Summer Heat: Imperfectly Yours, #1

An Anthology by Disability and Romance Authors

Publisher: Teri McGill

Editor: Dianne Drake

Cover: Avery Kingston

© 2019 by Disability and Romance Authors

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Summer Heat

FOOTPRINTS ON MY HEART by Julie Rowe

Dedication

Reader Letter

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

EMERGENCY LOVE by Dianne Drake

Dedication

Reader Letter

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

THE DEEP END by Teri McGill

Dedication

Reader Letter

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

JEOPARDY by Lucy Marker

Dedication

Reader Letter

Credits for this book

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

RIP CURRENT by Susan Sheehey

Dedication

Reader Letter

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

SNOOZE YOU LOSE, BABY by Karen Chesley

Dedication

Reader Letter

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

LAKESIDE KISSES by CJ Matlyn

Dedication

Reader Letter

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

SECOND CHANCE SUMMER by Libby Kay

Dedication

Reader Letter

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Leiðarljós (Guiding Light) by Dal Cecil Runo

Dedication

Reader Letter

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

NO PROTOCOLS FOR LOVE by Jen FitzGerald

Dedication

Reader Letter

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

BETWEEN THE PAGES by Joelle Casteel

Dedication

Reader Letter

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

SUMMER HEAT

Imperfectly Yours (Volume 1)

Footprints on My Heart by Julie Rowe copyright © 2019

Emergency Love by Dianne Drake copyright © 2019

The Deep End by Teri McGill copyright © 2019

Jeopardy by Lucy Marker copyright © 2019

Rip Current by Susan Sheehey copyright © 2019

Snooze You Lose, Baby by Karen Chesley copyright © 2019

Lakeside Kisses by CJ Matlyn copyright © 2019

Second Chance Summer by Libby Kay copyright © 2019

Guiding Light by Dal Cecil Runo copyright © 2019

No Protocols for Love by Jen FitzGerald copyright © 2019

Between the Pages by Joelle Casteel copyright © 2019

These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are written solely from the author’s imagination and not intended to resemble actual names, characters, places or events. Any resemblance to events, locales, organizations or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the publisher or the editor.

Copyright ©2019

Disability and Romance Authors

All rights reserved, which include the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form or format whatsoever.

ISBN (ebook): 978-0-9863645-7-0

There are No Protocols for Love.

A hot romance might put you in Jeopardy, trap you in a Rip Current, or thrill you with Lakeside Kisses.

A Second Chance Summer could cast you into The Deep End or deliver an ultimatum: Snooze You Lose, Baby!

Between the Pages of Summer Heat you will hopefully find a dose of Emergency Love or a Guiding Light

that leads you toward the

Footprints on My Heart.

FOOTPRINTS ON MY HEART

Julie Rowe

To Cloe and Embry, my favorite furry friends!

Dear Reader,

I hope you enjoy this story of survival and love. Service animals are both partner and friend. They may not be able to speak, but they put one hundred percent of themselves into helping us so that it’s impossible not to feel their love. In this story, it’s not just the dog that Gemma falls in love with, but the dog’s trainer, Hank, too.

CHAPTER ONE

The look on Cloe’s face clearly told Gemma Foster that the dog thought she was an idiot. The black Labrador retriever didn’t make a noise or move an inch. Instead, she waited for Gemma to figure herself out.

Trust your dog.

Pay attention to what Cloe’s body language was telling her.

Trust your dog.

Allow Cloe to navigate all the hazards Gemma herself couldn’t detect anymore.

Trust your dog.

It was the mantra Hank Bryant, Cloe’s trainer, signed and mouthed to her over and over. Gemma had to trust Cloe or having a service dog would do her no good.

Trust was funny, though. Once it was broken, even if the thing that broke it only took a second to tear your life apart, it was never the same again. Earning that trust back might take the rest of one’s life.

Gemma had had her trust in how the world worked, the decency of people, and the idea that happiness was achievable, smashed by a steel-framed, crumple-zoned, angel-white assassin on four wheels. And its fleeing driver.

It came at her again and again in her nightmares. A huge white truck, with the speed of a shark, colliding with her and Marshall’s fuel efficient, compact car.

The car, and Marshall, never stood a chance. How Gemma survived with only one major injury was a miracle. Or so people told her. It didn’t feel very miraculous. The grief she fought through every day wasn’t wondrous. It hurt like an open gut wound, leeching away her strength day by day, until she dreaded getting out of bed every morning.

Cloe sat on the pavement, her gaze attentive and focused on Gemma’s face.

Yup, the pup wasn’t going to move until Gemma indicated she was ready.

Was she?

This was supposed to be their final exam. Their task, to navigate two blocks of busy New York foot-traffic, cross two streets, enter Central Park, and present themselves to their trainer Hank and Hank’s canine partner, Tank.

