text:
AN ADMIRER WITH A SECRET . . .

Mary Higgs could be the poster girl for the buttoned-up librarian. She follows the rules. Stays 'til closing. Her kindness and dedication to her patrons are legendary. But those patrons have no idea what she's typing to the mysterious shut-in who emailed the library three months ago . . .

A year ago, Miles O'Connor was a gleaming, ab-sational star of the small screen. Then came the accident. Now he's a wounded recluse with a pizza habit and fears so unshakable that only the thought of losing Mary to an online date could lure him out of his cabin.

Soon their email rapport has turned into weekends on the couch, watching tearjerkers and driving each other insane with red-hot makeout sessions. But as their desire grows and their horizons expand, the life that brought them together might not be enough for either of them . . .
The Lovestruck Librarians series by Olivia Dade

Broken Resolutions

My Reckless Valentine

Mayday

Ready to Fall

Driven to Distraction

Hidden Hearts
Hidden Hearts

Olivia Dade

[Lyrical Shine] logo

LYRICAL SHINE

Kensington Publishing Corp.

www.kensingtonbooks.com
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

LYRICAL SHINE BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.

119 West 40th Street

New York, NY 10018

Copyright © 2017 by Olivia Dade

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

Lyrical Shine and Lyrical Shine logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

First Electronic Edition: June 2017

eISBN-13: 978-1-60183-798-1

eISBN-10: 1-60183-798-4

First Print Edition: June 2017

ISBN-13: 978-1-60183-800-1

ISBN-10: 1-60183-800-X

Printed in the United States of America
For my wonderful husband, who graciously helped me determine whether one of my sex scenes was anatomically possible. (Spoiler alert: It definitely was.)

Here's hoping that made up for all the days before deadline when I didn't shower!

Love you, sweetie.
Acknowledgments

My husband, daughter, and mother are all amazing, and I love them dearly. Even when I'm thinking through a plot problem instead of giving them my complete attention.

I couldn't have had a better advocate at Kensington/Lyrical than Martin Biro. Thank you for picking up this series and helping it shine. I also owe a big debt of gratitude to everyone else who worked on the Lovestruck Librarians books, especially James, Rebecca, Michelle, and Lauren.

Mia Sosa, my critique partner and friend, is a goddess, and I don't know how I would preserve even a few frayed edges of my sanity without her.

Ana Coqui, Emma Barry, Mia West, and Cecilia Grant all provided thoughtful, insightful feedback on this book, and I can't thank them enough. Any remaining flaws result solely from my own inability to follow great advice!

And finally, I am hugely grateful to Kati Gardner, who helped make Miles the best character he could be. I appreciate your time and the care you took with my—and his—story.
1

"Quick question, Mary," Angie called out from the workroom. "Let's say five movies were playing at Niceville Cinemas, all starring different hotties. Idris Elba, Chris Pratt, John Cho, Oscar Isaac, and Jason Momoa. Which one would appeal to you the most? And would you avoid any of them?"

Mary glanced up from the circulation desk and swiveled to face her boss. Angie, seated at their lone behind-the-scenes computer, appeared especially wide-eyed and innocent. In Mary's experience, that wasn't a good omen. "I'm not entirely sure what you mean."

"They're all so enticing. I don't think I could choose one over the others." Angie tapped her chin in thought. "Optimally, I'd want at least two of them. If Grant agreed, of course."

"Agreed to what?"

"To let me see those movies. What else would I mean?"

That didn't sound at all like Grant, a steadfast man who adored his wife's independence and spunk. "You need permission from him to see movies?"

"Not if they're on my preapproved freebie list," Angie said. "Hmm. Happy thoughts."

Over her two years at the Battlefield Library, Mary had participated in quite a few confusing conversations with her supervisor. This one, however, was more confusing than most. "I'm sorry?"

"Nothing." Straightening in her chair, Angie cleared her throat and refocused. "Anyway, which guy would you choose?"

