that the top of the piecrust had been fashioned to look like an octopus. A big lump of pie dough made up the body, while strips made up the eight legs. It even had eyes and a mouth cut into the crust. The pie filling looked like cherry and made his mouth water.

      It was ridiculous and hilarious. He actually found himself laughing. Which somehow only made Cara grin wider.

      “You pass,” she said happily. “You do have a personality under all that gruff I’m-so-tough beardy flannel.”

      Any humor faded. He didn’t particularly want her to see him having a personality. This would be so much easier if he could be the silent soldier and she could...go about her business organizing him. His papers. Not him. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

      “I would.” Sweetness hopped up on the desk chair and began sniffing around the pie, so Cara put the lid back on. “Are you sure about me keeping her?”

      “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

      “You have no idea how much I like that about you.” She said it kind of under her breath, but he caught it and was all too pleased by it.

      “So, where do we start?” she asked, all sunny good cheer while Sweetness panted happily up at her despite her taking away the pie.

      Yeah, the damn dog definitely belonged with Cara.

      “Wherever you want. I have work to do in the kitchen. Find a way to organize all this in a way that works for you and that you can explain to a mess like me, answer the phones, and we’re set.”

      Cara looked wide-eyed around the room. “That’s it?”

      “You have carte blanche. And I have carte blanche to tell you it sucks.”

      Instead of frowning or arguing like he would have expected, she grinned. “This might be the best job I ever had.”

      “I wouldn’t say that yet,” he grumbled. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you have any questions.” And he would stay in the kitchen, because being around her was bad news. Being pleased by anything she said was a terrible recipe for a replay of his teenage life, and nope, he wasn’t going to do that again.

      He left her in his office, Sweetness not even looking his way. Which was fine. At least Phantom...

      He glanced back to where the dog hovered in between the doorway of the office and the hallway to the kitchen. “Another traitor,” Wes muttered, trying not to feel too bent out of shape about it.

      If he were a dog, he’d be panting in Cara’s lap, too.

      Irritated with himself for, well, everything, he took a deep breath and went about setting up for work. He had things to do. Things that did not involve his new assistant.

      Besides, there was always the chance she’d make a mistake and he could fire her. Because, of course, you have the balls for that.

      He had been isolated for too long. Talking to the dogs was one thing. Talking to himself this much? He still remembered his fourth-grade teacher, Ms. Purdue, telling him that talking to himself was a sign of insanity.

      She might not be that far off.

      He gathered his ingredients, flipping on the radio to drown out some of his inner monologue. All he wanted to think about was the correct ratio of sweet potatoes to whole wheat flour.

      He lost himself in the routine, even managing to forget Cara was in the next room most of the time. He had the batter made and the molds filled before she interrupted the peace he’d found by entering the kitchen.

      “Hey, um...” Her nervous energy filled the room. Obviously she’d run across something she had a question about, something that made her uncomfortable. His shoulders that had finally relaxed tensed.

      “Um, someone from Dr. Pedelmann’s office called to see if they could reschedule your appointment tomorrow.”

      Well. Yeah, he could see why that’d make her uncomfortable. And damn him for not having a personal phone line so he could handle these things without the chance of her...getting wind of it. Too late now. “Super.”

      “They asked if the sixth at two-thirty would work.”

      “Okay.”

      She didn’t move. He didn’t bother to look at her, but he could still hear her breathing, didn’t hear any footsteps retreating.

      “You’re not, like, dying, are you?”

      The question shocked an almost laugh out of him. “No, not dying.” Any lingering desire to laugh died. “Just malfunctioning.”

      She stood there, hovering. Not asking any more questions but not leaving, either.

      “Look.” He glared at the molds filled with batter. As much as he loved what he did, it so often struck him as ridiculous. Making dog treats so idiot people like Pipsqueak’s owner could pretend their dogs were children. All because he was too damaged to do what he really wanted to do.

      But there were good customers, too. Non-ridiculous people who wanted to feed their dogs decent food. Which was the whole reason he’d even thought of this business when all other options had been destroyed.

      Cara was still watching him. He could feel her gaze. Like a weight. Like a noose. “I have nerve damage in my arm. A pin in my hip. The nerve damage isn’t progressing the way it should, hence the doctor’s appointment. I’m not dying, and I’m not certifiable.” Not totally, anyway.

      “Okay. Can I help somehow?”

      “No. Just reschedule the appointment for whenever.”

      “Okay.” Another pause. “Okay,” she said once more, and then, finally, her footsteps retreated.

      He took a deep breath, looked out the window at the trees that surrounded his cabin. Help. A foreign concept. One he didn’t know what to do with except push away.

      But

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