Page 7 of Love and Lingerie (Rockland Falls 2)

“I can’t believe you named your dog Snuggles. She’s going to have a complex for the rest of her life,” I say, kneeling down and whistling for the dog to come. She does, letting me know even though she’s young, she’s trained.

“Traitor,” Harper mumbles as she stands up and glares daggers down at me.

“She’s definitely a pit bull, but what else? I can see a little something else mixed in,” I ask, keeping my eyes on the happy puppy while offering a scratch behind her ears.

“Boxer.”

“Look at you,” I mock in a singsong voice. “A face only a mother could love.” The dog doesn’t seem to mind the insult though. She just leans her head into my hand, ensuring I continue to scratch in all the right places.

“Reminds me of you,” Harper says.

“Oh, Harper, don’t be a spoilsport. You know you love me too.” Again, with the stupid baby voice that I didn’t even know I could make. Of course, on me, it just sounds like someone is squeezing the shit out of my balls.

Speaking of balls…

“No, Devil, that’s where you’re wrong. I hate you,” she says matter-of-factly.

Standing up, I look down at the sassy, yet incredibly sexy woman. She’s tall for a female, about five ten, and has that perfect model frame. Not too skinny, like a beanpole, but with curves in all the right places. Actually, come to think of it, I think I recall my mom talking about a few modeling gigs she did back in the early days when I first enlisted. “There’s a fine line between love and hate, Sweetheart.”

She stares at me, shoulders squared, and not backing down for a second, but doesn’t say anything for several long seconds. “So, about this computer. You have a new tower in that bag?” she asks, glancing down at the big bag on the floor.

“I do not,” I answer, reaching for the bag and pulling the new laptop out. “I wasn’t impressed with their units, so I moved on to these.”

Harper snickers. “You said units.”

Rolling my eyes, I reply, “Always a little girl, aren’t we?”

Standing up tall, she glares. “There’s nothing little about me.”

I know she doesn’t mean it like that, but I’m a guy. I’m. A. Guy. With a very active dick (though, thanks to military life, it hasn’t quite seen as much action as it would like), so when my eyes start to rake over her luscious body, I have to admit she’s right: there’s nothing little about her. Except maybe her waist. But her tits – damn, those tits – and her hourglass hips and long legs and big personality…

“You’re right. Your mouth definitely isn’t little. It’s quite…big. Plus, there’s your ass. I know it’s a lot bigger than it used to be.” Why do I say it? Because I love getting a rise out of her. Much like the rise she evokes in my pants.

Harper gasps, her eyes narrowing down into little slits. I almost smile in anticipation of what jabs she’s about to hurl my way next. “And look at you, asshole,” she stutters, glancing up and down my body as if trying to come up with a good retort, yet coming up empty. “Never mind. I’m not stooping to your level of idiocy and immaturity.”

“Idiocy? Immaturity? And here I thought I was your hero, coming to rescue you from the computer-killing virus you probably downloaded from looking at porn at work.”

“I don’t look at porn at work. I’m not a sixteen-year-old boy!”

Again, my eyes fall to the tight tank top. “Nope, definitely not a boy.”

“Stop looking at my chest!”

“Stop drawing my attention to it!”

Harper growls, throwing her hands up in the air. “You’re impossible. Let’s just go to my store so you will stop insulting my dog and staring at my boobs.”

“Oh, don’t think I won’t still look at your boobs at the store, Harper.”

“Shut up,” she mumbles, calling Snuggles into the kitchen and letting her out the back door. I watch from the front entry, glancing into the living room when she moves out of sight. It’s cheerful in neutral colors, yet with splashes of purple and blue accents that just speak of the woman who lives here. The couch is tan with a matching recliner, and the walls are a slightly darker beige. The flooring is an espresso walnut that looks damn good in the brightly lit space. Top that off with a stone fireplace, flagstone mantel, and a decent sized television that puts my little thirty-two incher to shame.

What draws my attention right now is what’s sitting on that beautiful mantel. The first photo is a family picture of Harper and her siblings. They’re standing with their mom in front of their family bed and breakfast where she grew up. They’re stretching a red ribbon across the porch, with Mrs. Grayson and Marissa, together, holding a large pair of scissors. The entire family is smiling proudly at the camera, obviously getting ready to cut the ribbon. It’s a recent photo, so I make note to ask Harper about it.

The photo next to it is her holding a little boy. He’s probably four or five years old, with a big toothy smile and striking blue eyes that remind me of Harper’s. The resemblance is uncanny, yet the shape of the eyes and nose are different. If I had to guess, I’d say a relative. Another photo to ask about.

The final picture is a younger Harper standing with Freedom Rayne, her spunky best friend. It was taken on the beach, both girls posing for the camera with blinding white smiles and barely-there bikinis. I remember the first time I realized those two were friends. We were in early grade school, and even back then, they were as different as night and day. The fact they’re still so close actually makes me a little nostalgic that I lost touch with so many of my own friends after high school. But the week after I graduated, I was off to boot camp, rarely to return to my hometown. Most of my old friends went off to college, got married, and started popping out kids. I was in foreign hot zones, setting up communications for our troops and using my computer skills to do a few things I’m not at liberty to discuss.

“Ready?” she asks, joining me in the living room, Snuggles hot on her heels.

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