A quick shake of her head didn't clear Mary's thoughts at all. "Any of them, I guess. As long as their films got decent reviews. Why?"

"Just curious." Angie flashed a bright smile. "Maybe we'll have a girls' night out at the movies soon."

_Okaaaaay_. Mary turned back to the computer behind the circulation desk, shaking her head again. One thing you could say about working with Angela Burrowes: It was never boring. Bewildering, frequently replete with way too much information about Angie's sex life, and intermittently terrifying, yes. But never, ever boring.

Mary had understood that fact as a part-time employee at Battlefield. But now that she was working full time, she really, _really_ got it.

And it was a good thing, given the circumstances.

She'd never shared the thought with a soul, and she never would. But sometimes the daily work of keeping the library running and well-organized could get a little...well, tedious. Far removed from how she'd pictured her life and professional future as a young woman.

Luckily, Angie—along with Mary's other coworkers, Penny and Sarah—ensured their shifts stayed interesting. And goodness knew, Mary couldn't ask for better friends.

An occasional longing for _more_ only wasted time and energy, both of which she owed to her patrons. The Nice County Public Library system was paying her to serve the community, not contemplate the inevitable compromises that came with adulthood and a stiff dose of reality.

Time to get back to work and help someone.

Before Mary could do more than click on the lone new e-mail in the library inbox, though, Angie spoke again. "If you had to decide between basketball players and horse jockeys, which would you choose?"

So much for concentrating on work.

Mary got up from the circulation desk and walked to the workroom doorway. "Angie, what in the world are you talking about?"

"It's a simple question." Angie spread her hands. "Can't I ask my friend and colleague a few things to get to know her better? Especially if we might attend a sporting event together at some point?"

"In that case, none of the above. I'm more of a hockey girl." On television, at least. She still hadn't made it to a game, since navigating crowded city streets didn't appeal to her anymore.

"So you like 'em muscular, but not burly. Tall, but not too tall." Angie jotted something down on a notepad. "Do you consider hand size very important in an athlete? Or do you care more about how he uses his hands?"

Mary was beginning to have suspicions concerning the true nature of the conversation. Grave suspicions. "What does that have to do with going to a game? Why would I care what the players looked like? And why are you talking about hand size, for heaven's sake?"

"Nothing. Forget I asked." Angie waved Mary back to the circulation desk. "Don't you have e-mails to answer?"

Forgetting her supervisor's questions was easier said than done. Especially since the library was empty, all books had been shelved, and the only new patron e-mail they'd received didn't require a lot of thought. Yes, Mr. O'Connor could check out e-books without stepping foot in the library—but only after Mary or one of her coworkers had issued him a library card. And getting a card required ID, which meant at least one in-person trip to Battlefield or another Nice County Public Library branch.

She tapped out her response quickly, making sure she thanked him for his interest and emphasized the branch's generous opening hours and easy-to-find location. One cursory check for typos, and then... _send_.

A quick loop around the library established that no patrons were hiding in a nook somewhere, and the curtained-off, adults-only erotica section—popularly known as Angie's Smut Room—was gloriously empty. So she didn't bother to lower her voice when she headed behind the circulation desk and stopped again in the doorway to the workroom.

"By hand size, are you really talking about"—she faltered for a second—"um, penises?"

Angie minimized her browser window with one swift click. "What? Of course not."

Over the past two years, Mary had found that simply looking at Angie in calm silence often produced answers that loud badgering could not. She'd tried to explain the trick to her coworkers, but no one listened. Not even Sarah, her best friend. Loud badgering was Sarah's MO, effectiveness be damned.

Angie's chair squeaked as she swiveled restlessly under Mary's gaze. After several awkward seconds, though, she brightened.

"I was thinking about hand size because I'm buying Grant a baseball glove. Which might prove tricky, since he has absolutely enormous hands." Her eyes brightened with a lascivious gleam Mary had seen far too often. "Gargantuan. And God, do I love 'em. But not everyone cares about finger length. I know small hands can get the job done too. In sports, I mean. I was wondering what you thought."

