Stars Over Alaska (Wild River #4) - Jennifer Snow Page 0,130

and took a deep breath. The car turned off. The door opened. But she didn’t get out.

“Well, hell,” he mumbled, doing his best to look normal. Meaning not in the least bit intimidating. His brothers and his squad agreed that was impossible—and liked reminding him of it every chance they got. He was big, stern and careful with his words. All of which served him well when he’d been in the service. Being nice and smiley and in touch with your feelings? Not his thing. At all. He was working on that. In order to do this job, to interact with people and screen adoption applicants, he needed to be approachable. Normal. Pleasant even. And he was trying. For the dogs—it was always about the dogs. They’d served honorably and had the right to a loving forever home. And today Sierra, one of the sweetest white Labs he’d ever trained, might be meeting “her person”—if this woman was worthy of her.

From what he’d seen so far, that point was up for negotiation.

With five long strides, he was by the car door, stooping to peer inside. “Need a hand?”

She shook her head, dark curls bouncing. “No.”

The rhythmic whir of cicadas grew deafening the longer he stood there, waiting. And waiting. And sweating.

Since it was rude to stare, he tried not to. But that didn’t stop him from noticing details. He was trained for that. Cues. Subtleties. The bright peach nail polish on her toes. Her perfume. Vanilla. A silver toe ring. The jingle of her earrings and necklaces when she moved. Her rapid breathing. The tap of her fingers on her steering wheel, drawing attention to her silver bracelets. Which made the total lack of nail polish and rings on her hands stand out.

“I’m fine.” She didn’t sound fine. She sounded agitated. Very agitated. Still, he caught the hint of an accent.

“No hurry.” He shot for the whole approachable-normal-guy thing. Not well enough, apparently, because she was staring at him.

She stared up at him with big hazel eyes. No, more light green than hazel. Dark smudges beneath.

A slight crease formed between her brows as she looked him over, head to toe.

“But there is coffee inside,” he offered. “Or water. And air-conditioning.”

It took effort to lift her hands from the steering wheel, he could tell. But she did it. “Coffee would be nice,” she murmured, grabbing the massive bag on the seat beside her and climbing—hurriedly—from the car. With a jingle of jewelry and a swish of skirts, she slammed the door so hard he winced.

Charley’s ears pricked forward, glancing back and forth between them with interest.

“Is that her?” she asked, cautious.

“Who?” He understood then. “Sierra? No, ma’am. We’ll go through some paperwork first, talk a little. Then, we’ll see about getting you two together.”

She frowned.

What had she expected? She’d pull into the parking lot, he’d bring Sierra out and put her in the car, and then they’d drive away? Nope. No way. The vetting process for a nonhandler or military family was more extensive. All of which was spelled out on the website and the paperwork she’d had to fill out and send in. But, since she was clearly battling with some sort of panic attack, he figured now wasn’t the time to bring that up.

Instead, he made introductions. “This big guy is Charley. We’re a team.”

Charley faced the woman, cocked his head to one side and wagged his tail in greeting. He was much better with people than Hayden was. So much so that, for a fleeting second, the woman smiled.

“Hayden Mitchell.” He held out his hand. “You must be Dr. Vega?”

“Yes.” That started the head shaking again. And her nose crinkled. It was oddly charming. And vulnerable. “I am, but, call me Elizabeth, please.” Her handshake was firm—silky-soft against his work-toughened skin.

Feminine.

From her long dark hair to the flowing top and embroidered skirt she wore, Elizabeth Vega was undeniably feminine. Strikingly so. And those eyes. Soulful. Intense. And wounded. He might not be the most intuitive member of his family, but he knew all about internal wounds. Those could fester and cause more damage than the physical kind.

That’s why she was here.

Not to have him staring, awkwardly, at her in the parking lot. She was pretty. No, more than pretty. Only a damn fool could miss that. He wasn’t a fool. But, pretty or not, wounded or not, his job was to make sure Sierra was matched with the right person. The dog had done and seen things, been