They were standing with one of Hank’s other trainers, stopwatch in hand. He’d indicated she and Cloe could start at any time.

That was five minutes ago. But Gemma’s heart still raced while her head stagnated in a soupy fog.

She could do this. She would do this.

Gemma shifted her weight, grabbed hold of Cloe’s harness handle with her left hand and took a step toward the busy sidewalk a few feet away.

Cloe moved with her, but slower, putting physical brakes on Gemma’s too nervous walking speed. Gemma slowed down, smiling at her dog’s head. Cloe was in the zone, her head moving back and forth, keeping track of the people around them, the cars on the street, and the sounds Gemma couldn’t hear anymore.

The fog was never going to lift. She’d never hear another song, instrument, or voice, because the car crash she’d survived had taken her husband and her hearing.

Most people told her how lucky she was to have only lost her hearing. It made her want to scream. But screaming would only make things worse because she couldn’t hear it.

She was a forest that heard nothing at all.

Someone clipped her right arm, jostling and shoving her into Cloe. The dog didn’t retreat, instead she bent around Gemma, still moving forward, supporting her partner until Gemma regained her footing.

A few more steps and they halted at the back of a pack of pedestrians waiting for the traffic light to turn green.

Gemma’s heartrate was still high thanks to the sideswipe and Cloe nosed her right hand, encouraging Gemma to pet her head. Connection, love, and touch—three things that grounded Gemma in moments of panic. Cloe was generous with her affection and never failed to offer it.

So much more reliable than most people.

When the light turned and they could follow the pack across the street, Gemma had regained her composure and her form. People crowded her as they crossed. A large man in a suit shoved past on her left, almost trampling Cloe.

He turned his head to yell something at her, but all she saw was his mouth moving. Given what his lips said, she was glad she couldn’t hear any of it.

They stepped up onto the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street and turned left heading toward the second intersection they would have to cross before reaching Central Park. This time they made it down the block and across the intersection without any issues.

That wasn’t so bad.

Grinning, she and Cloe headed toward the spot where Hank and Tank waited for them. In between, however, was an obstacle Gemma hadn’t encountered before. An army of children, enough to fill an elementary school.

On the other side of the ocean of tiny sharks she could see Hank’s face and the massive grin he was giving her.

That sneaky…she and Cloe were going to do this. She bent down and put her mouth next to Cloe’s ear and whispered, We’ve got this.

Cloe nosed her face and wagged her tail. That was the go sign.

Gemma stood and they set off.

She smiled at the first lot of kids who noticed them, but Cloe took Gemma on a trajectory that would avoid the children. A couple of kids tried to run up to pet the black lab, but Gemma shook her head and spoke slowly, Sorry, he’s working. He can’t play.

Their teachers herded them back into line with the rest of their classmates. This scenario was repeated another four times before they left the busy clearing behind.

Ahead of her Hank and Tank watched them approach, Hank’s face now sporting a smile that could have been a neon sign for proud.

They stopped in front of him and Cloe sat at attention right next to Gemma’s left foot.

Hank made the signs for good job and proud of you.

She signed, Did we pass?

With flying colors, was his response.

Gemma crouched and hugged her new best friend and whispered a surprisingly tight, We did it. into her dog’s ear. She couldn’t hear the words, but the vibration in her throat reassured her that her vocal cords were still working.

She stood and signed, Sneaky, making us run that pint-sized gauntlet.

An excellent test for both of you, was his response. Congratulations, you and Cloe have officially graduated.

She smiled and glanced at Cloe, then signed to Hank, I have an amazing partner.

She’s one in a thousand. He gave her another smile. One more team to come and everyone will have completed their final exam.

Gemma nodded and stepped to one side to join the four other people and their dogs who’d already finished. Two men and two women. She was the only hearing-impaired person in the group. The men were both military veterans who required service animals to help them manage their PTSD. One woman was blind and the last had a seizure disorder. All of them had issues with sound. It was either a trigger for panic, or in her case absent entirely, so each dog’s training had been customized by Hank in the final stages.

She’d had no idea how much time and effort it took to train a service dog like Cloe, until she began learning her role in their partnership. It seemed like Hank never got a day off. Was that because the dogs didn’t either?

He was young, around her age, and with his level of fitness along with his great smile, should have had a significant other in his life. Someone to go home to on the weekends instead of working, working, working.

As she waited for the last team to arrive, her gaze wandered over Hank and Tank, and decided only one word was needed to describe them: intimidating. Both man and beast were large, muscled, and radiated energy like plutonium.

She’d often wondered what mix of breeds Tank was. He had a Pitbull’s head, a Rottweiler’s body, and a Collie’s tail. His temperament was all protective herd-dog. When he decided you were one of his people, he looked after you, even following her into the bathroom at the training center once when she must have taken longer than he liked.