Mary stared at her supervisor for a few moments, but this time, Angie's smile remained steady. "I don't really have an opinion," Mary finally said. "Although I suppose large hands could prove useful when dealing with balls."

Angie choked a little, coughing as she jotted more notes. "Very useful, from what I hear."

"Is that everything you wanted to know?" Mary didn't want to seem impatient, but she should probably straighten up the children's area before the next wave of patrons arrived. The post-lunch lull wouldn't last forever.

"One last thing. I'm considering new greenery for our entrance. What do you think? Should I choose plants that are growers or showers?"

"I..." Her brows drew together. "I'm lost."

"I mean, would you rather buy small plants and watch them grow? Or would you rather buy ones that have already reached their full size at time of purchase?" Angie blinked, her green eyes limpid pools of virtue. "Different people have different preferences, you know. They often find one type of plant more, um, satisfying than the other."

This conversation needed to end before Mary's head exploded. "Growers, I suppose. For the sense of accomplishment. I'd enjoy watching them get big."

With a nod of satisfaction, Angie wrote a few more words. "I had a feeling you'd say that."

Before her supervisor could come up with any further bizarre questions, Mary returned to the circulation desk, opened a search-engine window, and typed "growers and showers" into the search box. Just in case Angie's inquiries weren't quite as innocent as she claimed. But before Mary could hit enter, she saw that the library had received another e-mail.

Patrons took precedence over personal concerns. Even concerns that might possibly involve growing—or showing—manbits.

Mr. O'Connor had written back, his e-mail brief and pleading.

Dear Ms. Higgs: Can't get to the library. If you issue me a card, I promise never to check out a physical item. No possibility of late/lost/damaged library property. Please.

Her mental image of Mr. O'Connor took shape. Homebound. Probably elderly. Polite. Savvy enough about technology to communicate via e-mail, so a good candidate for e-books.

Dear Mr. O'Connor: I completely understand. Since you can't make it to the library, I'd be happy to talk to the Bookmobile manager, Constance Chen, and ask her to drop by your residence. She can issue you a card during her visit. If you're comfortable giving me your address and other contact information, I'll pass it along to her.

Right after she sent the message, another new e-mail arrived, this one from the head of HR about upcoming staff training. She was halfway done reading Winona's lengthy missive when Mr. O'Connor responded.

_Please_ , he wrote again. _No visit._

Mary sat back in her chair and rubbed her face with both hands.

Well, shoot. When the library's rules conflicted with a patron's needs and she got caught in the middle, her stomach always hurt. At least a little.

_That's the price you pay for being both a rule-follower and_ _a people-pleaser_ , she told herself. _You should pick one or the other, Mary Louise._

Her first instinct was to have Angie deal with the situation. She knew her supervisor would give him a card without hesitation. Problem solved. Except that if this man ended up owing thousands of dollars to the library and she'd issued him a card against regulations, Angie's oft-tenuous employment might come to an abrupt end.

So maybe Mary should simply tell him no. But how could she deny library access to a lonely old man mired in his home? Couldn't she simply keep track of his account and check that he'd kept his promise and wasn't borrowing physical books or movies?

She reached for a sticky note, wrote his name on it, and stuck it to the side of her usual monitor at the circulation desk. There. That should be enough of a reminder. Then she wrote another e-mail:

Dear Mr. O'Connor: I'll need your address, birth date, and phone number. Obviously, I already have your e-mail address. Once I receive your additional contact information, I'll assign you a library card number. If you find yourself able to schedule a Bookmobile visit, or if you can come in person to the library, however, please do. We're supposed to check your ID. But I think we can bend the rules a bit, just this once.

Once the message had been sent and she'd greeted a few patrons, she clicked back to the search engine window she'd opened minutes before. As she'd expected, the top results for "growers and showers" did _not_ involve greenery.

