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She stopped halfway between the farmhouse and the kennel, waiting while Jango marked a tree. Would Mark feel the same? Unease settled in her stomach, forming a tight ball.
For months now, their Sunday talks had centered on the present—how the kennel was progressing, her trip to Denmark to pick up the dogs she planned to breed and, when he felt like sharing, the lives he’d saved. Would coming home open old wounds? Would he join the others in the seemingly endless toast to her late husband’s memory?
Probably. After all, Darren had been like a brother to Mark.
She crossed her arms in front of her chest, bracing against the cool March wind. Winter had lingered this year, refusing to give way to spring. Jango trotted back to her side, and they headed for the house to check on the puppies. It would be nice, she thought, hugging her arms tight, if someone saw how much she needed this place to be hers.
* * *
THREE HOURS LATER, Amy raced down the stairs in a T-shirt and underwear with Jango at her side.
“Let go,” she called. Charlie and Foxtrot, the two most promising and troublesome puppies, ran in different directions, each holding a leg of her jeans between their teeth.
“Come on, guys, I need my pants,” she said.
Foxtrot won the tug-of-war game, ripping the jeans from Charlie’s mouth. Amy smiled. Out of this litter, Foxtrot showed the most promise. He had the drive to win. Just like a solider entering Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training had to want a place on the SEAL teams so badly he’d push past anything to get there, the dogs selected to work with the SEALs had to be the best. And being the best meant they never gave up. Every game of tug-of-war mattered. They had to win. Every ball thrown had to be retrieved. The dog wouldn’t have it any other way. And that was Foxtrot, always the winner.
Charlie, the loser, tumbled but quickly recovered to chase his brother around the corner and into the kitchen.
Following them, she heard a loud rip. Maybe Charlie had it in him to serve with the SEALs, too. He’d just won half of her pants.
“Okay, you can keep the jeans,” she said. “I’ll find another pair. But I need you guys to go back to the guest room.”
Ignoring her, the dogs disappeared from view, heading for the front room. While two stories, the farmhouse’s footprint was small. A living room off the main entrance with a hall that led to the kitchen, the spare bedroom and the stairs. The upper floor featured an open, loft-style master bedroom. When the puppies escaped their room, they had free rein of the house. And she was starting to suspect they knew it. All the more reason to whelp this litter and move them into the kennel.
She heard a knocking from the front room followed by a series of barks and closed her eyes. She didn’t want to know what they’d done to make that sound.
Amy rounded the corner and found the puppies on the couch shredding her jeans.
“Drop it,” she said in a loud, authoritative tone.
This time they released her pants and looked up at her. But a second knocking diverted their attention. The front door.
“Amy?”
Oh, no. For the past eighteen months, she’d heard that voice through her computer every Sunday.
“Just a minute.” But the puppies barked, drowning out her words. They jumped off the couch, taking her destroyed jeans with them.
She heard the knob turn, and Gabe say, “It should be unlocked. She knows we’re coming.”
Amy glanced down and groaned. Leopard-print undies with the words Feeling Lucky in big red letters. She’d bought them on sale months ago. At the time she’d thought no one would ever see them.
Her three brothers-in-law stepped into her living room. Mark followed, his rucksack over his shoulder, still wearing his uniform. She watched as four sets of eyes widened.
“Shit, Amy. The door was open. I’m sorry,” Gabe said, redirecting his gaze. The rest of the brothers did the same, looking at the walls, the ceiling, anywhere but at her.
Not Mark. His were the only eyes in the room still fixed on her. And judging from the intensity of his stare, he wasn’t embarrassed. He looked...interested. But it had been so long since a man had glanced at her with even a hint of desire that she was probably imagining it. She watched his lips move and realized he was reading the words on her underwear.
“The puppies stole my pants,” she said.
Amy saw the exact moment it clicked for Mark. He heard her voice, and he no longer saw her as a woman in her undies, but as Darren’s widow. That hint of desire, the one she may or may not have imagined, vanished. He looked away, shaking his head.
And great, now she was standing in a room full of drop-dead gorgeous men, in her underwear, and not one of them was looking at her.
3
FEELING LUCKY?
