Baby, Hold On. Stephanie Bond

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      “All I know is that one of these days, a woman is going to bring you to your knees.”

      “Hey, just because Lora has you in a bind doesn’t mean you have to wish it on me.”

      “Lora has me exactly where I want to be,” Barry said with a goofy grin. “You should be so lucky. Aren’t you up for reenlistment soon?”

      “Six months,” Mike confirmed.

      “I hear they’re offering nice bonuses.”

      “Yep.”

      “What do you think you’ll do?”

      Mike took another drink of water. “I might reclass.”

      Barry’s eyes widened. “Change your specialty? Give up dog handling?”

      Mike shrugged. “Maybe it’s time for a change.”

      “You’re letting this situation with Sheridan get to you. If he doesn’t return to service, it has nothing to do with your ability as a handler.”

      Mike worked his mouth back and forth. “Maybe it’s a sign.”

      Barry gave a little laugh. “Now who sounds eccentric? You and Lacey Lovejoy might have more in common than you think. Come on, old man, pick up the pace!”

      Dismayed by his buddy’s comment, Mike dug in, glad to suddenly be running too fast to necessitate a reply.

      * * *

      By the time he walked through the door of Molly’s Diner for breakfast, Mike had almost put his conversation with Barry out of his mind. He and Lacey Lovejoy had nothing in common.

      The thought was reinforced when he spied her sitting at the counter, chatting with the bald cook, Clancey. Indeed, the woman was hard to miss, since she resembled a parrot with a perm. Inexplicably rankled, he took a seat at the opposite end and buried his face in a menu. But even from here, he could hear her tinkling laugh as she and the man discussed the similarities between, of all things, men and dogs. From the cook’s conversation, he was obviously gay, and the two were having a grand time one-upping each other with their jokes, prompting supportive comments from other customers sitting nearby, mostly single women.

      “He’ll do anything for a treat,” Lacey said.

      “He’ll bury his bone anywhere,” Clancey interjected, to uproarious laughter.

      “He barks when another dog comes into his yard.”

      “He’s loyal when you’re around, but roams when you’re gone.”

      “He sniffs all your friends,” Lacey added, eliciting a burst of applause.

      Mike frowned, not amused at the woman’s sense of humor. He glanced at his watch. Besides, didn’t she have a business to run? Maybe she wasn’t as much in demand as she was purported to be. Maybe she was all smoke and mirrors. Thankfully, the volley ended when Clancey returned to the grill, allowing Mike to peruse the blue plate special in relative peace.

      “Good morning.”

      He looked up to see Lacey standing there, in living Technicolor—a flowing turquoise skirt, a yellow peasant blouse, a flowered scarf that did little to contain her riotous curls. Her face, he realized with a start, was actually quite beautiful, once a person got past all that hair. Her cheekbones were high and chiseled, her nose fine and flaring, her mouth a pink bow. And her eyes were the strangest color of pale green, almost ethereal—probably contacts, he mused, to foster the perception she was “mystical.”

      “Hello,” he said coolly.

      “I was just wondering how Sheridan is feeling.”

      “He seems better,” Mike lied.

      “That’s good,” she said cheerfully. “The fresh air up here is good for every living thing, don’t you think?”

      He grunted.

      “See you around,” she said, then left on a breeze of some citrusy scent that tickled his nostrils.

      He rubbed his nose and watched her leave, collecting people as she went along, who apparently wanted to talk about their pets. Outside, a dozen or so dogs of all shapes and sizes were tied up along a railing, food and water within easy reach. When she walked out, tails wagged and ears perked and they all began to bark in a canine symphony. Lacey stopped to pat and coo to each one, moving down the line like a celebrity receiving her fans.

      Mike pushed his tongue into his cheek. It was as if she was the Pied Piper of Pooches.

      When she stepped into the sun, brilliant rays of light glanced off her white-blond curls, setting them afire. For a moment, she did look a little magical, he conceded. Then his mouth went dry. Because starkly silhouetted against the voluminous clothes she wore was a surprisingly willowy, womanly figure.

      Lacey Lovejoy had secrets, all right. She was hiding a hot little body under all that useless fabric.

      She bent over, tilting a pretty spectacular behind into the air. His body responded to the way she moved, and erotic images popped into his head. An Irish setter was licking her smiling face, and Mike was struck with the most absurd pang of…jealousy?

      The sound of a man clearing his throat brought his head around. Clancey, the cook, was standing there, staring at him pointedly. “See something you like?”

      Mike realized with a start that his mouth was open and his tongue was practically hanging out. He straightened and closed the menu. “Blue plate special.”

      “Coming right up.” The beefy bald man gave him the once-over, then sauntered back to the grill.

      Mike frowned at the man’s back, then chanced another glance out the window. A sun-bathed, shimmering Lacey was walking away, and all the dogs at the railing were straining against their leashes to follow her.

      Mike felt the pull of her on his own body…and acknowledged, with a disturbing twinge, that he was no better than the other hounds. He dragged his gaze away from her and murmured, “Down, boy.”

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