Suspicions confirmed, she returned to the workroom, keeping her voice to a whisper. "Angie, if you're doing what I think you're doing, please stop."

"Oh, hi, Mary." Once again, Angie minimized her browser window in one smooth movement. "I have no idea what you mean."

"You want to find me a boyfriend, so you're attempting to figure out what sort of man I'd prefer. His race. His height. His...um, other qualifications. Since you know I'd object, you're going about it in a really roundabout and confusing way. And since you're you, many of your questions have involved"—Mary lowered her voice from a whisper to a mere thread of sound—"personal endowments."

"Personal endowments?" Angie kept her voice low, too. "That's the most genteel euphemism for penises I've ever heard."

With an effort, Mary resisted sharing the other terms she'd used for that area in the past. Such as, well, "that area." Or "privates." Or "man parts."

"I'm not looking for anyone. And if I change my mind, I can conduct the search myself." Pleased with both her restraint and her uncharacteristic assertiveness, she smiled at her boss. "But thank you for thinking of me."

Angie's eyes widened in appeal. "Come on, Mary. As far as I know, you haven't been on a second date in months. Maybe a year."

"Umm..." She shifted from foot to foot. "Two years."

"And I know you. You're not a one-night-stand sort of woman, so that means you're experiencing an epic dry spell. Under the circumstances, what could a little online dating hurt?"

An involuntary flinch drew Mary up against the doorway. "Online dating? No. No online dating. I've heard so many horror stories, Angie, I can't even tell you."

"You're a sensible woman. And I'd be happy to vet any contenders before you met them. So would all of our friends." Angie clicked to maximize a window, and a colorful, half-completed form suddenly appeared. "Besides, it would be so easy. You already have a profile."

Mary covered her face again and spoke through her fingers. "Angie. Please tell me you didn't."

"I thought you needed a little nudge." A gentle hand patted her arm. "And I was delighted to be the bearer of good nudges. Especially since you're the sweetest woman I know. You deserve an amazing man in your bed. Or an amazing woman, I suppose."

"Man," she mumbled.

"Oh, good." Angie sounded pleased. "That's what I chose for the profile."

"Again, I appreciate your thinking of me." She dropped her hands and did her best to appear stern. "But I'm not looking for someone in my bed."

"How about someone across a dinner table? Or beside you at a movie theater?"

With a sigh, Mary admitted, "That sounds nice."

"I know you're a strong, independent woman who doesn't mind being single. If you want me to delete your profile, I will." Angie met her gaze directly. "But I'd love to see you give this a shot. I promise you, I wouldn't encourage you to do anything unsafe. You're my coworker and friend, and I'd never put you in harm's way."

"I know."

And she did know. Angie had a huge heart and endless reserves of loyalty for the people she loved. Also a strong streak of recklessness, but Mary had grown to love that too. As far as Mary was concerned, her boss should serve as a model for timid women everywhere.

"And have you considered the Singles Skydiving event we saw in the paper yesterday?"

Well, maybe not a _model_ , exactly. More like inspiration, tempered by common sense. Heavily tempered, until death-defying feats were no longer involved.

"I might be willing to try online dating. But if you try to sling a backpack on me and shove me off a plane, I'll haunt you from beyond the grave." Mary raised her brows at Angie. "And you know I'm a woman of my word."

Angie snorted. "So dramatic. You've been hanging out with Sarah too much."

"Most likely." A smile spread across her face at the thought of her best friend. "Her mannerisms were bound to rub off sooner or later."

"So you'll keep this profile?" Angie's head tilted toward the computer screen.

"I'll keep _a_ profile," Mary corrected. "Not necessarily yours. Heaven only knows what you said in it."

"Not much. Just that you're lovely, intelligent, hardworking, and sweeter than any of them deserve. Also that you appreciate men in a rainbow of delicious colors."

