Mary Had a Little Problem Read Free Page B

were enjoying herself. Pretending she was having the time of her life would be like faking an orgasm. What was the point? She wouldn’t get anything out of it.
    Mary stared down the street. She wanted simple answers, and Tom Tolsen had what she needed most in the world, but the questions were too difficult for Tom to acknowledge.
    Tom knew the harrowing truth. He had sealed documents, the kind of information a widow needed in order to move forward. Without the military’s closed files, Mary wasn’t able to leave the past behind.
    “It’s his job, Mary. He’s only doing what he’s been instructed to do,” Brock said gently.
    “What do you know about what he does?” she asked without looking at the man behind her.
    Brock placed his hands on her shoulders and forced her to face him, and the gesture alone sent her reeling. A stranger wasn’t allowed to touch her. Before she cursed him aloud, he said, “I know the military couldn’t pay me enough to do what that man does. Tom deals with death, Mary. He’s only permitted to share limited information.
    “You see him as the devil, the bearer of bad news. And you’re right. Tom Tolsen takes lives. He rips away dreams and destroys families. He’s death walking. When a woman or man sees Tom coming their way, they shout, they scream, they cry, and some of them fight, refusing to believe death—Tom—has finally knocked on their door.
    “No, I wouldn’t have his job, Mary. See, I’m not sure I could’ve walked in your house, given you the short details of your husband’s death, watched you mourn as you tried to grasp the magnitude of your loss, and then left you behind. I wouldn’t be able to do what Tom does.”
    That difficult lump in Mary’s throat returned. The lodging sensation threatened to choke her as she looked into the dark eyes before her. “Shall we?” he asked, extending his arm toward the pub.
    She shook her head, coming to terms with the public fit she’d thrown. “No, I uh…I should go.”
    “That’s your choice, of course,” Brock said. “But I’d like to buy you and your sister dinner and drinks. I’d like to see you smile, maybe listen to your story, and get to know you. If now isn’t a good time, I’ll be around. Anna knows how to get in touch with me.”
    Brock walked backed to the pub entrance and held open the door, propping his wide back against the center beveled glass. Mary stared at him for a moment then softly said, “I need to go.”
    “No you don’t. That’s what you don’t quite get. You don’t have to do anything anymore. You don’t have to move where the military sends you. You don’t have to act a certain way because you’re a soldier’s wife. You don’t have to do a damn thing you don’t want to do. And if you don’t want to go back inside, you don’t have to do that either, but you don’t need to go home alone, Mary.
    “If you do, that’s your choice, but it’s because you choose to sit in that house by yourself, and you reach the decision that you prefer to be alone. Unfortunately, if that’s the path you take, life is passing you by, and those you shut out are missing a great opportunity to spend time with a lovely young woman.”
    Mary studied the brute in front of her. He was the type of man she imagined most men feared, and for good reason. Brock was exactly the kind of man her husband had once been—rough stock. He was a bear of a man. Most fellows were too smart to shake or rattle someone like Brock for fear they’d be unable to contain the beast they might awaken, the special ops enforcer few men, or women, challenged.
    Oh sure, Brock was handsome, sexy, and probably a true rebel, too. Still, Mary knew this type well. She’d married someone like him. She and Luke had countless friends that fit Brock’s MO. They all carried themselves a certain way. They possessed cold eyes, an assassin’s demeanor, and a passion for their careers unlike any other.
    Men like Brock took what they wanted.