Military Grade Mistletoe. Julie Miller

Gunderson was on her tiptoes hugging him. Bear-hugging him. Giving him a squeeze-the-stuffing-out-of-him kind of hug. What happened to polite introductions and handshakes? This wasn’t the greeting he’d expected. She wasn’t the woman he’d expected.

      But when a woman hugged a man like that, it was his natural instinct to wrap his arms around her and...pat her back. He could hear his men ribbing him now, giving him grief over his lousy moves with the ladies the same way he gave them grief about staying sharp and keeping their heads down. He’d been short on this kind of contact for a long time. Months. Years, maybe. The instinctive part of him wanted to tighten his grip around her. A baser part of him wanted to reach down and see if the curves on the bottom half matched the ones flattened against him up top—or whether all that luscious body he felt was just the pillows of her coat squished between them. A different part of him, the part that was still fractured and healing, wanted to bury his nose in the sugar-cookies-and-vanilla scents radiating off her clothes and hair and skin, and let it fill up his head and drive out the nightmares.

      Harry did none of those things. Although her scent was as sweet as he’d imagined, nothing else about this meeting was going according to plan. Dogs were barking. She was plastered against him. He patted her back again because he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to react to this welcome. After all, he’d never met Daisy in person before.

      She started talking before pulling away. “This feels like a reunion between old friends. I just got home myself. A few minutes earlier and you would have missed me. What are you doing here?” She shooed the dogs into the house and grabbed his wrist, pulling him in, as well. “Sorry. I’ll stop talking. Come in out of the cold.”

      He watched the little gray-and-white fuzz mop dart back and forth across the area rug in the foyer while the white terrier jumped over him with a yip of excitement when he got too close. Those dogs were wired. They needed a good bit of exercise to take some of that energy out of them.

      After locking the thick mahogany door behind her, Daisy pointed to the little one. “Muffy, down.” Muffy? The long-haired one was clearly a dude, but he had to give the little guy credit for flopping down on his belly to pant until he got permission to go nuts again. “I can put them in their kennels if you want, but they’ll mind if you tell them to stay down. Make sure Patch is making eye contact with you and use your hand. He’s deaf. But smart as a whip. Jack Russells usually are. He knows several commands. Patch?”

      She demonstrated a universal hand signal. The terrier sat, all right, but so did the Belgian Malinois. Who looked a lot like... That muscle ticked beneath Harry’s right eye as he slammed the door on that memory and focused on the dog with the graying muzzle. Poor old guy had lost a leg. But those deep brown eyes were sharp and focused squarely on him, as if awaiting a command. Maybe the dog recognized another wounded warrior. “Is he a working dog?”

      “KCPD-retired,” she answered. “That’s Caliban. He lost his leg to cancer. I inherited him when his handler couldn’t keep him. Sorry about the mess. I’m in the middle of decorating for the holidays.” Daisy was moving down the hallway beside the stairs, which were draped with fake greenery and red bows tied along the railing. She swerved around a couple of plastic tubs and kicked aside little bits of melting snow with her low-heeled boots. “Stick to the runner and it won’t be slippery,” she advised. “Could I get you something hot to drink? Coffee? Cocoa? Are you hungry? I baked a ton of cookies last weekend.”

      Did the woman never stop talking? He couldn’t even say hello, much less ask a question or explain the reason he was here. “That’s not necessary.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s cold. I’m cold. I’d be fixing it, anyway.”

      Clearly, she expected him to follow her through the house, so Harry pulled the watch cap off his head and stepped out. A parade of curious dogs followed him into a cozy kitchen that opened up to a dining room that appeared to be a storage area for unwanted furniture, more plastic tubs and paint cans.

      “Ignore that room. My goal is to clear that out this weekend and finish decorating. I’m hosting my school’s staff Christmas party next weekend.” She shed her coat and scarf and tossed them over a ladder-back chair at an antique cherrywood table. “Have a seat.”

      “I wanted to talk about the letters.”

      “Sit.” She pulled out a stool at the peninsula counter and patted the seat. “I’d love to talk about the letters you sent. Wish you’d kept writing after the school year ended.” He’d stopped in June because that’s when he... He hadn’t written any letters from the hospital. “You’re the first one of our pen pals I’ve met in person.”

      “That was nice of you to keep writing, even after I dropped the ball.” Harry put his leather gloves on the counter, unzipped his coat and settled onto the stool. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that some of those pen pals were never coming home. “I want you to know how much my unit appreciated all the letters you and your class sent them. Even if we, if I, didn’t always respond.”

      She was running water now, measuring coffee. “That was one of my more inspired projects. I started it with last year’s composition class. Anything to get them to write. Plus, at Central Prep—the school where I teach—we encourage our students to be involved in the community, to be citizens of the world and aware of others. It seemed like a win-win for both of us, supporting the troops while improving their communication skills. When your sister mentioned your Marine Corps unit at church, looking for Christmas cards to send them last year, I jumped right on it.” She tugged at the hem of her long purple tweed sweater after reaching into the refrigerator for some flavored creamer. As she moved about, Harry noticed that her glasses were purple, too, and so were the streaks of color in her chocolate brown hair. “I always model what I ask my students to do, so I adopted you. I don’t mean adopt you like that—no one would adopt...you’re a grown man. We drew names out of a hat. You were the one that was left, so you lucked out and became my pen pal. It’s nice—no, amazing—to finally meet you in person.” She stopped to take a breath and push a plate of sugar cookies decorated like Christmas trees and reindeer in front of him. “And now I’m rambling. Thank you for your service.”

      Now she was rambling? Harry was still replaying all the dialogue in his head to catch everything she’d said. “You’re welcome. I was just doing my job. Thank you for your letters. They meant a lot to me.”

      “You’re welcome. And I was just doing my job.” She pulled two turquoise mugs from an upper cabinet while the earthy smell of coffee brewing filled the room. “You’re home on leave for the holidays, I imagine. Are you visiting Hope?”

      “I’m staying with my sister and her husband for a few days.”

      “How’s their little boy? He’s about two, right?”

      “Gideon is...” A little afraid of the growly uncle who was rooming with him for the time being. Or maybe the fact that Harry was a little afraid of holding his energetic nephew without breaking him was what created the awkward tension between them. Who was he kidding? Pretty much every relationship was awkward for him right now. “Yeah, he’s two in a couple of months.”

      “And Hope is pregnant with baby number two? That’s good news. Although that apartment over her bridal shop only has two bedrooms, doesn’t it? She and Pike will have to be looking for a bigger place soon.” Daisy filled two mugs and carried them to the counter across from him. Although that bulky knit sweater covered the interesting bits between her neck and thighs, her leggings and boots hinted at earth-mother curves. He was busy filling in with his imagination the shape he couldn’t see, enjoying the mental exercise a little more than he should when she set a fragrant, steaming mug in front of him, and cradled the other between her hands, warming her fingers. “What can I do for you, Master Sergeant?”

      Harry dutifully pulled his gaze up to the blue eyes behind her glasses. “Top. You don’t have to call me Master Sergeant every time. Top is the nickname for an NCO of my rank.”

      “All right, Top. What can I do for you?”

      “I