She came closer to the monitor, curious what else her boss had entered into the form. "For pity's sake, Angie. I have never, not once in my life, described myself as 'Beyoncé's more beautiful and talented twin.' I don't look anything like her!"

If only. That sort of effortless glamour and polish had eluded Mary her entire life.

Angie shrugged. "Just trying to approximate your babeliness in a way most people would understand."

"What about the 'more talented' bit?" Mary gaped at her. "Don't you remember that program last year? The one where I sang Christmas carols?"

A small wince creased Angie's forehead. "Talent doesn't have to mean singing. Which is a good thing, in your case. I think we attracted feral cats from miles around that night."

Leaning over Angie, Mary wrestled the mouse from her boss's grip and exited the form without saving. "I'll fill one of these profiles out on my break. By myself."

Angie's lower lip poked out. "But I was enjoying myself."

" _All_ by myself."

Satisfied that the profile-in-progress had disappeared forever, Mary settled back behind the circulation desk and gazed blankly at her computer screen.

Online dating. She'd never, ever pictured herself trying to find strangers to date via the internet. But heck, it wasn't as if she were locating lots of good options in the flesh. And she couldn't help but be touched by her friend's efforts on her behalf.

Angie, who was rinsing an empty yogurt carton in the workroom sink, looked up when Mary spoke quietly. "I'm sorry I won't let you help me with my profile. But thank you for caring enough to give me the kick in the pants I needed."

"No problem." Angie tossed the carton in the recycling container, emerged from the workroom, and took a seat beside Mary. "You're a wonderful woman and a stellar employee. You deserve to get whatever your heart desires."

The praise had her blinking hard for a moment. When she could see clearly again, she offered her boss a smile and went back to work, her heart warm through and through.

"Do you want to take your break?" Angie asked. "I'm done with mine, so I can clear out the rest of the inbox."

A new e-mail from Mr. O'Connor had arrived. By this point, Mary was feeling somewhat proprietary about him. "I'll take care of the last few messages before my break. I've been e-mailing back and forth with an elderly gentleman, and he'd probably prefer to keep dealing with the same person here."

When she read his latest message, she had to blink a few times to make sure she'd understood it correctly. The personal part was brief, as she'd come to expect.

Info is below. THANK YOU.

But according to his birthdate, he was only thirty-three years old. Not elderly at all. So maybe he was agoraphobic? Or severely ill?

Poor man. Poor, poor man.

She reached into a nearby drawer, removed a card, and opened up a new library patron file with a click of her mouse. And a few minutes later, she wrote Mr. O'Connor—Miles—back:

Dear Mr. O'Connor: Your card number and password are below. I've also attached instructions for browsing and borrowing e-library books. If you have any difficulties, please feel free to e-mail me or any other staff member for help. We're happy to assist.

His next e-mail arrived minutes later, when she was in the middle of checking out a pile of children's books. She clicked on it as soon as she could, eager to read his response. Surely he'd be pleased by his new card?

_Dear Ms. Higgs: You're a goddess. Thank you_.

She beamed at the short missive. This. This was why she'd originally wanted to teach, and why she now worked at the library. The desire to help her community, instilled in her by both her parents, had driven her for as long as she could remember.

And she knew it was selfish, but every time she assisted someone, that unwelcome restlessness deep in her bones seemed to ease. At least temporarily.

_Dear Mr. O'Connor_ , she typed back. _My pleasure_. _Write anytime_. _You already know the general library address, and mine is m.higgs@nicecountypubliclibrarymd.org_. Take care.

"So, Mary..." Angie drummed her fingers against the circulation desk. "If you were picking new flooring, would you prefer a blond wood? Or something darker?"

Oh, for pity's sake.

"I agreed to try online dating. So why not just ask me what hair color I prefer in men, instead of using some belabored metaphor?" Mary met her supervisor's eyes and tried to remain firm. "And I'm filling out my own profile, remember?"

