My Soldier Neighbor (Neighborhood Hotties #10)

CHAPTER 1

Carla

Black Dodge Ram, tinted windows, backed in tactical. I've circled the Walmart lot twice and it hasn't moved. I park three rows away and sit with the engine running, watching.

Maybe it's nothing. Maybe I'm paranoid.

But paranoia kept me alive in Helmand Province, and it's kept me hidden for eight months I’ve been on the run.

I kill the engine and grab my purse, checking that my knife is accessible in the side pocket. Old habits. The Glock 19 is locked in my apartment because concealed carry permits require paperwork, and paperwork creates a trail. The knife will have to be enough.

The October air bites as I cross the lot.

I keep the Ram in my peripheral vision. No movement.

No one gets out. The wind carries the smell of exhaust and old cigarette smoke from the shopping cart corral.

A few dried leaves skitter across the asphalt, scraping and tumbling toward the far edge of the lot.

Still, my heart hammers against my ribs hard enough to hurt.

Inside, I grab a cart—one of the wheels wobbles—and head for the produce section. The store is half-empty on a Tuesday afternoon, just a handful of shoppers moving through the aisles. An old Johnny Cash song plays over the speakers, something about walking the line.

I'm not seeing apples or lettuce. I'm running scenarios. If Randall tracked me here to this nothing town in western Virginia, I need a plan. The apartment has a fire escape. I keep a go-bag under the bed. I can be gone in ten minutes.

But I'm so damn tired of running.

I think about the knife in my purse. I might have a chance if I got the drop on him. Or I might just make him angry.

Angrier.

My hands ache where I'm gripping the cart handle. I force myself to release it, flex my fingers. Breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The way the therapist at the VA taught me before I stopped going because talking about it only made the nightmares worse.

"Excuse me."

I jerk sideways. My other hand goes to my purse, fingers brushing the knife handle.

A woman—sixty-something, gray hair, kind eyes—holds up apologetic hands. She's wearing a quilted jacket with cats embroidered on the pockets. "Sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to startle you."

"No, it’s okay." I force my shoulders down, unclench my jaw. "My fault. I was distracted."

She smiles and reaches past me for the Roma tomatoes.

I move away, pushing my cart toward the back of the store where I can see both exits.

The wheels squeak with every rotation. Someone dropped a jar of pickles in aisle three.

The sharp smell of vinegar and brine fills the air while a teenager in a red vest mops up the mess.

I need milk, bread, eggs, and coffee. Basic supplies. In and out.

I'm in the coffee aisle, comparing prices and trying to remember if I prefer the medium roast or the dark, when I feel a crawling sensation between my shoulder blades. The one that used to mean a sniper had you in his sights. The one that means someone is watching.

I turn slowly, scanning the aisle.

A man stands near the end cap, studying a display of protein bars with more attention than the labels deserve.

Tall—six-two, maybe six-three. Broad shoulders that strain the seams of his gray Henley.

Dark hair cut military-short, the kind of haircut that says active duty or recently separated.

Strong jaw. Tanned skin that suggests he spends time outdoors.

He wears jeans that fit well and boots that have seen some miles.

I relax a little as I recognize him. It’s my neighbor. He moved into the empty apartment next to mine from two weeks ago.

I've seen him exactly four times since then.

Once in the parking lot unloading boxes from a truck with Colorado plates.

Twice in the hallway where we exchanged awkward nods and I walked faster to avoid conversation.

Once at the mailboxes where he held the door for me and I mumbled thanks without making eye contact because the last thing I need is to know my neighbors or have them know me.

He looks up, and his gaze locks onto mine.

I should look away, but I don’t. He’s sexy as hell. And for a moment I think he’s checking me out too.

His eyes are hazel, more green than brown in the store's harsh lighting. There is something in them that makes me want to step back and step forward at the same time.

He nods once, a small acknowledgment that somehow feels loaded with meaning, then goes back to the protein bars.

I turn away and grab the first coffee I see, tossing it in my cart without checking the price. The can rattles against the metal cart. And because my mind always has to go there, I wonder if Randall sent him.

I hurry to the milk aisle so I can get out of here.

It’s probably just coincidence. He is just a guy. My neighbor. He probably shops here all the time. This town only has one Walmart.

But Marines do not believe in coincidence, and the way he moved—economical, aware, balanced on the balls of his feet—tells me he is military or former military. He might be one of Randall’s goons doing recon on me.

The refrigerator cases hum and click, condensation beading on the glass doors. I grab milk and eggs, then make my way to checkout. I need to get home, lock the door, and grab my pistol. Concealed carry permit or not, I’m never leaving home again without it.

The cashier rings up my items while I scan the parking lot through the glass doors. The Ram is still there. The engine is still running. Was the plan to grab me here while my hands were full of groceries and toss me into the truck?

My chest constricts. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out the beep of the scanner.

"That will be forty-two seventeen," the cashier says.

I swipe my card—debit, not credit, because credit cards leave better trails—and grab my bags. The plastic handles cut into my palms. I could swing them like a weapon if I needed to.

