Page 2 of Snake Eyes (Out of His League #2)

Garrett

M y head whips to the side as an almighty bang travels through the forest. My hand is on my front door, and I’m a half second away from pushing it open and forgetting how shitty my day has been.

Hunter’s head tilts at the noise, his enormous German Shepherd ears trying to make sense of the sound. And I don’t blame him. It’s not often I hear much of anything out here, let alone something like that .

Something manmade.

For fuck’s sake. I run my hand through my dark hair, my tattoos peeking out from beneath my sleeve. The last thing I want to do tonight is deal with more fucking people, but I’m not enough of an asshole to just ignore it.

With a disgruntled huff, I shoulder my rifle back on and reilluminate my flashlight. “Come on then,” I tell Hunter, watching him slink through the darkness. He’s got the typical Shepherd coloring, but even I’m surprised by how well the blanket of black hair on his back hides him in the night.

Hunter leads the way, his fluffy tail curling in excitement at the impromptu walk. The steep hill doesn’t slow him down, but I’m not as fortunate. It’s been more than a year since Hunter and I left the Army—and its 25-mile ruck marches—behind.

Not that I’m sorry for it. I may be slightly slower uphill these days, but it’s a small price to pay for my freedom.

I sigh as I crest the hill, swiping the flashlight across the forest. From this vantage point, I can see the old backroad carving a path through the trees—before surprise punches a breath into my chest.

Halfway down the hill, there’s a car crumpled against a tree.

I set off, carefully avoiding the endless network of roots determined to trip me up. Hunter, of course, reaches the car first, but I’m not far behind. Trepidation simmers in my blood as I take in the fogged-up windows.

Please don’t be dead.

The thought has only just travelled through my mind when I spy movement within. Is that blonde hair? It’s difficult to tell in the dark. Rifle in hand, I knock on the window, my heartbeat racing. “Hello?” I say, the words transforming into fog in the night air. “Are you hurt?”

The window winds down a fraction of an inch. “I’m…I’m okay,” a feminine voice says, practically dripping in nerves. “Do you know the way to Cedar Hill?”

“Uh,” I say awkwardly, gesturing the way I came with the gun.

Smooth, definitely not going to freak her out.

I’ve had a hard day, and my already lackluster conversational skills have clocked off for the night.

“It’s about a mile and a half that wa—” My voice drifts away as I notice a slowly expanding pool of liquid leaking from beneath the vehicle.

Bending down, I shine the flashlight on it, giving a grunt of displeasure.

Red. “You’re leaking transmission fluid.

You aren’t driving out of here anytime soon. ”

“Goddammit,” she whispers, her face still concealed in darkness. But that shouldn’t come as a surprise about the car— surely . I’ve seen sturdier cobwebs.

“My house is just over that ridge. I can give you a lift into town if you need one.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence before her answer comes. “You’re not a serial killer, right?”

I nod. “I’m not a serial killer.” Although that’s probably what a serial killer would say. I choose not to point that out. I doubt it’d be helpful.

The window zips upwards. There’s a brief moment in which I consider that perhaps she doesn’t believe me, but then the door opens—and I see who I’ve been talking to.

She’s smaller than I expected. Loose tendrils of blonde hair sweep over her forehead, contrasting with baby blue eyes that I could drown in. She’s wearing a high-waisted pair of jeans that highlight the ample curves of her thighs—but it’s her bloodied eyebrow that catches my eye.

“You’re bleeding,” I tell her, crouching beside the driver’s door to get a closer look. The inside of the car is a jumble of loose change and personal possessions, and now that I’m closer I can see the impact shattered the passenger window. “Is anything broken?”

She shakes her head—and then winces, gingerly touching her brow.

Sighting a tissue packet on the center console, I reach across her to pull one out and gently press it against her wound. “Can you stand? ”

“I think so.” She swings her legs from the car, slowly getting to her feet. She jumps as she sees Hunter, before exhaling a sigh of relief. “Oh,” she breathes, still not sounding fully coherent. “You have a dog.”