"We'll see." Angie offered her usual blinding, confident smile. "How do you feel about reddish or gingery tones in wood? Like, say, a nice cherry color?"
2

FROM: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

TO: m.higgs@nicecountypubliclibrarymd.org

Monday, January 16, 2017 9:52 a.m.

Dear Ms. Higgs:

Sorry to bug you. Can't seem to figure out what to do. Help?

FROM: m.higgs@nicecountypubliclibrarymd.org

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Monday, January 16, 2017 11:05 a.m.

Dear Mr. O'Connor:

Please don't apologize! I enjoy assisting people.

I'm so sorry to hear you're having problems. What stage in the process is giving you trouble? Browsing? Checking out? Downloading to your e-reader?

If it's any consolation, you're not alone. We always get a flood of people after the holidays who need help with their new devices.

Sincerely,

Mary Higgs

FROM: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

TO: m.higgs@nicecountypubliclibrarymd.org

Tuesday, January 17, 2017 10:07 a.m.

Dear Ms. Higgs:

Sadly, mine's not new. I've just never put books on it by myself before.

My stumbling block seems to be downloading. Later today, I'll e-mail you with more information. Right now, too frustrated to type more.

Thank you for your kindness. Please call me Miles.

FROM: m.higgs@nicecountypubliclibrarymd.org

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Wednesday, January 18, 2017 8:55 a.m.

Dear Miles:

From the description you sent last night, I think I've figured out the problem. I've attached more detailed instructions below.

If they don't help, is there anyone nearby who can help you? Or did you just move to the area?

Please feel free to call me Mary.

Sincerely,

The Librarian Formerly Known as Ms. Higgs

FROM: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

TO: m.higgs@nicecountypubliclibrarymd.org

Thursday, January 19, 2017 11:46 a.m.

Dear Mary:

Successful download achieved! Thank you.

New Nice County resident. And you're all the help I need.

Quick question: Do you have any voice dictation software recs? Have you read any reviews? I hate hunting and pecking.

FROM: m.higgs@nicecountypubliclibrarymd.org

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Thursday, January 19, 2017 4:03 p.m.

Dear Miles:

I looked up voice dictation software in our consumer magazines, and I've compiled a list of recommendations, along with their individual strengths and drawbacks, below.

They all have their flaws (apparently, if you write about putting your hand on someone's waist, you may end up touching their "waste" instead, which is something else entirely), but they're well-regarded in general. I hope they help you.

Have you enjoyed your e-books? Do you have a favorite so far?

Sincerely,

Mary

FROM: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

TO: m.higgs@nicecountypubliclibrarymd.org

Tuesday, January 24, 2017 11:46 a.m.

No favorite. Can you see which e-books I check out? If so, is there any way to make that private?

FROM: m.higgs@nicecountypubliclibrarymd.org

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Tuesday, January 24, 2017 12:01 p.m.

Dear Mr. O'Connor:

I can see your e-book checkouts, but only if I bring up your information in my computer. Which is something I would never do out of curiosity or for any other reason than professional necessity. I haven't seen your account since I created your card. I promise.

I'm afraid I can't make that information any more private than it is.

I apologize for asking something so personal. The e-books you choose to check out are your concern, and yours only.

Sincerely,

Mary Higgs

FROM: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

TO: m.higgs@nicecountypubliclibrarymd.org

Thursday, January 26, 2017 3:43 p.m.

Dear Mary:

I didn't mean to imply you were invading my privacy. You were asking a normal and thoughtful question, and I didn't know how to respond. The last couple of months have been difficult, and I'm out of practice when it comes to communicating with people.

My favorite book so far is _Between a Rock and a Hard Place_ by Aron Ralston. I guess that seems like an odd choice, but I saw the movie about him and wanted to hear the whole story. Not just about how he injured himself, but his recovery too.

I've also been eyeing books about mountain climbers. Maybe _Into Thin Air_ by Jon Krakauer. What are your thoughts?