She loved the soft heart inside such a tough looking exterior. And Hank…well, her feelings for him were a problem. Mostly because she didn’t know what they were. He had wide shoulders to go along with his muscles and enough height to give her a sore neck if she looked up at him for too long. Nope, the problem was the giddy feeling that flipped her stomach up and down, made her heart race, and her breathing uneven whenever he was around.

He probably thought she had asthma or something on top of impaired hearing.

There she was, grinning again. Her face was going to be sore at this rate. Idiot.

Hank turned then, looking right at her.

Had she made a noise?

When had it gotten so hot? Was she…blushing? The heat turned into an uncomfortable burn.

His reassuring smile got bigger as he signed, It’s good to see you happy. He turned back before she could reply, leaving her glad she didn’t have to come up with a response.

She glanced at the other teams, but they were focused on their dogs. Relief left her muscles a little rubbery.

Hank and Tank both shifted, pulling her attention back to them, then past them. The last team had entered the park.

CHAPTER TWO

Hank led their entire graduating class of handlers, service dogs, and training staff to a pub only a few blocks from Central Park. Tucked in between offices, with a brick façade, it looked like it had been there for decades.

The interior was decorated in what Gemma thought of as cozy-Irish in dark wood, old style pub fixtures, and two fireplaces that she could see from the entrance. Up ahead, a bartender waved at them from behind his bar and a waitress or hostess hustled over with a wide smile on her face. Her lips moved, clearly saying: Hi there, handsome.

As she drew closer, and it was easier to see who she was focused on, Gemma realised her smile had been meant for Hank. Girlfriend?

Gemma sighed. Of course, he had a girlfriend. The guy was attractive, intelligent, and kind.

The waitress moved in closer to Hank and put a hand on his biceps. A claiming touch, warning other women away.

Hank shifted, easing his body back, sliding out from under her hand.

Maybe he didn’t like public displays of affection? He’d touched all his students, human and canine, often during training, but that was professional contact. At least, that’s what she told herself if his hand seemed to linger on her arm or back.

Body language, something she hadn’t paid too much attention to before the crash, loomed large in her attempt to understand what people tried to tell her now. She was still learning how to interpret what people did when they talked, especially when they spoke too fast for her to read their lips or if she couldn’t see their face clearly.

The waitress gathered up a stack of menus and headed into the pub. Hank and Tank followed, with the rest of their group right behind. She and Cloe where the last pair to reach the table, only a couple of trainers who worked for Hank behind her. Hank stood at the foot of the table behind an unoccupied chair. He waved at her to come over, and as she approached, he pulled out the chair for her and gestured at her to sit.

She smiled and sat. From this position she could see everyone’s faces clearly. She needed to add thoughtful to his list of attributes.

He sat next to her on her left instead of taking the seat at the head of the table, letting it go to one of the other trainers.

When she glanced at him, he signed, I’m hungry and picked up his menu.

Silly woman, stop reading too much into everything the man does. This was a celebration, not a business meeting.

She discovered the pub served a variety of eggs Benedict and decided on one with bacon, tomato, and avocado, pointing out her choice on the menu to the waitress.

She was the same woman from before, and she held her notepad in front of her face.

Gemma waited for her to lower her hands to ask a question, but the woman just stood there, staring at her.

After a moment, Hank touched the back of her hand, and when she looked at him, he signed, How would you like your eggs cooked?

She replied, Medium poached.

He looked at the waitress and verbally repeated that.

The woman heaved a sigh, hard to miss in the tight t-shirt she wore, and rolled her eyes at Hank.

Dismissed.

Disrespected.

Degraded.

This wasn’t the first, not even the tenth time she’d been treated like this. As if losing her hearing had turned her into someone to be pitied, put up with, and patted on the head. That this woman communicated that attitude to Hank…hurt more than she thought possible.

She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t bear to take the chance to see him go along with it even a little bit. Not cause a scene.

He’d been so…safe. His whole focus seemed set on helping to make her life and the lives of her fellow training recipients better. People allowed all kinds of bad behavior in the name of keeping the peace, keeping things smooth, keeping the majority happy.

She wasn’t in the majority anymore. The realization stabbed her in the heart with an ice-cold blade made from the same impact as the one that had ripped her life apart two years ago.

Staying upright in her chair was all she could do, not even her breathing was working right. The more she struggled the more her chest hurt.

Something cool and wet pressed up against the back of her arm.

Cloe nosed her again then stretched up to lick her face a few times, and Gemma discovered she could breathe again. She hugged her dog for three long seconds, then gave the hand signal for Cloe to sit. When Gemma finally looked up from her dog, the waitress was gone.

Hank was bending his neck, leaning toward her, smiling and trying to make eye contact. His smile wasn’t really working this time, his eyes were too tense.

I’m sorry, he signed.

