The Protector (Game of Chance, #1)

It wasn’t like him. He’d met his share of women over the years, and none of them had made him feel like he did right that moment, sitting at the table in his humble cabin, so proud of sharing a meal he’d made. No one had even come close.

He might not know many details about her life, but he knew Carlise was the kind of person who would do whatever was necessary to take care of a fellow human, even if she didn’t know them. She was the kind who worried about a stray dog. Who’d feed him and make sure he was warm and safe from a storm.

She was the kind of woman who wouldn’t put up with a man abusing her, who’d left the first time he raised his fists. Who’d refused to pry into a man’s personal life and belongings even when he’d been delirious and wouldn’t have ever known. The kind of woman who found pleasure in something as simple as warm water.

Okay, maybe he knew a lot more about Carlise than he’d thought. And every single thing made him want to know more.

“You’re awfully quiet over there. I think you talked more when you were delirious,” Carlise said, sounding a little nervous.

“Sorry, I’m not used to having guests,” Chappy said.

She grimaced. “No, I’m sorry. As soon as I can, I’ll be out of your hair.”

“That’s not what I was insinuating,” he told her, instant panic welling up inside him. “I just . . . I’m not the best conversationalist. I was just enjoying sitting here with you and trying to remember the last time I’d been this content. Usually I eat standing up in the kitchen, snarfing my food down quickly.”

“Me too. Somehow it feels even more lonely to sit at a table by yourself, doesn’t it?” she asked.

Relief filled Chappy. She understood. He shouldn’t have been surprised. “Yeah,” he agreed. “So . . . tell me about this translation thing you do. What kind of books do you translate? How did you learn French well enough to be able to do that? I’m assuming it pays all right since you’ve made it your profession.”

Carlise’s face lit up. She began to tell him all about what she did, and Chappy heard only half of the words. He was more fascinated by how passionate she was about her job, how animated she became while describing it.

When she’d wound down, she gave him a sheepish grin. “Sorry. That was probably way more than you were interested in hearing.”

“No,” he said immediately. “It’s fascinating. I guess I hadn’t ever thought about it before, but it’s great that books by French-speaking authors can be made available in other languages for others to read as well. I don’t know what I’d do without books.”

“Isn’t it the best when you can lose yourself in a story? When you’re sad because you’ve finished a book? One of the greatest things about my job is that I get to communicate with authors directly. I mean, sometimes I’m hired by publishers to translate, but most of my business is with authors themselves. I have to pinch myself when they actually have a conversation with me via email.”

“That’s definitely cool,” Chappy said, leaning his elbow on the table and resting his chin on his hand as he stared at her.

“It really is,” she agreed.

“You haven’t been able to work much the last few days. Is that going to put you behind?” he asked.

Carlise shrugged. “Not too much. I mean, I should probably get back to work soon, but I always build in plenty of wiggle room for each translation. The last thing I want is to deliver a book late to an author and mess up their publication schedule.”

Considerate. Another trait Chappy added to Carlise’s plus column.

They were quiet for a moment, then she tilted her head and said, “Listen—do you hear that?”

Tensing, Chappy strained to hear what had caught her attention. “No, what?”

“It’s quiet,” she whispered. “I’d gotten so used to the wind howling outside that it sounds weird not to hear it.”

“You’re right,” Chappy said. “Hopefully that means the storm has finally decided to move on.”

“It’s about time for Baxter’s dinner,” she said. “Do you think we could mix some of this delicious pasta in with his dinner? It would be warm, which I know he’d like. And it’s cheese . . . all dogs like cheese and beef.”

Chappy chuckled. “I’m sure. It’s light on the spices, and I made a ton. Like I said, when I cook, I tend to overdo it.”

“Well, I’m glad. Because I can totally eat this for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and not get sick of it.”

“So says the woman who ate peanut butter and jelly for three days straight.”

Carlise grinned and shrugged.

“Come on, I’ll clean up while you get Baxter’s food ready. Then we’ll head out and make sure he’s good.”

“I can—”

“No.”

Carlise huffed. “You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“You were going to say that you could help me clean up. I’ve got it. If you helped me with the dishes and packaging up the leftovers, it would just take longer for Baxter to get his meal.”

“That’s devious,” Carlise said, but she was smiling, so Chappy knew she wasn’t really upset.

“Nope, it’s practical. Now, how much do you think you want to add to Baxter’s food tonight?”

It felt comfortable to work side by side with Carlise in the kitchen. The space wasn’t terribly large, so they constantly bumped into each other. It felt intimate and not awkward at all. It was crazy how content Chappy was with this woman in his space.

It didn’t take long for him to hand-wash the plates and other dishes he’d used in prepping their meal and for Carlise to get Baxter’s bowl ready. He explained that he collected his recyclables and brought them into Newton when he went home and that he burned any trash he could. In the summer, he also had a compost pile. It was important to Chappy to make the smallest impact possible on the environment and live as naturally as he could while at the cabin.

They both got bundled up to head out to the porch with Baxter’s dinner, and Chappy held his breath as they went outside, praying the dog was still there.

He was.

As soon as the door opened, Baxter’s head popped up from the nest of blankets he’d made. There were paw prints that led down the porch into the yard, so it was obvious the dog had done his business, then returned to the warmth of his little den.

“Hey, Bax,” Carlise said softly. “How’re you doin’? You look comfortable. Although it would be so much warmer and nicer inside with Riggs and me. We won’t hurt you, I promise. The storm seems to have stopped, which is good news. Without the wind, you should be much warmer. I brought you some more food and water. And tonight you’re in for a treat . . . Riggs made cheesy taco noodles! They’re sooooo good. You’re going to think you’ve died and gone to heaven. I mixed in some green beans and chickpeas, because you need the nutrients, but I’m thinking you won’t even notice them with the cheesy beefy goodness you’re about to scarf down.”

Chappy had a huge smile on his face. She was adorable, talking to the dog as if he could understand what she said. But then again, maybe he did. Baxter was watching her with his head tilted as if he was fixated on every word.

Carlise put the bowls on the wooden boards of the porch and scooted them forward, toward the dog. When she started to move backward, Chappy said, “No, stay close to him again. And keep talking. He needs regular reminders that you aren’t going to hurt him. That you aren’t going to give him food, then take it away.”

“I’d never do that,” she said, sounding scandalized, but she did as he suggested and slowly sat on her butt, closer than she’d ever sat near him before.

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