Outside, the October wind cuts through my jacket like a blade.

The sky is the color of old concrete, heavy with clouds that promise rain.

I walk toward my Honda with my head up, posture confident.

Never show weakness. Never let them see you are afraid.

That was drilled into me at Parris Island, and it has kept me alive more times than I can count.

The Ram's exhaust puffs white in the cold air.

Twenty feet from my car, I hear footsteps behind me. Close. Too close. Heavy boots on asphalt.

I spin, my knee coming up so I can lash out a vicious side kick. My adrenaline spikes so hard my vision narrows to a tunnel.

My neighbor stops short, both hands visible, palms out. His stance is non-threatening but ready. "Easy."

His voice is the kind that gives orders and expects them to be followed. It makes my spine go rigid with old reflexes that have nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with survival.

I don’t relax. "Are you following me?"

"No." He glances at the Ram, then back at me. His eyes are calm. Too calm. "But someone is."

My blood turns to ice. Everything around me—the parking lot, the wind, the distant sound of traffic on Route 460—goes distant and muffled. "What are you talking about?"

"Black Dodge. Three rows over. He has been watching you since you parked." He shifts slightly, putting himself between me and the truck. The movement is subtle, protective, and so smooth it is obvious he has done this before. Many times. "Do you know him?"

I want to lie. I should lie.

But something in his stance—the way he positioned himself as a shield without asking permission, the calm readiness in his posture, the fact that he noticed what I noticed—tells me he is not going to let this go.

"Maybe," I say.

"Maybe." He repeats it like he is tasting it, deciding if it is bullshit. His eyes narrow slightly. "You need help getting home?"

"I am fine."

"Is that why you almost kicked my head off in a Walmart parking lot?"

I force myself to relax. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

"Sure you don’t." His eyes flick to the Ram again, tracking. "I’m parked next to you, and I am heading home anyway. So if you want to walk over there together with me, that works for both of us."

It is not a suggestion. It is a tactical assessment presented as an offer, the kind of phrasing that gives me the illusion of choice while making it clear he has already decided what is going to happen.

I hate that I am relieved.

"Fine," I mutter. I’ll take the help where I can get it.

We walk side by side toward my car. He is not touching me, but I can feel the heat radiating off him that makes me hyperaware of how close he is.

How big he is. How he could hurt me if he wanted to.

I wouldn’t be easy. I could use his height and weight against him.

But I wouldn’t get out of the scuffle unscathed.

His gaze keeps sweeping the parking lot, the building entrance, the cars around us. Threat assessment. The same thing I am doing. But when he glances at me, there is something else in his expression. Something watchful and possessive that makes my stomach flip.

I shove that thought down. Not everyone is Randall.

The Ram's window is down now. I can see the driver—male, sunglasses, thick beard streaked with gray. Not Randall. Wrong build, wrong hair, wrong everything. I’ve never seen this guy in my life. He lights a cigarette and blows smoke, looking bored.

Maybe I had been imagining things.

Relief hits so hard my knees almost buckle. I have to lock them to stay upright.

"Friend of yours?" my neighbor asks quietly. The guy in the truck is still looking at me. Maybe he is one of Randall’s goons. Or maybe I’m so paranoid I don’t know my ass from a hole in the ground.

"No." I unlock my car with shaking hands. The chirp of the lock sounds too loud. "Never saw him before in my life."

He waits while I load my groceries into the trunk, his attention split between me and the Ram. When I slam the trunk closed, the sound echoes across the lot. He steps back, giving me space but not much.

"You live in 6A, right?" he says.

I nod.

"Timothy Shannon. Army. Retired. I’m in 6B."

Army. I was right. And now I know his name.

"Carla Alexander," I offer, though I don’t mention I’m a Marine. The less he knows, the better. The less anyone knows, the safer I am.

"Good to meet you." He studies me for a moment, and nods. At what I don’t know. "If that guy bothers you again, let me know."

"I can handle myself."

"Wasn’t a doubt in my mind." His mouth curves slightly. Not quite a smile, but something close. "But the offer stands anyway."

He walks to a black F-150 two spaces over, climbs in, and starts the engine. The truck is clean, well-maintained. Not flashy.

I get in my Honda and sit for a moment, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles go white. My mouth is dry. I watch him in my rearview mirror, and he is waiting. Making sure I leave safely.

The Ram pulls out first, heading toward the exit without slowing or looking back.

Not Randall. Just some random guy who happened to be parked near me. Just paranoia and eight months of looking over my shoulder finally catching up to me.

I start the car and drive home, and when I glance in the mirror, Timothy Shannon's truck is three cars back, following me all the way to our apartment complex on the edge of town where the buildings are old and the rent is cheap and no one asks questions.

He doesn’t pull into his spot until I am parked and halfway to the building entrance. I feel his eyes on me the whole way.

I should be annoyed. Insulted, even. I am a former Marine who did two tours in Afghanistan and survived worse things than parking lot creeps and overprotective neighbors.