For what? she signed back. She’d made sure she hadn’t seen a thing.

She was rude. I’ve asked for a different waitress.

It was Gemma’s turn to sigh. I don’t want to get between you and your…she paused. Friend.

Across the table, one of the other trainers gestured and said something to Hank. He spoke slow enough that she could read his lips.

That’s no way to get lucky.

Her stomach twisted into a ball. She’d guessed right.

There was no way she could eat, not with everyone at the table looking at her and Hank with questions on their faces.

Hank looked embarrassed right down to the blush on his cheeks.

So much for the celebration. She’d ruined the meal for him and herself. Still, she could do something to make it easier on everyone else.

Gemma pushed her chair back a few inches, stood, then took hold of Cloe’s harness. She smiled at the table at large, waved bye-bye, and said out loud, I’m feeling a little overwhelmed. Cloe and I are going to head out. She spoke slowly and carefully, letting the vibrations from her voice box tell her how loud she was speaking. Thanks for everything, she said to the other trainers, managing to avoid eye-contact with Hank. It’s been a wonderful experience and I’ll never be able to express how grateful I am for Cloe. Tears threatened to close her throat and she had to breathe through the urge to cry.

Hank stood and stepped closer into her personal space, making it impossible for her to ignore him.

What’s wrong? He signed. Why are you leaving?

She let go of Cloe’s harness to reply, forcing herself to make eye-contact with Hank. I’ve just had too much excitement today, and having all these eyes on me…she dropped her hands for a moment and glanced around the pub before continuing. I can’t slow my breathing down, can’t stop the tears. She stopped to suck in a breath to stave off those tears and failed. She wiped one away then signed, I can’t stay here.

She grabbed her purse, Cloe’s harness, and left.

It seemed to take hours to get through the pub and out the door. Once she was outside, her breathing came a little easier, but her knees were still a bit wobbly. She really did need to go home.

Such as it was.

She’d been renting a place near the training center on the lower east side, but now that she was done, she could pack up and return to the small home she’d moved to after getting out of the hospital. She’d sold the home she and Marshall had bought. Couldn’t bear to live in the place they’d made their own and made so many plans in. But all she was left with were broken dreams.

The house she’d bought was in Teanip, New Jersey. She’d have to arrange to move the few personal items and a couple of suitcases of clothes back to her house, along with herself and Cloe.

Tears rolled down her face leaving cold tracks on her skin. Damn it, if she didn’t get her poop in a group, some well-meaning regular person would try to help her. Right now, the only person she wanted around was Cloe.

Cloe guided her to the right, closer to the store front. Someone must want to pass her, only she recognized Hank’s big body as he entered her line of sight, Tank at his side.

He looked into her face, concern etched in the lines between his eyes and bracketing his mouth.

What’s wrong, he signed. Hank’s hands were stiff and their range of motion larger as he signed, turning his words into shouts.

He wasn’t going to let this go, she could see it on his face.

Gemma dredged a smile up from somewhere and pasted it on her face. I’m sorry, I’m overwhelmed.

You’re also upset. Was it the waitress? His hands sped up. She was rude and insensitive, and I made sure we got a different server, someone who knows how to act like an adult and not a twelve-year-old.

Her running off made her look like a fool as well.

She was the last straw, Gemma signed. There are a lot of changes happening in my life right now. I didn’t realize I was under so much stress until I reached the end of my rope without any warning. I’m sorry for ruining the party.

Some of the tension came out of the set of his shoulders. Are you sure that’s all?

No, but she couldn’t tell him the real pain had come from the notion that he might agree with the other woman to some small degree. Something she had no business thinking in the first place.

She needed to be independent. Graduating from the program and going to her new home with Cloe was supposed to be a new beginning. Instead the thought of going there alone was unnerving. Daunting. Terrifying.

She wanted to ask him for help. He was a good man, he wouldn’t hesitate to say yes, but that wasn’t what she needed.

She needed to do this on her own.

I’m fine, she signed, trying to look sheepish instead of humiliated. Please go back to the celebration.

Only if you come with me.

When she just looked at him, he signed, It’s just lunch.

It wasn’t just lunch, but the hopeful expression on his face was one she decided she couldn’t disappoint.

Okay, she signed. But if that waitress pops up, I might sign something rude.

Can I repeat it out loud if you do?

Nope, think up your own rudeness.

Party pooper.

Today, absolutely I am.

He shoulders shook as he laughed. Joy made him much too handsome.

They walked back to their table a few minutes later, just in time for their food to arrive. Gemma glanced around for the waitress, but she was nowhere to be seen. She began to relax as the others at the table talked about their future plans.

She described her new house and the small city to which she was moving, but didn’t have anything else to say after that. Her husband was dead, and she didn’t have a job. She didn’t have a reason to get up in the morning. Didn’t have a reason to go to bed at night.

