Can't Hardly Breathe. Gena Showalter

Happily so.

      Brock was sometimes likened to a bulldozer. The Brocdozer. He’d tended to mow down anything in his way.

      Daniel was known as Mr. Clean. When a situation got dirty, he rushed in and cleaned up the mess.

      Irony at its finest. He couldn’t clean up the mess he’d made of his life.

      When Daniel reached his dad’s neighborhood, he quickened his step. The housing subdivision had three streets and a grand total of twelve homes, each centered on a one-acre plot. Some of the homes resembled barns, while others were more traditional two-story colonials.

      Dr. Vandercamp lived in one of the barns. The porch light was off. To discourage visitors? Oh, well. Daniel knocked on the door. Hard.

      Several minutes passed before the lights flipped on and the old man—

      Nope, not the old man, but his son, Brett, who was Daniel’s age. Right. He remembered Virgil telling him that Brett had become a vet, just like his dad, and that he’d taken over the old man’s practice.

      Brett wore a pink T-shirt that read “Save the Boobies,” a pair of boxers and a scowl. “What do you want, Porter?”

      Far from intimidated, Daniel said, “I found this little beauty a few miles back. She’s injured. Do you have the tools to care for her here, or do you need to go to your office?” Subtext: Princess was getting treatment tonight.

      Brett’s gruff exterior was suddenly replaced by caring concern. “Poor darling. Don’t you worry. I’ve got what I need here.”

      Good. “I’ll pay for everything.”

      An-n-nd goodbye concern. “Considering you made a house call in the middle of the night, you’re lucky I’m not going to make you pay double.” The guy looked the little Chihuahua over with a critical eye. “She’s malnourished, and she’ll need to be hooked to an IV for the rest of the night. Maybe tomorrow, too.”

      Daniel reluctantly handed her over, knowing she would be terrified of the new human as well as the new situation. And he was right. She peed on him.

      “You’re going to be okay, aren’t you, sweet girl? Yes, you are. Oh, yes, you are.” Brett’s hazel gaze flipped up to Daniel. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

      “You don’t have my number.”

      “Do you really think getting it will be difficult?” The door shut in his face.

      “Thank you,” Daniel called.

      He jogged to his dad’s house. When he’d first arrived in town, the colonial had been a run-down mess. Before starting LPH, Daniel had redone the trim, replaced the roof and painted absolutely everything.

      A quiet entry proved unnecessary. Jude and Brock sat in the living room, exactly where he’d left them. They spent a lot of time here, discussing work and watching Virgil whenever Daniel had to be gone for an extended period.

      “Why do you reek of urine?” Jude looked him over and frowned. “Better question. Why do you have a streak of blood on your shirt?”

      The guy noticed everything. “I found an injured dog and took her to the vet. Where’s my dad?”

      “In bed. Told us to use our inside voices or he’d put buckshot in our asses.” Brock grinned a sinner’s grin. Completely unrepentant. “Does he not know he’s partially deaf and wouldn’t be able to hear us if we shouted?” Of course, he shouted the question.

      No bellow of warning came from Virgil’s bedroom.

      Daniel stalked to the kitchen, grabbed a beer and returned to the living room, falling into one of the chairs. What a day.

      Beside him, Jude balanced a laptop on his thighs, his prosthetic limb propped against the coffee table. With his pale, shaggy hair, navy blue eyes and golden tan, he could have passed for a surfer—if there had been anything lighthearted about him. The right side of his face bore the same shrapnel scars Daniel possessed, though Jude’s were worse; one cut through his lip, giving him a permanent scowl.

      “How’d it go with your girl?” Jude asked.

      My girl. Not really. “I failed worse than Brock when he tried to pick up an entire bridal party.”

      Brock, who occupied the other end of the couch, laughed and fluffed the cushion under his neck. He kept his jet-black hair cut close to his scalp and, no matter how often he shaved, always sported a five-o’clock shadow. His eyes were so pale a green they sometimes appeared neon.

      “Why are you grumbling about a rejection?” the guy asked. “You’re no longer on the sidelines. You’re now in the game.”

      Next time we see each other, let’s pretend we’re strangers.

      Daniel drained half the beer. “Her defense might be stronger than my offense.”

      “Gotta admit,” Jude said, casting the beer a death glare. “She’s not your usual type.”

      The glare, Daniel understood. A drunken frat boy was the one who’d killed his family. The idiot had driven one hundred miles per hour down an overpass at night and slammed into Constance Laurent’s minivan.

      But Daniel wasn’t a frat boy, and he wanted to help his friend get past his past, not coddle him.

      He drained the rest of the beer and said, “I know she’s not my usual type. She’s better.” Sexier, with a fiercer temper.

      “Dude. If you’re this enamored of her after...what?” Brock spread his arms. “Two conversations with her? You’re in trouble. Take it from me. I’ve been divorced twice—”

      “From the same woman,” Daniel interjected.

      “Still counts. Anyway. The three of us, we are high maintenance, no doubt about it, and we’re never going to make a romantic relationship work long-term until we get our heads screwed on properly.”

      “I have no interest in making a romantic relationship work long-term,” Jude grumbled.

      Grumble was all he did anymore. But then, he wasn’t living; he was surviving.

      Daniel had been doing the same, hadn’t he? Moving from girl to girl. He sighed. “You implying my head is on crooked?”

      Brock gave him a pitying look. “My friend, I’m flat-out telling you. Your head is only hanging on by a thread.”

      Maybe, maybe not. But probably. Funny thing, though. He’d never been more certain about a woman. He wanted Dorothea in his bed, but he also wanted to talk with her, to laugh with her...

      Unfortunately, he had a feeling he would do almost anything to get what he wanted. Consequences be damned. Which proved Brock’s claim. Daniel’s head was hanging on by a thread.

      But no matter. He wasn’t a freaking mansel in distress, waiting for his white knightress to come and save him.

      He’d have fun with Dorothea, be distracted by the chase. If she succumbed, great. If not, no big deal. One way or another, he would move on. As always.