Starting with June. Emilie Rose

the less they worried. His family had his and Roth’s cell numbers, in the event of an emergency. That was all they needed. And Roth had his momma’s.

      The whole lot of them resided in Tennessee, eight hours from Quincey, the same distance it had been from Quantico. Yet the long drive hadn’t kept his family from ambushing him. After a surgery a few years back, some shavetail Louie had called Sam’s mother instead of Roth, Sam’s primary contact, and the whole extended clan had descended on him like ants on a picnic. While he’d been laid up in the hospital, his sisters had rearranged his tiny apartment, thrown out food and possessions and replaced them with crap he’d never touched except to put it in the Dumpster. They’d grilled all his apartment neighbors to find out who he was dating and how long he’d been seeing them. He’d learned his lesson, and he wasn’t setting himself up for that kind of “help” again.

      Sam would show up at his parents’ place when he was ready for company and the females’ tag-team analysis torture. That wouldn’t be anytime soon.

      Separation from the corps still ached like a recent amputation. Until he was past the rawness and had an idea of what he was going to do with his future or how he’d get reassigned to a base, he didn’t need a bunch of hens clucking around him and telling him how to live his life. That included his temporary neighbor.

      His phone vibrated. The screen indicated a text message from Roth.

      Settled in yet?

      Affirmative. In my hide, Sam tapped back. Streets rolled up at dusk. Grocery store closed before I could stock up.

      Yep. At six on Saturday. Welcome to Quincey. Backwoods, USA. Need anything?

      Calling would have been easier than texting, but Roth had insisted no one, not even his wife, know the real reason Sam was here until he reported for duty. Conversations could be overheard, and info was on a need-to-know basis.

      Negative. I have rations. Did you send her?

      Who?

      The blonde.

      There was a pause before the next text came through.

      June?

      Yeah.

      No. Why?

      She brought food.

      Eat whatever she cooks—especially her brownies. She’s famous for those.

      Except for extracting the lease, Sam had left the basket untouched on the coffee table. For dinner he’d planned to eat one of the MREs in his bag. Brownies sounded better. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had one. He headed for the living room/kitchen combo.

      The cottage wasn’t luxurious by any means, but it was clean, comfortable and a hell of a lot nicer than most of the places he’d slept since enlisting. He kept a rat rack in Q-Town. It was more like a hotel room than an apartment, but it came furnished and made dealing with his stuff during deployments uncomplicated.

      Had kept, that is. Everything he owned was packed into his Charger. Turning in the key this morning after keeping the place so long had been...an adjustment.

      Did she ask about your job? Roth wrote.

      Tried. I didn’t crack.

      Good. Word spreads faster than flu in Q, and it’s imperative that no one know you’re investigating my squad.

      Affirmative.

      What do you think of her?

      What did he think? Words tripped through his head. Attractive. Annoying. Aggressive. Available. But he settled for typing, Nosy.

      Everyone here is. See you Tuesday 6 a.m. Acclimatize till then.

      Roger.

      Sam deleted the texts, pocketed his phone, then filled a glass with tap water and returned to the basket. Beneath the red-and-white-checked cloth napkin he discovered neatly stacked resealable plastic containers. He located one neatly labeled Brownies with Walnuts, grabbed it and headed for the front porch with his makeshift dinner. The minute he opened his door a mouthwatering aroma assaulted his taste buds. His stomach grumbled. Trying to ID the scent, he parked his tail in a rocking chair.

      A rocking chair, for pity’s sake. Like a geriatric retiree. He pushed that U-G-L-Y visual aside.

      Chicken. Someone was grilling chicken. One from the henhouse? His lips twitched when he recalled June’s remark. Blondie had a sense of humor. Blocking out the memory of her sparkling green eyes and the tantalizing smell, he bit into a brownie. The rich chocolaty taste of the moist treat almost made him groan. He shoved the remainder of the square into his mouth and reached for another.

      “Do you always eat dessert first?”

      He jumped. His neighbor had snuck up on him. Nobody ever got the drop on him. In his line of work—former line of work—that meant death or torture. Preferably the former. He swallowed.

      “I didn’t mean to startle you.” June stood on the ground beside his porch watching him through the pickets.

      “You didn’t.”

      Her megawatt smile revealed she knew he’d lied. “If you say so, Rivers. I heard the store closed before you got there.”

      Had she spoken to Roth? “How?”

      “Lesson one about Quincey. People here know what you’re doing before you do. And they talk about it. Gossip is our local sport and we have the championship team.”

      He’d known he was being watched when he’d hiked back to get his car, but he’d hoped to blend in with the weekend antiques hunters wandering the streets. He’d have to work harder at moving under the radar if he was going to do his job well.

      She lifted another plastic container the shrubbery had hidden from view. “Here’s half a beer-can chicken, a couple of ears of grilled corn—locally grown—and some garlic-cheddar biscuits.”

      His taste buds snapped to attention, but the rest of him balked. He wasn’t stupid. There was only one reason a woman baked and cooked for a man, slipped him her number and offered to show him hiking trails while wearing a bikini that displayed the smorgasbord on offer. The phrase she’d said when they first met echoed in his head. I’ve been waiting for you, she’d said in that throaty voice of hers.

      Sam did not need any local honey sticking to his feet and making extraction difficult. The best thing he could do was head her off at the pass. It would save them both a lot of embarrassment later.

      “June, I appreciate your generosity, but I’m a no-strings kind of guy. I am not looking for a relationship.”

      Her spine snapped as straight as a new recruit’s. Then crimson flagged her cheekbones. “Zip it, Rivers. I’m not trying to get into your britches. I’m only being neighborly and looking out for you the way Madison asked me to. I brought food to get you through until you can get to the store tomorrow afternoon. They don’t open until twelve-thirty on Sundays—after the owner gets out of church. Ditto the diner.”

      She shoved the container under the porch rail. “It’s not like I lit candles, slipped into something sexy and invited you over. Eat this or don’t. I could not care less if you starve. But don’t leave my dishes outside. The nocturnal critters will destroy them.

      “You’re on your own for breakfast, though. Like I said, there will be eggs in the coop. Get ’em yourself. If you dare. Brittany has a sharp beak and a mean streak. I’ll let you figure out which hen she is.”

      Then she pivoted and stalked across the grass toward her rear patio. Chagrinned, Sam mentally smacked his forehead and silently