She needed a purpose.

Hank’s right hand entered her field of view. He had a frown on his face. Are you okay?

She shrugged. I just realized that as soon as I go home, I’ve got no commitments. She paused then continued after a moment’s thought. I think I’m going to need a job.

That’s a good idea, he signed. Any thoughts on where or doing what?

Not a clue. Got any suggestions?

Movie reviewer?

I only like action and sci-fi. That wouldn’t be fair to all the other kinds of movies.

Dance club DJ?

Picturing herself inside a dark club, lights flashing, standing behind a sound board and turn tables made her laugh. Nope.

Novelist?

I don’t know what I would write about.

Spy?

Too clumsy.

What are you interested in?

She almost signed, you, but managed to keep her hands in her lap. She glanced at Cloe. I’d like to work with service dogs.

Hank leaned toward her, his gaze suddenly intense. I might be able to help with that.

What? No, that’s not what I meant, she signed quickly. I’m not looking at your company as a prospective place to work, but I love this goofy mutt and I think being part of the team that brings service dogs and the people who need them together would be a rewarding thing to do.

I agree and it is. The frown between his eyes etched itself a little deeper. Why wouldn’t you consider working with me?

Was he serious? Because I just finished hiring you to teach me. I didn’t do it to get a job.

And I didn’t teach you to offer you a job, but you’re good with people and dogs. He smiled. Obviously, you have a lot to do before you’re ready to look for a job, but I hope you’ll call me when you are ready.

Was that why he followed her and talked her into going back to the restaurant?

Disappointment settled into the pit of her stomach, heavy and cold. Guilt pummeled the ice almost immediately, but instead of breaking it up, it pushed the frigid mass deeper. Nausea attempted to crawl up her throat and she had to swallow a few times to keep her food down.

Shame threatened to suck her under. It had been two years, and she was still figuring herself out.

She glanced at Hank; he was watching her face, and smiled at her when she met his gaze. He’d worked with a lot of people, some of them needing his services and his dogs due to unfortunate events.

How long does it take? She signed.

How long does what take?

How long does it take for a person to stop…She wasn’t sure how to describe what was happening to her. For the trauma to fade, to stop hijacking your thoughts and emotions?

His smile died. His hands were motionless for a couple of seconds before he lifted them to sign. When I find out, I’ll let you know.

For a moment, it was there on his face, something horrible, terrifying, and painful. It pulled the corners of his mouth down and added an edge of bone deep pain to the tension around his eyes. Then it was gone, tucked inside behind Hank’s normally placid expression. Only she could see the agony simmering behind his eyes now. Feel the vibration of his muscles.

Tank nudged Hank’s thigh with his nose and Gemma’s gaze stayed on the big dog parked next to Hank’s chair. Tank, who wore the same service dog harness, leash, and vest as Cloe.

How could she not have connected the dots before? Hank didn’t just train service dogs for other people, he had one himself.

She lifted her hands and signed, I’m an idiot.

Hank threw back his head and laughed. She watched him, watched as his whole body became engaged in the act, watched some of the tension leech out of his muscles. You, he signed. Are smart, tough, and tenacious. You’re also still recovering from injuries both physical and emotional, so you get a pass.

Still, she signed with exaggerated movements that added a rueful note to her gestures. An idiot.

Still smiling, he signed, How far along are you in the move-in to your new place?

Everything is there, I just haven’t had a chance to unpack much or turn it from a roof over my head into home.

Part of her didn’t want to. Part of her was certain just surviving an accident didn’t give her the right to move on when her husband had died. And part of her was so damned lonely.

Hank pulled a business card out of his pocket and wrote on the back of it, then gave it to her.

My personal cell phone number. He handed her the card. Call me when you’re ready to look for a job, or if you need any advice regarding Cloe, or if you just want to have a coffee with someone who’s walked part of the same road you’re on.

She looked at the card. The smart thing to do would be to thank him, stick the card in her purse, then forget about it. So, she nodded, smiled, and slipped the card into her pocket.

The celebration broke up a few minutes later, and she and Cloe took a taxi back to their rented apartment. She should feel exhilarated, excited, and energized by her and Cloe’s success.

Exhaustion wrapped around her like a thick blanket, blunting her thoughts. Her plans for the future would have to wait until she had gotten some rest.

CHAPTER THREE

Three months later, Gemma was unpacking one of the last boxes in her living room, Cloe on the floor next to her, watching with dark, calm eyes. There was art on the walls now, but no photographs. She’d looked at the pictures of Marshall, herself, and their families then put them back in their box. She couldn’t look at them without feeling like her survival was a mistake. Her psychologist told her that survivor’s guilt was normal, to be expected even, but Gemma hadn’t expected it to take up so much of her thoughts. If Marshall were here, he’d probably tell her to let it go, but she couldn’t seem to do that, no matter how hard she tried.

