Chapter Eight.

"Go wash up for dinner," Lorenda hollered to the boys, who were playing with Malarkey in the den. She pulled a pan of lasagna from the oven and replaced it with a baking sheet of buttered garlic bread.

She wanted to celebrate the launch of her dream. Today had marked the end of the first week of school and her music student's first week of rehearsals. They were already making progress, and it never ceased to amaze her how fast kids learned.

With tongs, she tossed the salad in a large wooden bowl and set it on the table along with the lasagna.

A spark of anticipation coursed through her because, about this time every evening, Mitchell came over for dinner. Of course he had to be included in the celebration. He was family. He lived over her garage.

He had also been the first person to zing through her mind when she'd left rehearsals and decided to prepare a special meal tonight.

Just two days ago, Mitchell had vowed to be her protector. Promised to stay in Red River, not only to try to repair his relationship with his father but to guard over her and the boys. In just the week since he'd moved in, they'd started to function like a family. She'd actually hurried home after music rehearsal to make dinner, setting the table with nice linen placemats, fine china, stemware, and candles.

Things she never got the chance to use-why would she with just her, Jaycee, and Trevor in the house?

While the garlic toast was browning, she lit the candles, then hustled into the den and flicked the remote until the entertainment system landed on a nice jazz station. Her dream date would involve dressing up in a pretty dress, strappy heels, and going to a jazz bar in the city where she could cuddle with her date in a corner booth, drink a glass of wine, and listen to music.

She looked down at her flirty crepe skirt-beige with a soft plum floral print-paired with a beige gypsy top and a brass chain-linked belt that hung low on her hips. Strappy heels. Upswept hair.

And suddenly she felt very, very silly. Oh, dear Lord, she'd subconsciously dressed up like she and Mitchell were going on a date. Like a real couple. She needed to change clothes! Put on sweats, and maybe even socks with a pair of flip-flops, because she looked ridiculous dressed up for a quiet family dinner with two little boys.

If she hurried, she could pull it off before Mitchell arrived and she died from embarrassment. She tore off one of her heels and limp-ran to the dinette table to blow out the candles while trying to take off the other heel in the process. She was puckering to blow out one of the flames when Mitchell tapped on the glass of the back door.

Oh sierra. Bent over the candles, one shoe off, and cheeks puffed out, she froze. All except her eyes, which moved to the back door to find Mitchell looking through the glass pane right at her. He lifted a brow.

She straightened, let out a deep breath, left the candles burning, and put on a smile to wave him in.

"Smells good." He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. His gaze slid over her.

She smoothed her skirt. Hid the high-heeled sandal dangling from one hand behind her back as if he wouldn't notice her wearing only one shoe. "Thanks." Her voice had gone all croaky.

Good God.

"You clean up nice, Sparky. What's the occasion?" Was his voice huskier than it had been a second ago?

She chewed her lip until she realized she'd probably end up with pink lip gloss all over her teeth. Her eyes slid shut, and she ran the tip of her tongue over her front teeth.

"I just, um, wanted to celebrate the music program getting off to a great start, and, well, I sometimes do this for me and the boys because"-she waved a hand down her outfit, then across the table, which was perfectly set with the best of everything she owned-"you know, it's good for them to learn formal manners, and it's a good example to dress up once in a while." Liar, liar. She brushed a hand across her bottom to make sure it hadn't caught on fire. Good thing she wasn't wearing pants. "And, um, yeah." She fell silent.

"I see." A wrinkle appeared across his forehead. He sniffed the air. "Is something burning?"

Delta. She limp-ran into the kitchen and threw open the oven door. Smoke billowed out. She grabbed an oven mitt off the counter and pulled out the baking sheet filled with bread. Only it didn't look like bread anymore. More like lumps of coal.

She waved the oven mitt around in the air trying to swish the smoke away. She coughed. Who messed up garlic toast? So much for the tasty and tempting scent of roasted garlic and Italian food.

Mitchell turned and put his hand on the doorknob. "We better let some of the smoke out before it sets off the-"

The smoke detector screeched to life, filling the entire house with a defending alarm.

Malarkey howled from the den.

Jaycee and Trevor came running.

With all the waving and sputtering, a chunk of Lorenda's hair came loose from its up-do and fell across her face.

