Page 17 of Asher

Chapter Nine

Standing there and holding Marlowe changed Asher’s plans. He couldn’t bring himself to let go of her. They’d just had the strangest fight, and Harley had seen and heard the whole thing. He stood at the door to his veterinary office, his arms crossed and the bottom of one boot planted against the door jam. His cell phone was up to his ear, but Asher couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation. The knowing smile on Harley’s face was worrisome. What did he know and how much had he heard? Couldn’t be much. Asher still didn’t have a clue why Marlowe had been in Afghanistan, how she’d gotten there, or what she’d done there, and he’d spent the most time with her.

For sure, she wasn’t military spec ops; he’d checked with a friend at the Defense Department about that possibility. She might be a deep undercover CIA operative. That would explain her reticence to trust or share. But it didn’t make sense. The Agency would’ve spirited her away from TEAM HQ the moment she hit American soil if she were. Asher knew there were darker ops than black ops, but again, if she belonged to any clandestine alphabet agency, they would’ve removed all trace of her as soon as she hit town. Possibly before.

Interestingly, the moment he had Marlowe in his arms, the toxic anxiety in his gut vanished. Just, poof—disappeared. He avoided negative energy, simply because it exacerbated the uncontrollable terror he’d experienced that day in Somalia. When PTSD hit, the earthen walls closed in again. His lungs shut down as he fought for air, and once again, he was buried and suffocating, panicked out of his mind. Calmness was key. He knew that, and earnestly worked to control his emotions and thoughts, his breathing and the fucking memories. It worked during the day, most of the time. But nights were another shit show, and last night’s episode still lingered like a bad hangover. Until now. Holding this headstrong little woman, feeling her much smaller body pressing against his like she needed him, backed those bone-gnawing demons off.

He’d felt this same connection the day he’d found her. Ironically, he’d been looking for a goat but found an innocent lamb. In Marlowe’s screams and anger, in the ugly vitriol spewing out of her bloodied mouth and swollen lips, he’d recognized the same unholy terror he’d experienced in Somalia. Hanging there like she’d been, she’d nearly choked on her need to strike back at someone. At anyone. He’d just been her closest target.

Asher knew that kind of fear. It came from being powerless, not able to escape, rescue yourself, fight back, or move. The reasons that fueled Marlowe’s panic were different than his, sure, but the aftermath they both lived with wasn’t. The need for control explained why she threw up roadblocks when asked too many questions. Marlowe desperately needed to be in control. She still felt threatened, and sadly, that was also why she’d leave. That she had escape on her mind was easy to read, because—whenever she’d meet his eyes, Asher saw a reflection of the same panic that still dogged him.

But for now, with her smaller frame snug against his, with his bigger arms wrapped securely around her, and most of all, with Marlowe allowing him to be there for her, it was enough. It had to be. Like it or not, she would run again, and he’d never find her when she did. It killed that she might, somehow, return to Afghanistan by herself. That she’d choose living in Taliban-ruled hell over staying in America.

But he had her now, and in this present fleeting moment, Asher breathed in the soft, sweet scent of the strongest woman he’d ever known, and he wished she’d choose to stay. Surely there was something in America she wanted. It wasn’t him, he got that message loud and clear. He just wanted the best for her, safety being his highest priority. If only it was hers.

“Let’s go check out that pup of yours,” he murmured, against her beanie-clad skull.

“For you, not me.” See? Ever defensive. Always deflecting. Always saying one thing but meaning another.

He settled her in the wheelchair and rearranged her lap blanket, preparing a cushion for the wriggling ball of fur he was about to dump on her. The goofy little lab in the first kennel was as stubborn as she was. Asher rolled the chair alongside the chain ink, then crouched beside it and wiggled his fingers through the wires. It never even looked his way.

“Aw, look at you, you’re beautiful,” Marlowe crooned, her fingers between the wires and that crazy dog was halfway up the chain link again to get to her level.

“This the one, darlin’?” Harley asked, from behind Marlowe. Asher caught the tease in his friend’s tone. Harley knew dogs but he also knew people.

She glanced over her shoulder. “I’m not your darling.”

“She’s not anybody’s darling,” Asher added. “Watch out.”

“She’s this little gal’s darlin’,” Harley insisted. “Never seen Herman focused on anyone before like she is now. You want to hold her, darlin’, or should I show you something better?”

“There isn’t a better dog and stop calling me darling,” Marlowe bit out. “And Herman? What kind of name is that for a sweet little girl puppy, huh? What do you want to do, Asher? We’re here for you, not me.”

“Might as well let her out, Harley,” Asher said, going along with Harley’s tease that there were smarter, better dogs than Herman.

Harley lifted the latch on the gate, but the pup stayed where she was, whining at Marlowe through the wire. When she wouldn’t come when Harley ordered, he ducked inside, scooped her under his arm, and dumped her on Marlowe’s lap. “Don’t drop her. She’s a big baby.”

“Aww, I would never drop her. She’s adorable, and aren’t you the cutest little girl?” Marlowe crooned as the fur baby tipped back in her arms like a human baby would.

Still crouched beside the chair, Asher stuck his chin up at Harley. “Got any others?”

“Sure, I—”

“No, wait. Stop it,” Marlowe interrupted. “You haven’t even held her, Asher. Look how sleepy she is. I think she’s tired.”

He stifled a smile. No sense pissing off Marlowe again. “Of course, she’s tired. She’s been climbing this fence to get to you this whole time.”

“Uh-uh, not me. It’s just that—”

“It’s just that this little lady already picked you to be her mama, darlin’,” Harley cut in. “You can’t fight it. If you don’t want to give her a home, it’ll break her heart. Think about it. You get to give her a better name if you keep her.”

“Why do you keep calling me that? I’m not anybody’s darling,” Marlowe snapped, cradling Herman and gazing down at her as if she were the best dog ever. “You’re just a baby, aren’t you? I’m calling you Darling. That’s a good name for you, not me.”

Motherhood looks good on her.

Where the hell did that insane thought come from? Lifting to his feet, Asher shook it out of his head. The heart might want what it wanted, but he knew better. Yes, he liked this woman, but the feeling wasn’t mutual. Just because Marlowe semi-trusted him didn’t mean squat.

So, while Harley gave them a tour of the other available dogs, most of them pups, Darling snored in Marlowe’s arm. The damnedest domestic sensation kept creeping up on Asher, and every time it did, he chucked it aside. Yes, he was pushing the chair with Marlowe and her dog. Yes, this scenario resembled a husband with his wife and child. But no. Just no. This was not that.

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