Operation Soldier Next Door. Justine Davis

was a swath of dawn’s first light coming through a breach that shouldn’t be there.

       Chapter 4

      Her new neighbor was going to be a pain, Lacy thought decidedly.

      And within three seconds she was chastising herself for leaping to that judgment. You could hardly decide about somebody under circumstances like this, after all. Or you shouldn’t, although she knew people did.

      He deserved better, anyway. Anyone who carried scars like his, earned volunteering to protect people he didn’t even know, deserved better. The best, she told herself. Besides, he was Martin’s grandson, and that alone should earn him some slack.

      She poured herself a cup of coffee and carried it over to the workstation she’d set up in what had been intended to be a dining alcove but was now her office. It was the only space that seemed suitable, and she liked being able to look out over the garden, and then to the thick trees beyond.

      Her cottage was small, designed for one person with a great room that held the kitchen, living area, a small powder room and the alcove she was in now. On the other side of the house was a large bedroom with a master bath. Scattered throughout were various nooks and crannies for storage that she’d found charming at first, but frustrating when it came to actually finding anything.

      Her favorite spot was the large deck, which overlooked the garden and a small grassy yard that was getting smaller as she took over more growing space. Her landlady, a prosperous dentist from Seattle, had given her carte blanche to expand after the first time she’d visited and seen what Lacy had begun. Sending her home with a basket of fresh tomatoes, squash and peppers, and a bouquet of beautiful dahlias hadn’t hurt any.

      Lacy sipped at her coffee as her computer booted up, wondering if the full pot she’d made was even going to be enough after last night. She’d like nothing more than to go back to bed for a nap, but even if she didn’t have work to do, she knew her mind wouldn’t cooperate by shutting off. It was too full of thoughts, and too stubborn to stop wondering about Martin McLaughlin’s grandson and how he was doing.

      At a sudden thought she abandoned the steaming coffee and went back outside. She’d meant it when she’d offered the Plexiglas panels to him, but she wasn’t at all sure he’d come over and get them, even if they would save him having to go buy sheets of plywood and cart them home. She didn’t know if he even had a car, since he’d arrived on a motorcycle.

      She doubted Martin’s classic old El Camino, that sleek cross between car and truck that he’d just called “the buggy,” was running at the moment, although she was sure it was in perfect condition. The old man had puttered with it constantly. The engine rumbled happily, and the cherry-red paint always gleamed. She’d watched him often enough, handed tools to him, a bittersweet process because it reminded her of all the times she’d helped her father the same way as a kid.

      She felt a pang as she remembered the last time she’d seen the car, the day she’d helped him put it into storage in the garage next to the workshop, carefully on blocks and covered. She’d had no idea then that it would be the last time. Would he keep it, this rather cranky grandson of his? Or sell it off for the no doubt nice bit of cash it could bring from a collector? She hoped not, hoped that his willingness to move in here was more than just that he needed a place to live.

      She walked to the west side of her house, where the extra panels were leaned against the wall. She picked one up, thankful it was fairly light despite its size. She could carry it alone, although it was a bit awkward because of the width.

      There was no fence between the two properties, and both she and Martin had liked it that way. She crossed over, walked to the big maple tree and set the panel down, leaning it against the trunk where he couldn’t help but see it when he came outside. Then she went back for the second, which she thought would be enough. Only then did she pause and look at the house that was nearly as familiar to her as her own.

      She couldn’t see the damage from here, and for a moment an ache overtook her. Everything looked the same, as if Martin would look out at any moment, smile, wave and invite her over for a chat and some of his own coffee. Now that stuff would keep her awake, she thought. For a week.

      “He’s here,” she whispered, as if to the old man. She had caught herself speaking to him now and then when she looked over here, or came over to check on the place. It was a silly, wistful thing, but it eased the ache a bit. “He’s here and he’s safe, Martin. A bit cranky, but no more so than he has a right to be, all things considered. I’ll keep an eye on him for you.”

      From a distance, she added to herself as she turned to go back home. He’d made it pretty clear he’d rather be left alone. It went against her instincts not to help a neighbor who was having some trouble, but if that’s the way he wanted it, she’d give him time to settle in before she made any more overtures.

      And you neglected to mention he was so hot, Martin, she thought with an inward laugh at herself as she headed back to her house. She’d only seen pictures of him much younger, as a baby, a child and a gangly adolescent before they’d shifted to a man in uniform and often loaded down with gear. She knew herself well enough to know her first reaction to military personnel was always positive, but she’d always thought him genuinely nice-looking.

      She just had never thought of him as camo-wrapped sexy. For that matter, she’d never quite realized how sexy just a pair of plain, simple boxers could be on a tight, fit male body when you were looking at the real thing, not an artfully posed photo.

      And Tate McLaughlin was definitely the real thing.

      * * *

      Tate screwed the last corner of the second panel down tightly, tested the seal, decided it would do nicely for the moment. There was no rain predicted for the next several days, so the heavy tarp on the roof should hold. He’d gotten the charred edges of the hole cut away, so that should help with the burned smell. He stepped back and looked at his makeshift repair. The large acrylic panels were the perfect size, as she’d guessed, and the predrilled holes had made attaching them a matter of a few long wood screws. It would also make working on repairs easier, only having to remove the panels.

      It was nice of her to offer the temporary fix.

      Nicer of her to leave them out for him to find rather than making him come get it. He appreciated that. After years of having to react and respond to rapidly changing circumstances instantly, he wanted the chance to ease into things more gradually.

      And thinking about easing into things in conjunction with his new neighbor was not the smartest move he’d made this afternoon, he thought wryly. Neither had been the moment this morning in the thankfully undamaged bathroom, when during his shower he’d caught himself thinking about her ratio of leg to body. She wasn’t strikingly tall, maybe five foot six or so, but she surely had a lot of leg.

      Lovely, shapely leg.

      His thoughts had taken a decidedly raw turn then, and one she certainly wouldn’t appreciate when all she’d done was try to be helpful and neighborly, that’s all.

      Really nice, neighborly young woman, sweet, thoughtful and helpful.

      The memory jabbed at him, the words from the email Gramps had sent him after she’d first moved in next door.

      Leave it to Gramps to omit the salient detail that she was a looker. And, of course, he’d had advice to offer at the end of that email.

      You admire the pretty ones, but you marry the real ones. If you’re smart.

      Not likely. Not him. Sometimes he thought about his grandparents and their sixty-year-long marriage, in love up until the day his grandmother had died five years ago. This had been their dream, this simple home surrounded by trees and life, and Gramps had never even thought about leaving. He still loved her, and Tate knew he had until his last breath. It was sometimes the only thing that gave him comfort about his death, knowing that the old man wouldn’t have minded going because he