Mitchell's expression filled with laughter. He opened the back door and flipped on the ceiling fan. "Let's clear out some of the smoke before the fire department shows up."

She tossed the bread into the sink, pulled off the other shoe, and grabbed a bottle of wine from the fridge. "I need a drink."

Mitchell came over and took the bottle from her. "I'll do the honors." He went right to the drawer where she kept the wine opener, because that's how comfortable he'd become in her house. Knew right where everything was.

"Boys, go let Malarkey out," she said.

They went into the den but came clambering back to the kitchen with rounded eyes.

What now?

She didn't ask. Just walked to the den and dropped her head back in defeat.

One of her throw pillows wasn't exactly a pillow anymore. It was in shreds, the stuffing scattered from one end of the den to the other. Not to mention the round yellow spot on the carpet.

"I'm guessing that's not lemonade?" Mitchell came up behind her, and his presence both soothed and unnerved her. He placed a hand on both of her arms and gave her a reassuring squeeze. An electric tingle shimmied through her. "The alarm must've scared him. The wine is on the table. Go sit down. The boys and I will take care of this," he said.

She tossed her shoes onto the stairs as she passed, took a seat at the table, and knocked back the entire glass of wine. Then poured another one.

By the time Mitchell and the kids were done and washed up again, the wine had settled her nerves, warmed her insides, and made her disastrous attempt of a celebration-turned-subconscious-fantasy-date seem a little less pathetic.

She dished up the lasagna and salad while they sat down. "Thanks for cleaning up."

"Thanks for cooking," Mitchell said.

"I'm not sure I'd call it cooking exactly." She poured cherry Kool-Aid for the boys.

"Bread is overrated, and everything else is perfect." His gaze swept over her, and so did a flush of heat. "Boys, doesn't your mom look nice?" He forked up a mouthful of lasagna.

"Why are you dressed up, Mom?" Jaycee asked. "Are you going out?"

"Well, no." She stumbled over the words. "I wanted to spend the evening with you guys."

"But you never dress up when we eat at home."

"We're celebrating," she said through gritted teeth.

"Is that why the table is so fancy?" Jaycee asked. "Because we never use the fancy stuff either."

"Of course we do. You must not remember." Lorenda plastered on a smile and leveled it at Jaycee. Who promptly got the message and clamped his mouth shut.

Mitchell looked up at her from under hooded lids, and a hint of a smile settled onto one corner of his mouth.

Hell. Forget code. She wanted to rattle off real cuss words because she was so busted.

"Uncle Mitch," Trevor said. "Could you come to my class for parent career day and talk about being a war hero?"

Wait. Trevor hadn't asked her to come talk about being a realtor. And Mitchell wasn't a parent.

Mitchell's expression darkened at Trevor's request, and he stared at his plate.

"Guys, it's not fair to ask Uncle Mitch to do that."

"I'm not a hero." Mitchell picked at his food. "I was just a guy doing my job."

Obviously, he didn't want to talk about the war. Cameron certainly hadn't. They'd had a don't-ask-don't-tell policy in their marriage.

"Uncle Mitch isn't your parent. I am, so I'll do it." She reached over and ruffled Trevor's hair, but he pulled away. His face fell in disappointment.

Gee. Lorenda felt so special. But having Mitchell around had obviously made their lack of a father figure glaringly apparent to the boys. Probably why Trevor was acting up at school.

Jaycee spoke up. "When I was in Trevor's grade, Grandpa Lawson came and talked about being the sheriff. It was so cool, and he wasn't our father either."

Mitchell kept moving food around on his plate.

"Why can't you be our dad?" Trevor asked. "You live with us, and your last name is the same as ours."

Lorenda's stomach did a flip.

Mitchell's head popped up to study the boys, his expression unreadable. "I could never take your dad's place."

Lorenda had never expected Mitchell to take Cameron's place. So why did his words knock the air from her lungs and make her want to double over?

"Guys, Uncle Mitch is just staying here for a little while until the guy from the park is . . ." She didn't really know. "Until we're sure he won't cause any more trouble."

"And then you're going to leave?" Jaycee asked.

Mitchell slid a look at Lorenda. "I'll have to go eventually." He rubbed the back of his neck. "There aren't any jobs here in Red River for me."

