Rogenna Brewer - Marry Me, Marine

So why him? She didn’t know him. Or she’d realize he wasn’t even a good temporary solution for her particular situation. At the very least she should have taken one look at him and run.

But she hadn’t. She was sitting there eyeing him as though he had the answer to all life’s problems. Like she was his kid sister, for crying out loud. Hell, Jessie, his own sister, would have been about her age had she lived to see twenty.

He scrubbed a hand over his beard and folded his arms.

“What about family? Your parents couldn’t approve of this trip.” Although her coming here in the first place suggested a lack of parental guidance.

“There’s only my grandma Shirley and me. And Ryder.” His trespasser set those soft, mossy-green eyes on him. “I’m prepared to make whatever sacrifices I have to in order to join the military. Being a single mom isn’t any easier as a civilian.”

He didn’t doubt that.

“I think,” he said, choosing his next words carefully, “you’ve been misinformed.” He leveled his gaze on her. “If you want me to track down the boy’s father, I can do that. I’ll even waive my usual fee and throw in a shotgun wedding.”

She blinked, clearly puzzled.

Apparently shotgun humor went way over her head.

“Are you some sort of goon for hire?”

“Beats groom for hire. Either way, you couldn’t afford me.”

Those odd jobs on the fringe of his former career as a Navy SEAL had gotten him through this past year. But jobs for a peripherally challenged operative were few and far between. In fact, her broken-down Cadillac was the most excitement he’d had in a long time.

He reached into the truck bed toolbox and grabbed a gallon jug of coolant. “Now if you’ll excuse me—” he nodded toward her car “—I have goon business to attend to.”

His mistake was in turning his back on her.

Halfway down the road he heard the screen door slam. The hollow sound echoed through his memory. All those times he’d tried to leave and couldn’t, because his mother had begged him to stay, even as she’d crowded him out with all her crap.

The last time, he’d let the door slam.

At age seventeen.

The military had seemed like his only way out. But he’d needed a parent’s signature to join.

His mother had refused, as he knew she would. But he could always count on his father to be drunk enough not to know or care what he was signing. So Hatch had driven to Laramie, found the old man in one of his shit-hole bars and said his goodbyes.

He’d never blamed his father for leaving.

Only for leaving him behind.

Which was what had drawn him to the Teams. The military wasn’t just a job. It was a lifestyle. He understood the appeal of that for himself. He couldn’t see it for her.

After turning around he set the coolant jug on the tailgate, he took a deep breath and followed her inside. She’d stopped three feet from the kitchen, and was holding the crook of her arm up to her nose. The stench was enough to put anyone off, but she couldn’t have gone any farther had she wanted to.

Worse than the floor-to-ceiling trash were the treasures that reminded him he’d once called this place home—the refrigerator magnet holding his sixth-grade photo; the teapot with the broken handle, still on the windowsill and littered with dried leaves.

The house had always been what family and friends referred to as a tidy mess. Meaning that at one time his mother had at least attempted to control her compulsion, even though the house had always gotten the better of her.

His parents had fought over the messiness in their lives. The lack of money. Love. Kindness and respect.

He’d been too young to make the connection. His mother’s need to fill the void with stuff was part of a vicious cycle. Her collecting got worse after his baby sister died, and again after his dad left. Hatch had always known his mother’s hoarding would get the best of her. The only thing he’d taken with him when he left was the guilt of knowing that.

And leaving, anyway.

Because things got even worse after that.

Peaches lowered her arm and offered a weak smile. “Uh, who died in here?”

“My mother.”

CHAPTER TWO

“I’M SORRY.” ANGELA apologized again from the passenger seat of his pickup. The man beside her gripped the steering wheel as if maintaining control of his anger depended on it.

What did he have to be angry about?

They were on their way into town—to the auto parts store—for a tire she hadn’t known she needed and a water pump she knew she couldn’t afford. He turned right onto the highway at the mailbox.

Had to be some irony in there somewhere.

Angela stared out the window, wondering if her grandmother would be able to wire enough money to cover the cost of repairs. And just how was Angela supposed to explain being in Wyoming? Not to mention her reason for being here.

He’d hauled her out of the house and into the cab of his pickup so fast her head was still spinning. She was surprised he hadn’t dumped her by the side of the road. Instead, he’d cursed the lug nuts and her lack of a spare, took one look under the hood and ordered her back in his truck.

How could a man with one eye even have a driver’s license?

She met his hard stare in the extra-wide side-view mirror and sank farther into the bucket seat. “I was just looking for a bathroom.”

“They haven’t been usable in years.”

“Then where—”

“Not there.” He’d cut her off, but hadn’t answered her question. So where was she supposed to go? And where did he go?

And where did he live if “not there”?

She found it hard to imagine anyone living in that house with or without plumbing. But someone had lived there and died there. He didn’t elaborate, and several miles passed before Angela got the nerve to ask about his mother. “How long ago did she die?”

“There are no dead bodies in the house, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

It wasn’t.

But if he wasn’t going to accept her attempt to make peace, then why should she tiptoe around? “Good to know you’re not a cross-dressing psychopath.”

Other than muttering something about a cold day in hell, he let the Norman Bates Psycho reference slide.

A trace of wood smoke lingered in the cab, together with the pine-scented air freshener. Or was that Irish Spring? He’d shed the outer layer of dirt along with his outerwear.

Shedding her perceptions would take a lot longer.

He glanced at her in the side-view mirror again. “You know the opening scene of every teen horror movie—young woman, healthy lungs, goes looking for trouble and finds it? You’re that girl.”

Angela rolled her eyes. “You’re not as scary as you think you are.”

“And you’re not as tough.”

“I’m a lot tougher than you know.” She went back to staring out the window. A lot tougher.

The abruptness with which he returned his attention to the road signaled an end to their conversation. They continued in silence for several more miles, and she took full advantage of his blind side.

What did he look like under all that scraggly hair? With a little imagination, kinda like a roughed-up version of Alex O’Loughlin.

First impressions weren’t always right.

A jean jacket had replaced the heavy down coat and coveralls. Underneath that camouflage outerwear, he’d had on a clean chambray shirt and a plain white T-shirt. His Wranglers were also clean despite being worn through to indecency.

The last time she had a pair of strategically ripped jeans she’d paid over a hundred dollars for them. But it had been a long time since she’d been able to afford clothes costing that much.

He wore work boots. No cowboy boots or cowboy hat in sight despite him living in the Cowboy State. A couple U.S. Navy ball caps hung from the gun rack across the back window, where he kept his guns under lock and key.