“Yep,” I say awkwardly. Hunter usually doesn’t like people, so I’m not surprised he hasn’t approached her. It’s one of the reasons we get on so well.

She goes to take a step forward but slips on the pool of transmission fluid. I dart forward to catch her amidst the rustling of sticks and fallen leaves, taking the majority of her weight while she gains her bearings.

For a brief moment, her body is against mine—and it feels like it’s made to be there.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, resting her palm flat against my company logo on my black leather jacket—the outline of a wide cedar tree with my surname, Locke, written in capitals beneath—before ripping it away as though it burned her.

She transfers her hold onto the car, leaning back against it to stay upright. “How, um, how far is your car?”

I look at the steep ridge behind me. She’s in no condition to scale that and come back down the other side.

I scan inside the car, collecting a small box and an enormous duffel bag.

The box weighs next to nothing, but the duffel has got to be over 50 pounds.

Like being back on those damned ruck marches .

“Far enough that I’m going to carry you, all right? ”

I’m not willing to risk her toppling backward down the hill and breaking her neck. I don’t need the grief. Or a murder investigation.

“Are you sure?” Her words are hesitant, but I can see the relief in her eyes.

My answer is curt. “Very.” She’s barely five feet tall. During my deployment, my full kit absolutely weighed more than her. “I’m gonna put one arm around your back and the other behind your knees. Ready?”

“Ready.”

I’m as gentle as I can be, but she still sucks in a breath when her feet leave the ground. I can’t blame her; the last time I was lifted into someone’s arms was when I was a kid. It must be disconcerting as an adult.

Her arm winds around my neck, bringing us closer together. We haven’t taken five steps before she breaks the silence. “I’m Charlie, by the way.”

“Garrett,” I respond, trying to ignore the way her breath teases over my lips, before nodding at our canine chaperone. “Hunter.”

She sends me the most innocent smile I’ve ever seen, those bashful baby blues staring straight into my soul. “Hi,” she whispers shyly, like she hasn’t just hypnotized me. “Nice to meet you both.”

There’s a smile on my face before I know what to do with it. When was the last time I smiled at another person? I genuinely don’t know. My interactions are typically limited to gruff nods and single-word answers. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

And for once, I actually mean it.

I’m picking a path up toward the ridge when the next question comes. Apparently Charlie isn’t a fan of silence. “So how old is Hunter?”

“He’s eight,” I reply, a carpet of frozen leaves crunching beneath my boots. “He’s a retired military working dog. ”

Her eyes light up with interest, watching Hunter jump up to a small ledge with ease. “That’s so cool. How did he end up with you?”

I’m a little less agile when it comes to the ledge, grunting as I scale it. “I was his handler. We discharged from the Army at the same time.”

“And you came to live in Cedar Hill?”

“I grew up here.” I step over the network of roots surrounding my feet. We’re approaching the peak of the ridge now, and as we reach it, my home moves into view. Warm golden light spills from the floodlights above my garage, illuminating the blue truck parked in the driveway.

The house itself is simple. It stretches over a single floor, barricaded by dark wood siding to better match the color of the evergreens surrounding it like sentinels in the night.

Carefully descending the steep slope, a thought occurs to me. “I never asked you where you wanted to be dropped off.”

“The Cedar Hill Motel would be perfect, please.”

Without thinking, my heavy black boots come to a standstill. “The motel? It’s closed for renovations.”

“It is?” Her eyes blow wide. She swallows. “Is…Is there another place to stay in Cedar Hill?”

I shake my head, my heart sinking. With anyone else, I’d drop them in town and declare that to be a them problem, but, fuck, I can’t do that to her.

I’m not a complete asshole. Just mostly.

“You can stay with me,” my heart says, before my head catches up.

Having someone else invade my private space is my idea of hell.

I need time to recharge before going back out into the world—and yet there’s something primal in me that wants to invite her in.

“You can have my bedroom—there’s a lock on the door—and I’ll take the couch.

Tomorrow I’ll drive you into town and I’ll take you to the mechanic to sort out getting your car fixed. ”

“Thank you—and I’m sorry.” Charlie’s brows pull together in an apologetic furrow. “I don’t mean to be such an inconvenience.”