She still had his clothes, watch, wedding rings, and other personal items in storage.

The box in front of her had winter jackets and sweaters according to the writing on the top. Some of Marshall’s things might be in it, since the moving company packed this box.

She got the tape off and opened the flaps.

A scent rose from the clothing on top. Not strong, but familiar…old rust mixed with a hint of rot.

She knew that smell…it was the scent from the worst day of her life.

Fear and horror clamped around her chest and abdomen, triggering nausea, sending her heart on a wild sprint, and her breathing into an ocean of pain. The certainty that another breath would fill her lungs with something other than air took control of her limbs and she found herself on the floor several feet away on her hands and knees, breathing in deep gusts to keep the contents of her stomach from making a repeat appearance.

What could be in the box emanating the smell of blood and death?

Just looking at the box sent a tidal surge of nausea through her again, and she gagged.

Cloe snuggled in close and began licking Gemma’s face. That too was strangely familiar, and mixed with the smell coming from the box.

How could Cloe licking her face remind her of the accident? She’d never felt like this with Cloe before.

Gemma rocked back and ended up on her butt. She focused on Cloe and her enthusiastic licking. No, this wasn’t exactly the same as the dog from her memory. That dog had stood taller, with a flatter head and wider tongue.

She put her arms around Cloe and buried her face in the dog’s fur.

She was shaking and still wanted to vomit, but the box had to go. If it stunk up the entire house, she’d never be able to sleep here.

Gemma crawled toward the box, Cloe continuing to nose and lick her face and neck. That was helping, actually. It kept her grounded in this moment rather than in the past. As she got closer, she took in a breath then looked inside.

On top was Marshall’s winter jacket. Her hands shook as she lifted it to see what was underneath.

A bloody hoodie.

Hers. The one she’d been wearing when the accident happened. Some of the blood was hers, but some was Marshall’s too. When she’d come to after the crash, his head had been lying on her shoulder as if he were asleep.

With his eyes open and sightless.

This time she did throw up.

Gemma crawled a few feet away to lie on the floor and try to remember how to breathe again. She hadn’t had a reaction like this since shortly after the accident. Her psychologist had cautioned her to watch for signs of trauma induced panic, but she had no idea it might be this physically debilitating.

She didn’t know what to do, but staying on the floor wasn’t going to work for long. If she called for medical help, she’d end up with an ambulance at her door. Which would lead to a trip to a hospital, doctor visits, medication, and God knows what else.

The thought alone overwhelmed her. Going to a busy place stinking of sickness and cleansers was not going to help calm her thoughts.

Who could she call for help? Someone who would know what to do?

Hank’s face surfaced out of the chaos rampaging around her head, and the tight muscles of her diaphragm relaxed slightly. She pulled out her phone, found him in her contact list, then texted: I think I’m having a panic attack and I don’t know what to do. I DO NOT want to go to a hospital. Any advice?

She hit send on the message then rested her head on Cloe’s warm back. A moment later, she jerked into an upright sitting position. It was Friday morning. He was probably busy with training. She smacked her hand against her forehead.

She began texting an apology when his reply arrived. Where are you right now?

My living room floor. I’m not injured. At least, not physically. Emotionally, she was a wreck.

What triggered the panic?

I opened a box and found the clothing I was wearing at the time of the accident. It’s covered in dried, old blood. Just thinking about it made her sick.

Give me your address.

Don’t be ridiculous, it’s at least an hour and a half drive from Manhattan.

Tank and I need a break from the city anyway. Address?

It’s too far out of your way. I didn’t want to burden you. I just didn’t know who else to contact.

You’re not a burden. You’re a survivor just like I am. Other people helped me when I was the one gasping for breath and trying not to puke.

Shock washed over her. He knew. He knew exactly how she felt.

Another text came in. Let me do this. Let me help you.

Was this part of his healing process?

She replied with one word: Yes. Then supplied her address.

Thank you. Go to your kitchen or somewhere comfortable, make a cup of tea if you’re up to it, and wait for me. Don’t go back into the living room or anywhere near that box. Help is coming.

Help is coming.

The tension in her body released all at once and she began to cry.

Help is coming.

Cloe whined and licked her face.

Gemma hugged her and spoke the words out loud, Help is coming. She couldn’t hear them, but their vibrations soothed her muscles a little bit more.

After a couple of minutes, she managed to get to her feet and walk slowly into her kitchen. Her muscles and joints ached, her thoughts were bruised, and her heart had broken all over again.

Her hands shook as she filled the kettle with water and turned it on.

Cloe stuck with her, practically glued to her left side, nosing her hand whenever she lowered it, reminding Gemma of where and when she was.

Gemma sat down on a chair and Cloe rested her head on Gemma’s lap. Gemma petted her with slow strokes, pausing to explore her companion’s soft ears every so often. When the water boiled, she made tea then sat to do nothing more than look out the window at her backyard.

