Free Fit to Be Tied [Marshals: 2] by Mary Calmes

you?”
    “Yeah.”
    “How did I do that?”
    “You pushed the button on your screen, I suspect.”
    “You’re such a wiseass.”
    “Yeah, well,” he conceded. “Can’t be helped, born this way.”
    We were both quiet for a long moment.
    “So,” he began, and I could hear the hesitation in his voice. “You called by accident.”
    “Yes.”
    “You happy I picked up?”
    Stupid man, stupid question. Only Ian asked when the truth was so very obvious. “Yes. Very.”
    “’Cause why?”
    I swallowed first so I wouldn’t make a desperate, urgent sound in the back of my throat. “I miss you.”
    “Oh yeah?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Like bad?”
    “You have no idea.”
    He was silent again, and it hit me how whiny I must have sounded. “Sorry. I don’t mean to come off so needy. You’ll be home as soon as you can, I know that.”
    “Miro!” he snarled.
    What was I missing?
    “I want you to miss me.”
    “Well, that’s good, then.” I chuckled.
    “And you know when I’m coming home.”
    I did? “How?”
    “When have you ever been able to fuckin’ call me when I’m deployed?”
    “Never.”
    “So what does that tell you?”
    The answer occurred to me, and it wasn’t good. “Awww, man, did you accidentally leave your phone on? Did I uncloak your dagger?”
    “You’re fuckin’ hysterical.”
    “No, I mean, since when do black ops guys get phone calls?”
    “We don’t when we’re out in the field.”
    “Which means what?”
    “Put it together, Jones.”
    It hit me after a second. “You’re somewhere you can talk?”
    The noise he made confirmed my deduction.
    “ Where ?” I asked before I thought about it, desperate to know his location.
    He coughed.
    “No, wait,” I muttered. “I’m… sorry. I’m just bein’ stupid. You’re probably on an unsecured line and so—forget I said anything.”
    He sighed, sounding exasperated. “Where are you exactly?”
    I swallowed down my heart. “I was about to get on Lakeshore.”
    “Okay,” he said simply. “Come home, then. I’m here.”
    I froze, afraid to even breathe.
    “Miro?”
    “Ian—”
    “For crying out loud, are you coming or not?”
    “You’re at home?”
    “Isn’t that what I said?”
    “Don’t be an ass.”
    “Then get yours home!” he snarled.
    I was silent a moment. “Well, that was clever,” I apprised him, smiling like an idiot. My man was home.
    “Yeah, well,” he began, his voice bottoming out. “I missed you too.”
    And since there had been actual pining on my part, I made a very unmanly noise I wasn’t proud of.
    “Hurry.”
    He had no idea how fast I could make my truck go.

 
    O PENING THE front door of the Greystone townhouse Ian and I had done some work on over the summer—we’d painted the doors and cornice a deep purple-red, trimmed the boxwood hedges, and put in window boxes—I was happy to see his duffel bag and boots lying on the floor in the middle of the living room. The dog beat me to him since I had to close and lock the door behind me. Chickie rushed across the space, whimpering and whining, and flung himself at his master, knocking him down onto the couch hard.
    “Stupid dog,” Ian said affectionately, laughing as he hugged his werewolf. If I didn’t know what I was looking at, it would have been scary. The licking looked like mauling, and honestly, if Chickie wanted, Ian was dog food.
    I hung up my jacket on one of the pegs we’d added to the entryway and put my keys and wallet on the ledge above it before toeing off my sneakers. Ian had made changes to try to get me moving faster in the morning. He timed my rituals, which included putting product in my hair and figuring out what I was going to wear, and had made improvements. One of his biggest changes had been to put things by the front door: keys on hooks, badges on chains as well, wallets on the shelf above, IDs, earpieces, and pens in the cup. The only items that didn’t live there now were phones and guns, and I had to