“You’re not an inconvenience,” I tell her, exhaling as I finally reach the driveway. It’s a relief to have blacktop under my feet, rather than simply hoping the tread on my boots will keep me upright.

Ahead, Hunter scratches at the door with a determined paw, as demanding as ever.

“Okay, okay,” I huff, quickening my steps before muttering to Charlie, “he gets so pissy when he’s hungry.”

Charlie’s amusement is palpable. “I know the feeling.”

“Noted. Can you stand?” I ask her, approaching the door.

“I think so. I don’t feel as out of it as I did.”

“Good.” Slowly, I lower her feet to the floor, wary of any sudden movements. I keep one hand around her shoulders just in case, diving into my pocket for my house keys before Hunter scratches a hole through the door.

The familiar scent of home greets me as I swing the door open, a mix of rich, earthy coffee, the beeswax varnish I favor for my leatherworking, and aged wood.

Flipping the light on reveals my living room.

It’s nothing special—a collection of mismatched furniture centered around a television, with an expensive orthopedic dog bed that Hunter refuses to use, preferring to spend his time on the couch next to me.

“Sit,” I tell Charlie, escorting her over to the couch and carefully placing her belongings beside it. I shoulder off my leather jacket, seeing her gaze leisurely tracing the tattoos on my arms until I can almost feel her touch. “How you doing? Want a coffee or something? Hot chocolate?”

Those blue eyes seem to light up from within. “I could murder a hot chocolate right now.” She looks positively miniscule on my couch.

A huff comes from the doorway to the kitchen, and I look over to see Hunter glaring at me.

I can take a hint.

The moment I move toward the kitchen, Hunter lets out an excited whine. He escorts me inside, his tail wagging in excitement. My kitchen is about as impressive as my living room—which is to say not at all. It’s functional, but I’m not winning any interior design awards.

My most precious possession, however, is my coffee machine. I quickly load it up with a hot chocolate pod and milk before moving onto Hunter’s dinner.

It doesn’t take long before I’m heading back to the living room with two mugs of hot chocolate—one for each of us—plus a plate of cookies.

Why? Who the fuck knows. I’ve never even offered a guest a drink before, not wanting to prolong their stay any longer than necessary. But there’s a part of me that wants to roll out the damn red carpet for her.

The fuck is wrong with me?

And even as that thought crosses my mind, I know that my sudden altruism isn’t about me.

It’s about her .

“Here,” I mutter, handing over the mug, feeling strangely clumsy.

She stares at me like I’ve plucked her from certain death, exhaling a breathy sigh. Steam rises from the mug as she sips it, and she hums at the taste. “Oh my god, this is the best hot chocolate I’ve ever tasted. Thank you so much, Garrett. It’s been a very long day.”

Collapsing into an armchair, I try to ignore how much I like hearing my name on her lips. “How far have you come?”

“From Long Lake. It’s about twelve hours south of here, assuming you don’t take any wrong turns.

” She clutches the steaming mug with both hands.

“And I’ve probably got another twelve hours of driving to go, if I’m being realistic.

This hot chocolate though? Holy crap, it was worth coming twelve hours just for this. ”

My eyes crinkle in amusement. “I’ll be sure to keep ‘em coming.”

Charlie takes a long sip. “Careful,” she whispers, her voice edging into something flirtatious. “You’re setting some dangerously high standards here.”

I lean forward, placing my elbows on my knees. The intensity of those bright blue eyes enthralls me, and the longer she holds my gaze, the thicker the tension in the room becomes. “Oh, you don’t know what high standards are until you’d had my fried chicken.”

Her spine goes straight. “Fried chicken?”

I nod. “What kind of standards would they be if I didn’t cook you dinner? Unless you’d prefer something vegetarian—”

“Fried chicken sounds amazing.” She grins.

Damn it, that smile will be the death of me. She could ask for the deed to my house and I’m pretty sure I’d fucking give it to her. And the more time I’m spending with her…the less I care about falling under her spell. “Fried chicken, coming right up.”