They were on Route 395 heading north, driving past Crystal City, past the Pentagon on a road running parallel to the Potomac River. To the left Arlington National Cemetery sprawled in somber rows of white crosses with the Custis-Lee Mansion sitting high on a hill above. Dave kept to the right-hand lane and turned onto the Arlington Memorial Bridge. She looked at him expectantly when he parked on the corner of Constitution Avenue and Henry Bacon Drive. “I’m going to make a short stopover here. It’ll only take a minute.”

He pointed to a touch football game in progress on the playing field to their right. “See that group of guys? Those are the Blood-and-Guts Couch Potatoes. We play football every Sunday afternoon and basketball every Thursday night.” He got out of the truck and jogged around to open the door for her.

“You belong to something called the Blood-and-Guts Couch Potatoes?”

He took her by the hand and pulled her along. “You bet. Charter member.”

She curled her hand around his and thought it was interesting that from the very beginning, she’d never needed the usual amount of insulating body space with David Dodd. She liked being close to him. That was the problem; she liked it too much. And if the truth were known, she’d like to be even closer. A lot closer. She liked the way he held her hand, slid an arm around her shoulders, tweaked a curl. His touch was firm and confident without being grabby. It was possessive without being insulting. It was satisfying.

David Dodd’s touch filled a small corner of her that had been empty. Undoubtedly, it had something to do with the herding instinct, she decided. Animals needed physical contact. They needed to bump along together. And David Dodd was a good bumper. There was the potential for a wonderful friendship to grow between them. There was also the potential for a disastrous love affair. She shook off the latter thought.

“Are you going to play football now?” she asked.

“No. I’m going to recruit someone to help us get the mattresses out of that sad excuse for a truck and up your stairs.”

To Kate, the Potatoes seemed like an unremarkable, ragtag group of men dressed in mismatched sweats and ratty sneakers. Despite their name and their wide variety of ages, they looked like they were in okay shape. Someone pitched the ball to Dave, and he held on to it while the game was interrupted for introductions.

Dave waited a beat before slapping a cheerful smile onto his mouth. “So who’s going to help me with these mattresses?”

None of the Potatoes looked too excited.

“Okay,” Dave said, “beer and pizza.”

Lenny Newfarmer retrieved his jacket from a pile lying on the ground. “Too cold to play today anyway,” he said.