The longer the man and cat stared at each other, the wider the bounds of Gloria’s heart stretched. Her big, burly boyfriend, with his ruffled hair and Sunday stubble, peering into the fluffy face of a terrified, horribly behaved kitten.

Gloria was a goner.

The cat—dubbed Ivan the Terrible—ate too much cat food, threw up on the kitchen floor, showered kitty litter all over the laundry room, and was now curled up, sound asleep in the crook of his new owner’s muscled arm.

Aldo was perched on a stool, resting his good leg, and watching Gloria commandeer his kitchen. She peeled and sliced and measured while he cuddled the cat.

“You don’t have to keep him,” she reminded him, fishing a bowl out of a cabinet and moving on to level off a cup of flour.

In his kitty coma, Ivan snored against Aldo’s forearm.

Aldo chuckled softly.

“I thought that it might be nice for you to have someone—” Her gaze slid to the cat, adorably snuggled into him. “Something to talk to around the house. So you aren’t alone.”

He was watching her softly. “You talk to yourself,” Aldo observed.

She gave him a shy smile over the pie crust. “I do. I was my only company for a long time.”

He rose and crossed to her.

Aldo wrapped his free arm around her waist from behind. She leaned back into his chest and felt as content as the napping kitten.

* * *

For Gloria’s next intervention, she enlisted Mrs. Moretta’s help. Procuring the information she needed only cost her two-dozen peanut butter chip brownies and a car wash. It was worth it to get the necessary intel.

She carefully put the next steps of Operation Help Aldo Heal into motion via email and phone call.

57

“Aldo? Can you answer that for me?” Gloria called out from the kitchen. She was in the midst of a baking frenzy that smelled amazing and had banned him from the room unless he wanted to be enlisted. He only ventured in to make her a fresh cup of tea or to drag Ivan out of the bag of flour. Twice.

Her laptop had signaled an incoming video call. He didn’t feel right answering for her. “What if it’s your mother and I’m not wearing a shirt?” he yelled back.

“It’s not my mother, and you are wearing a shirt,” she reminded him. Reluctantly he clicked to answer.

“Doc Dreamy?” His flight trauma surgeon’s face filled the screen.

“How’s it going, lieutenant?” Her smile was warmer than it had been when he’d been a world away and on the brink. She’d come to visit him after surgery, and they’d talked on the phone when he’d been shipped off to Germany.

She’d saved his life. Kept him from bleeding out.