Lorenda fought off the urge to plant a hand on her forehead. Of course he needed to go back to work. He couldn't hang around Red River forever just to be her bodyguard. A man who had lived the kind of life Mitchell had, never putting down roots, living off the adrenaline rush from missions and combat training and war, would get bored in Red River.

And he's not my husband. Not my boyfriend. Not even my friend with benefits. But guarding her body is exactly what she wanted him to stay here and do. Even though she knew it was foolish, she couldn't control the way the body in question responded to him. Couldn't stop it. It was like a locomotive steaming down the tracks at full throttle, and there was no way to put on the brakes.

"You could still be our dad," Trevor said, all innocence and naivete.

Jaycee nodded. "Our real dad was never home either."

Lorenda dropped her fork, and it clattered against her plate. "Boys. Eat."

She shouldn't be doing this. Setting her kids up for disappointment. Setting herself up for more pain. Yet here she was, dressing up and messing up over a man who could never be hers.

The squeal of sirens pierced through Mitchell's sleep. He rolled over in bed and tried to push the misty dream of Lorenda's smoke alarm out of his brain. His mind searched through the foggy blast of deafening sound, trying to reclaim the dream he'd had earlier of her in that flowing skirt that teased him by revealing just enough thigh to make his imagination go wild.

The siren kept wailing, and Malarkey barked.

Mitchell bolted upright.

He sprung out of bed and snatched his phone off the nightstand. The screen flashed Jaycee's name. It wasn't the smoke alarm. Jaycee had hit his panic button.

Wearing nothing but black boxer briefs, he charged to the door that led to Lorenda's bedroom and pounded on it. She yanked the door open in a panic. Bedhead and all, she looked just as good in lacy panties and a spaghetti-strap tank as he imagined she would.

"What happened?" He hurried into her room without an invitation. If there was an intruder, Mitchell wanted to catch the son of a bitch before they had a chance to escape.

"I don't know," she said.

Mitchell headed for the stairs. "Stay here."

She was right on his heels.

"Lorenda!" he whispered. "I said stay here."

"No." She pushed at his shoulder so he would start down the stairs again.

He didn't have time to argue. When he reached the bottom floor, he said, "Then stay behind me." He went straight to the boys' bedroom, pushed it open, and scanned the room. Nothing but darkness.

"Oh my God." Lorenda's hushed tone cracked. "They're gone!"

"Jaycee," Mitchell said, his voice still low. Malarkey bound into the room and went straight for the closet. He pawed at the closed door.

Whispers came from inside, so Mitchell went to it-Lorenda still at his back-and gently slid the door open. Both boys were huddled at the bottom of the closet.

She sagged against Mitchell. He reached behind to give her hand a reassuring squeeze, but his fingers found the side of her thigh instead. Even better.

"What happened?" She pushed Mitchell out of the way, went to her knees, and gave Jaycee and Trevor hugs, showering their little faces with kisses.

"Someone tried to break our window." Trevor's voice wasn't frantic. Not even all that scared.

Mitchell had seen enough frightened children in the Middle East to know what real fear looked like in a child's eyes. He wasn't seeing it in Trevor's and Jaycee's.

He snatched a comforter off one of the twin beds and draped it around Lorenda's shoulders. "Now, stay here."

He went to the window. It was cracked but not shattered . . . and unlocked. Mitchell was pretty sure he knew the identity of the burglars, and neither had hit puberty.

"I'll be right back." Mitchell pulled a flashlight from a kitchen drawer and eased outside. The night air was cool against his skin, since he was nearly buckass naked. The soft grass under his bare feet reminded him of playing outdoors with Cam when they were kids.

Mitchell stood still and listened. Listening was a skill. It was one of the first things he'd learned in the military because it saved lives. As he stood there, the sounds of the night crowded in on him. Crickets, bugs, even an owl hooting from one of the cottonwoods in front of the house. Nothing that didn't belong.

He had a sixth sense about danger, and there wasn't a threat on Lorenda's property. To be safe, he flicked on the flashlight and examined the perimeter of the house to make sure it was secure. All was well, until he got to the boys' window. The ground was slightly wet, even though everywhere else was dry and Red River hadn't had rain in weeks.