It was large, square-shaped, and fenced. There was a portion near the back of the property that looked like it had once been a garden, but it had been left to the weeds at some point. Other than that, there was no landscaping done to the space. It felt unfinished and ignored, but she didn’t know what she wanted to do with it.

Gemma turned away, put her head down on her arms on the table and closed her eyes for a moment.

Something wet touched her cheek and she sat up. She blinked, had she fallen asleep?

Cloe pulled at her sleeve to tell her someone was knocking on her front door. Hank.

Gemma got up and followed her dog to the entryway. She had to pass through the living room, but managed to not see the box even though it was in the middle of the room.

She opened the door. Hank and Tank waited and as soon as she met his gaze, he gave her the barest of smiles.

She gestured him in and the two of them came inside. She shut the door and turned, not sure what to say or how to act.

He studied her for a moment, then signed. Sorry it took me so long to get here. Traffic.

I’m sorry for dragging you all the way here, she replied, her hand and finger movements stiff. I think I had a nap while sitting at the kitchen table. I’m feeling a bit better.

Good. You haven’t dealt with the box?

No.

He angled his head to one side. Let’s sit and talk through this.

That sounded so rational. Okay. She led the way back through the house to the kitchen where she put the kettle on to boil again.

Hank waited for her to choose a seat, then took the one opposite to hers.

Do you know what triggered you?

Her hands shook, but she still managed to sign, The clothes.

Was it the sight of the blood or the smell?

Oh. It was the smell.

Is that the box I saw in the living room?

Yes.

Would it be okay if I removed it from inside the house?

Tears flooded her eyes. I would be eternally grateful if you’d do that.

Her hands rested on the table, and he covered them with his own then squeezed. He stood and strode to the box, Tank at his side.

Gemma studiously studied the table and petted Cloe whose head was on her lap again.

Hank came back inside and a few seconds later he and Tank returned to the kitchen.

He signed, I put it in the shed next to the garage. Once you’ve decided what to do with it, I’ll take care of it.

The tight hold she’d had on her emotions shattered and Gemma began to cry.

Gemma? Hank signed.

I’m sorry, she managed to say with hands that shook even harder now.

Hug? he asked, his expression tentative.

She nodded and he came around the table and held out his arms.

Tears almost completely obscuring her vision, Gemma stood and blindly threw her arms around him.

He caught her and pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her tight.

She buried her face against his chest and hung onto the back of his shirt with tight fists. Her sobs shook her so hard, she wouldn’t have been able to stay on her feet.

The two dogs stood next to them, one on each side, both whining slightly, as if asking what the problem was and couldn’t they fix it?

A minute passed, then two. At some point after that, Hank bent down, slipped his hand under her knees, and picked her up. He walked into the living room and over to the sofa where he sat down with her in his lap.

He put his arms around her again, pulling her flush with his body and for the first time in what felt like forever, she let someone else hold her and deal with the rest of the world.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d cried, but it was long enough to get the front of Hank’s t-shirt wet.

She pulled away, still snuffling a little, and signed, I’m sorry, I’ve made a mess of your shirt.

A little saltwater won’t hurt it, he signed, a smile hovering just out of sight on his lips. How’s the panic?

Gone. I think. I’m exhausted, though I don’t have a good reason to be.

Are you kidding? It takes a lot of energy to go through a PTSD panic attack. Interested in a nap? I’ll raid your fridge and cook us some dinner while you grab some down-time.

You don’t have to…

He waved her off. Let me, please. I was going to talk you into letting me sleep on your couch tonight. You might feel okay now, but a few hours…He didn’t finish.

You know this from personal experience or from someone else’s experience?

Both. The mind is a tricky thing sometimes. And when you’re triggered by something basic, like a particular scent, it doesn’t let go easily.

She stared at him through bleary eyes. This might not be a good idea, but she couldn’t think past the relief in knowing she wasn’t alone. That there would be someone here when she woke up. Someone who seemed to care about her.

She wasn’t going to make this out to be anything more than a man behaving like a friend and a wonderful human being. She wasn’t sure what she’d done to deserve him coming all the way out here to help her, but damn if she was going to make him feel unwelcome.

Thank you for coming, getting wet, and deciding to stay anyway, she signed with a watery smile on her face. I’m going to take that nap. My house is your house.

He eased her off his lap, then with one hand under her elbow, he walked her up the stairs and to her bedroom. She laid down and Cloe stretched out on her dog bed next to hers on the floor. Hank stayed in the doorway until she gave him a little wave, then closed the door.

She wasn’t sure she’d sleep, but the next thing she knew, Cloe was nosing her hand and licking her fingers.

Sitting up, she saw Hank in the doorway again.

Good nap? he signed

How long did I sleep?

