command out of his mouth, Sweetness’s front paws were muddying up Cara’s pants.
He crossed to where Cara had knelt, right in the mud. “I’m sorry. She’s usually better at obeying.” He refused to see that as some kind of omen.
“It’s okay.” She held up her arms, showing off some patches of white dust and yellowish crusty stuff across the elbows and forearms of her black sweater. “I’m already a bit dirty.”
“I thought you had an interview?”
“Pie-baking interview.”
“That’s a thing?”
“Well, it was supposed to be a thing. Turned into a fiery ball of super fail instead.” She buried her nose in Sweetness’s fur. Phantom approached and rested his head on Cara’s shoulder.
Aw, crap.
Cara sniffled, but her head remained buried in Sweetness’s fur even as one arm curled around Phantom’s neck.
He had half a mind to tell her he was having his own meltdown, and he didn’t need hers to add to it, but this moment seemed so incongruous. He’d only spoken to her twice, but it had been obvious Cara was generally fun and happy, and the few times he’d heard her name bandied about town, those were the words used to describe her. Now she was crying all over his dogs. Hell if he knew what to do about it.
She cleared her throat, slowly released the two dogs and wiped her face with her sleeves before she turned to him. “Sorry about that,” she mumbled. “Bad day.”
“He’s a therapy dog.”
She swiped at her nose, watery bluish green eyes meeting his. “Huh?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “I just mean, don’t feel bad for crying. Phantom is a therapy dog. That’s why he came over. Trained to offer comfort. Sometimes it makes you cry.”
She cocked her head, that kind of concentrated study he hated almost as much as the avoided glances. The avoided glances were I don’t want to deal with whatever is wrong with you. The cocked-head study was it doesn’t look like something is wrong with you. Are you mental?
“So, you need comfort?” she asked.
He swallowed down the “none of your damn business” and turned on a heel instead. “Let me get Sweetness’s stuff.”
Inside the kitchen, he hefted the plastic bin of food and treats and other dog paraphernalia. When he turned to walk back outside, Cara was stepping over the threshold.
Of his house. Someone else was in his house. A human being.
Phantom had followed her, resting his head against her thigh when she stopped. Traitor. Sweetness danced at her feet once she saw the plastic bin. The dog knew what was coming.
He wished he had some inkling, because he didn’t know what to do about Cara being in his house, even if it was only a few steps into the kitchen.
“This is a great place,” she said, looking around with avid interest. He looked, too. He liked it, of course, but he wasn’t sure what was that great about it.
“Is this where you make your stuff?” She pointed to his equipment and setup tables. Yes, he tended to spend more time in his kitchen making dog treats than food for himself. That was probably not normal. His hand went numb, which, while welcome over the pins and needles, was not convenient when he was holding something. His headache picked up again, and he struggled to use his good hip to balance the small bin.
Small. Light. Shouldn’t be a struggle.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” He gripped tighter with his good hand, but the bin was sliding, and his hip wasn’t moving quite the way it needed to in order to balance the container. So it upended and fell.
He bent down to retrieve the scattered crap, doing his best not to shove her hands out of the way when she tried to help.
“Sure you’re okay?”
“I’ve got it under control.”
“Right. Yeah.” She stopped helping and pushed into a standing position. He didn’t look up; he knew too well the kind of expression he would see. Curiosity or discomfort or both.
She didn’t make a big deal about it, but once he’d refilled the bin with Sweetness’s things, she bent over and picked it up before he could.
He tried to come up with words to get her to leave immediately, but when he stood, she was already walking farther into his house.
Carrying the plastic bin as if it were nothing.
Dark feelings twisted in his stomach. Bitterness. Jealousy. Anger. Fear. Worst of all, fear that he’d never be okay.
She needed to go.
Cara let out a low whistle, angling her head into his office. “What happened in there?”
The rest of the house was, well, a mess. His organizational skills were lacking at best. His tidying skills were also problematic, except in the kitchen. If he had a process, a structure, an outcome, like he did with making the dog food or he’d had in the army, he could be very clean and meticulous. But a space all to himself to keep things put away? He struggled.
Cara didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate. She stepped right into the fray. As if she’d been invited. As if she were welcome.
He scowled and shoved his hands into his pockets to stop the urge to yank her away from his stuff. “Do you always barge into homes and places of business uninvited like this?”
She chuckled, and he thought she didn’t look quite so beat down, like she had earlier. She was smiling and laughing, and this was the Cara he expected from town gossip and what little he knew about her. A smile. A joke.
“All those manners and things never really stuck with me, sorry.”
He grunted. It wasn’t so much about manners as... What? Normalcy. “I’m looking for an assistant to help with filing and organizing and stuff. I haven’t had any luck yet.” Why was he telling her that? What did he care if she thought he was a slob?
“Yeah? Why not?”
“People are annoying.”
Again, she laughed. She dropped the bin of dog supplies onto a cluttered chair. She walked through his office, touching his desk of teetering piles as though this was normal.
Usually he dropped the loaner dogs off at the person’s house, and this was precisely why. Probably also why he hadn’t hired any of the three people he’d worked up to interviewing.
He didn’t like sharing. He didn’t like someone trying to look underneath everything. But Cara already was.
For the first time since his return to civilian life, he didn’t know how to stop it.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Cara hardly noticed her brain asking that question. It asked her that about ten times a day. On a good day.
This wasn’t really a good day.
So, perhaps that answered her question. She was poking through Wes’s things, Wes’s life, because it sure beat dissecting her own.
She’d gone into the interview expecting to talk. Sam had asked her to bake an impromptu pie. Somehow she’d added too much salt to the piecrust. The edges had come out burnt. She’d self-destructed.
Typical Cara.
Even when she expected failure, there was always some sliver of hope she could turn things around this time. Not flunk the test or freeze in an interview. Find some way to make someone proud.
Mia would not be proud that she’d screwed up, even less proud that she’d given Sam