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night somehow bothers me—it
always has since my last year in the SEALs—as though I’m waiting for a
firefight to erupt or an IED to explode beneath me. My heart picks up its pace,
and my throat feels like it’s closing.
    I know it isn’t. This, I can control now.
    I suck in a deep breath, reminding myself
that oxygen is not scarce and look back down at my phone to distract myself. I
start tapping out a message:
    “Alexandra, I’m writing to follow up
about Kosmo since I haven’t heard from you. I’m still interested in him and
know that I could provide a good home for him. I would appreciate it if you
would contact me ASAP to conduct the house check you mentioned.”
    I gaze out at the final rays of sun as
they disappear behind the trees in the distance, remembering the image of the
refreshing woman that I shared dinner with. She had that kind of sweetness that
guys like me eat up. Such a stark contrast to how she was the next morning.
    Coming from a band of three brothers, the
intricacies of the female mind continue to evade me.
    “I’m not sure what happened between the
time you departed that Friday evening and the following Saturday morning that
caused you to detest me…”
    I pause, and delete the word “detest.”
    “…dislike me. However, it is imperative
that Kosmo receives the medical care he needs and I can provide this without
further delay.”
    That’s right. Guilt her.
    Through the open windows, I hear the
laughter of my niece inside as she plays Go Fish with my brothers. My
heart feels its usual tug.
    “ Regardless, I would like to offer to
pay for any medical expenses Kosmo has, and would like to discuss with you and
his vet scheduling the surgery he needs.”
    I close with my contact information, and
hold myself back from adding my advice that she seek psychiatric help for her
obvious multiple personality issues. After all, now is the time to focus on Kosmo.

Chapter 4
     
    - LOGAN -
     
     
    I had expected a reply. I hadn’t expected
it so quickly.
    Within an hour of sending my email, she
asked if she could do the house check tomorrow during the day sometime. She was
surprisingly polite, and apologetic for not being able to do it after normal
work hours, but she works most nights.
    So now it’s closing in on 10 a.m. and I’m
rushing to finish painting this wall in the townhome that adjoins to mine
before she arrives. I hate leaving a wall half-painted. My team is in the third
townhome over, knocking down the wall between the kitchen and the living room, just
as they had in this one last week. The noise is overwhelming, and I’m really
worried she’ll tell me that my house is too chaotic for a dog like Kosmo to
recover from surgery. I plan on putting the heavy work on pause during that
time anyway, but I just don’t want anything to trigger this woman into going
Ice Queen on me again.
    The windows are open, and I’m surprised
to hear a car pull up in front of my home ten minutes early. Leaning over to
peek out the window, my hand slips and I end up with a thick, giant streak of
beige paint on my blue shirt.
    Dammit. Way to make an impression .
    I open the door before she even is able
to ring the bell next door. “Hi.”
    Glancing at the number on the door, she
looks confused. “Oh. I thought you had written that you were in #1.”
    “I am.” I step outside and move to my own
door, swinging it open. “I’m just working on #2 and 3 now. I bought this row of
townhomes and am renovating them.”
    “Oh,” she says noncommittally and adds,
“Wow,” when she steps into my living room.
    I have to admit, my house looks great. I
bought most of the furniture and art pieces at Maeve’s direction when I moved
to Annapolis for my last tour with the Navy. There’s nothing that looks
“bachelor pad” here and that suits me fine.
    “This is really beautiful,” she says, her
eyes darting around the room.
    “Well, don’t be too impressed. My friend
Maeve is an interior