About thirty minutes. Dinner is nearly ready.

A rumbling growl vibrated through her stomach and Hank glanced down at it with a quick grin. That’s a good sign.

She wanted to smile, but she just didn’t have it in her to force her lips up. Instead, she nodded, reassured a still anxious Cloe with a few pats, then got to her feet.

She and Cloe followed Hank out, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. He gestured for her to sit, so she did.

What did you make? she asked. She could smell tomato sauce, so pasta?

Spaghetti, he signed. With my mother’s sauce recipe. You had all the ingredients.

He drained the water from the pasta pot and began scooping the long noodles onto two plates. Then he ladled sauce that smell of garlic, mushrooms, and Italian spices onto the pasta.

He brought her a plate as well as his own and sat across from her again.

The first bite told her she was going to have to ask for the recipe because it was delicious. She told him so and he grinned before they both kept eating.

It was nice to have someone in the house with her. Someone she didn’t feel like she had to entertain. Someone who wasn’t discomfited by her disability. Her mother had spent some time with her, helping her unpack, but she’d been so weepy, it had been a relief when she went home. Her mother still struggled with learning sign language as well, sometimes forgetting Gemma couldn’t hear her and talking out loud.

Hank was restful in comparison.

They ate, and Gemma didn’t feel compelled to sign at all. Only once she’d finished eating did Hank ask a question.

You seemed relaxed during the meal, am I correct?

Yes, it was very good.

His eyes crinkled around the corners, smiling at her. What do you smell right now?

The sauce. Garlic, tomatoes, Italian spices. She canted her head to one side. He’d mentioned scent before, talked about how that sense captured her interest, her subconscious interest.

I wonder if I can find pasta sauce scented wax or candles somewhere.

He laughed, his whole body shaking.

She liked how he laughed, and she found herself smiling too.

Guilt punched her in the gut, making her diaphragm spasm.

Hank must have seen it on her face because he stopped laughing, got up, and came around the table to crouch next to her on her right. Cloe had her head in Gemma’s lap again, her tail thwacking her chair hard enough for her to feel the vibrations of it.

What’s the trigger? he asked, his hands moving with careful control.

She lifted her hands, but wasn’t sure how to explain. Tears flooded her eyes and she shook her head.

My laughing? he asked.

When she didn’t respond, he tried a different answer. You smiling?

When she managed to waggle her hand back and forth, he guessed again.

Feeling happy?

She nodded.

He relaxed and only then did she notice how tense he’d been. Guilty?

She nodded again.

His chest rose and fell in an extra-large movement. He looked away for a moment then met her gaze before signing, I know how that feels, and there’s no quick fix for it. Survivor’s guilt is insidious.

This felt bigger than that, as palpable as a physical blow.

Getting triggered earlier today means, any emotional response you’re going to have, until you recover, will feel twenty times worse than it should.

How long?

How long until this pain went away?

How long until she could breathe again?

How long until guilt didn’t stab her bruised and bleeding soul?

She didn’t have the strength to sign all of that, didn’t have the courage to admit it to this kind man.

It’s different for everyone, but for myself, I’ve found it easier to handle when I’m not alone.

Is that why you’re always working?

A blush reddened his cheeks. You figured me out awfully fast.

Like recognizes like, she signed. But working seven days a week isn’t the healthiest way to have people around you. Wouldn’t spending time with friends or a girlfriend be better?

My friends understand my need to keep busy, and put a lot of time into training the dogs and their handlers right alongside me. As for a girlfriend…He paused. So far, I haven’t met anyone willing to stick it out for the long haul. Helping people and training dogs like Cloe and Tank is my passion.

Gemma petted Cloe’s head, lingering on the dog’s soft ears before signing, I think what you do is nothing short of miraculous. She gazed into his eyes. Cloe isn’t just my ears. She’s my constant companion, my friend, my family. She’s an essential part of my life, and you made it possible. Multiply that by all the people you’ve done this for, and you get a whole lot of miracles.

She leaned closer to him. An intelligent woman who truly cared for you would be cheering you on and helping you with your goals, not whining about it.

He blinked then signed a little shyly, Wow, ok. He swallowed, then a small grin slipped onto his face. Could I offer you a job marketing my organization?

Wow, he had the puppy-dog-eyes look down to a fine art. She had to resist the urge to touch him again and ask for another long hug.

Does it come with an afternoon nap, because I’m exhausted? She saw a frown come and go on his face. I know, I just had one, but I’m starting to feel a little…she drew circles in the air next to her ear then spelled out, Loopy.

Loopy isn’t a word.

Fuzzy? Burnt out? Crispy fried?

His smile was understanding. So, bedtime?

She nodded. You don’t have to stay. I think I’ll be fine.

There are a couple of things I wanted to talk to you about. He tilted his head slightly. Could