Meant To Be Yours. Susan Mallery

cleared his throat. “I like the idea of someone local. She works in an office, she’s a dog walker.”

      “I don’t see Vidar as a real dog kind of guy. He’s too focused on what he does. I’m not sure he’d be a good pet parent.”

      “He could do it. He just hasn’t had a chance.”

      Her lips twitched. “You’re defending someone who doesn’t exist?”

      “Yes. He’s my guy.”

      “Fine. He could love dogs.” She held in a smile. “Or cats. What if he meets a crazy cat lady?”

      “No. Definitely no.”

      “What about just one cat? I’ve always wanted a cat. They’re so beautiful.”

      “No on the cat.”

      She smiled. “Okay, she owns a restaurant, she’s a plumber, she works in a bar, she’s a teacher, she’s a...” She tried to think about what kind of career would make sense for Vidar’s lady friend.

      “What if she’s a wedding planner?” Jasper asked.

      Renee finished her ice cream and licked the spoon. “Really? That’s both flattering and creepy at the same time.”

      “It makes sense. You’re creative and resourceful. She could be, too.”

      “How would they meet? Vidar goes to a wedding?”

      “He could. Someone from the force. Or a friend.”

      “Not family,” she said. “He doesn’t have any. I don’t know—a wedding planner is nothing like what he does. Would they even get along? And while we’re not on the subject, where did you come up with his name? Vidar. It’s unusual.”

      “I found it in a baby name book. It’s based on Norse mythology. Vidar is the son of Odin and a giantess named Grid. He’s silent and known to be strong. I thought it suited him.”

      “I can’t get past his mother’s name. Grid? Really?”

      “It was different back then.”

      “Still. ‘This is my mother, Grid’?”

      “You’re not helping.”

      Renee laughed. “Okay. Vidar, son of Grid. Oh, wow, I just realized that Pallas’s name comes from Greek mythology.” She paused. “Or Roman. I think Greek. We have two mythologically based names in town. What are the odds? And back to your girl. She could be a florist, an artist. Oh, make her a glass artist. You could totally hang out with Mathias and Ronan and learn the trade. It would be very method acting. Or writing, I guess.”

      “You’re feeling better.”

      She smiled. “I am. The ice cream cured me, at least for the moment. Thank you for bringing it.”

      “Thanks for helping me with my book.”

      “We didn’t accomplish anything.”

      “I have a lot to think about. That’s progress.”

      “If you say so.” She thought about all they’d discussed and how he’d watched all the movies she’d suggested plus more she hadn’t. He was good at his job, doing the work and then some. He was handsome, funny, godlike in bed and successful.

      “So why aren’t you married?” she asked. “Why the serial monogamy?”

      “You proposing?”

      “Not today.”

      He grinned. “Okay, you answered my question when I asked it, so fair is fair. You know I was in the army.”

      She nodded.

      “Before that I was just some small-town guy. I grew up in Montana. I liked the usual outdoor stuff, had a girlfriend in high school. There weren’t a lot of opportunities and I wasn’t excited about college so I joined up right after I graduated.”

      His gaze shifted past her, as if he was seeing something she couldn’t.

      “I got into the military police and that was good for me. I liked my work and I was serving my country. Some days were more difficult than others.” He shifted his attention back to her. “I had several tours in Afghanistan. They got harder and by the time I was ready to rejoin the civilian world, I found myself physically intact but mentally and emotionally messed up.”

      “PTSD?” she asked.

      “Among other things. I had nightmares, anxiety, sleeplessness. I couldn’t focus. Some days I couldn’t stop shaking. I went through all of it. Therapy, drugs, group counseling, halfway houses. Everything helped a little but nothing helped very much. After a while I figured out I was never going to be whole. Not the way I had been. The doctors I saw talked about managing my symptoms. One day we were given an assignment to write about how we were feeling. I started writing and couldn’t stop. Two years later, I’d finished a book that had nothing to do with the war and everything to do with someone else’s problems. That was the first Vidar novel.”

      She thought about what Wynn had said—that he wasn’t as broken as he thought—and wondered if it was true.

      “So you’re too wounded to love anyone?” she asked lightly.

      “Something like that. It’s okay. I’ve got a pretty decent life.” He grinned and got to his feet. “I never thought I’d be a writer, that’s for sure.”

      He moved close, bent down and kissed the top of her head. “Thanks for talking to me tonight. I hope you feel better soon.”

      “I will. The first twenty-four hours are the worst for me. By the morning, I’ll be fine.”

      “I’m glad.” He touched her cheek. “I’ll show myself out. See you soon.”