Warmly and with apologies,

Miles

P.S. The voice dictation software is extremely helpful. As you can probably tell from the length of this message. Thank you for your recommendations.

P.P.S. So far, I haven't inadvertently handled anyone's waste. But I have sent an e-mail with the word "whore" in it instead of "horror." (I had to change it just now too. Apparently the software believes I'm very interested in whores. I hadn't thought it knew me well enough to make that judgment, but...)

FROM: m.higgs@nicecountypubliclibrarymd.org

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Thursday, January 26, 2017 6:18 p.m.

Dear Miles:

Oh, I'm so glad I didn't offend you! (Either with my reference to "waste" or by asking a personal question.)

I haven't read Ralston's book or seen the movie about him. I think I would find the latter upsetting. I'm not much for bloodshed, either in movies or in print. I'm more a fan of period dramas or anything about art, film, music, etc. Right now, I'm halfway through a biography of Matisse, and the illustrations are _gorgeous_.

I did read _Into Thin Air_ for our adult book club, though, and I highly recommend it. It's a gripping account, and if you find yourself interested in that particular incident on Everest, I can point you to other books on the topic. And it's not gory at all. (I have to admit that I still had trouble reading it. But that's not Krakauer's fault.)

Sincerely,

Mary

FROM: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

TO: m.higgs@nicecountypubliclibrarymd.org

Thursday, January 26, 2017 6:27 p.m.

What kind of trouble?

FROM: m.higgs@nicecountypubliclibrarymd.org

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Thursday, January 26, 2017 6:33 p.m.

I found it hard to read about people putting themselves in such a dangerous situation, especially since I knew it would all go terribly wrong. (Or should I say "whore"ably wrong?)

Sincerely,

Mary

FROM: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

TO: m.higgs@nicecountypubliclibrarymd.org

Thursday, January 26, 2017 6:40 p.m.

Ah. I see what you mean.

How do you feel about people who put themselves in a position to be hurt by doing something stupid or dangerous? Do you still have sympathy for them? Or do they get what they deserve?

FROM: m.higgs@nicecountypubliclibrarymd.org

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Thursday, January 26, 2017 6:55 p.m.

Do I have sympathy for risk-takers who get injured? Well, of course. Taking risks doesn't make someone a bad person, and it doesn't ameliorate their suffering if they get hurt. If they kept repeating the same mistakes that led to their injury, and those mistakes were avoidable, well...maybe I'd get frustrated after a while. But I'm not a big believer in trying to change people. As far as I'm concerned, the only thing I can change is how I relate to them.

Why do you ask?

Oh, goodness. I'm at a friend's wedding, and I should probably turn off my phone now.

Sincerely,

Mary

FROM: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

TO: m.higgs@nicecountypubliclibrarymd.org

Thursday, January 26, 2017 7:00 p.m.

Did you have to buy a bridesmaid's dress? Over the years, I've heard more than a few complaints about those. Although I can't imagine you looking anything less than lovely, no matter what you wore.

FROM: m.higgs@nicecountypubliclibrarymd.org

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Thursday, January 26, 2017 7:08 p.m.

The bride is my coworker and a close friend—but she didn't have bridesmaids. So no bridesmaid's dress! Hallelujah!

P.S. That was a very nice compliment, but you have no idea how I look. I might shatter mirrors with a single glance.

FROM: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

TO: m.higgs@nicecountypubliclibrarymd.org

Thursday, January 26, 2017 7:31 p.m.

The local newspaper took a picture of you last year. You were doing scientific experiments with kids during the library's summer reading club kick-off event. It's still on their website. Lovely, as I said.

Okay, that seems a little creepy, and I apologize. But to be fair, you know my address, phone number, birthday, etc., and I know next to nothing about you. It seemed equitable to let Google even things up a little bit.

FROM: m.higgs@nicecountypubliclibrarymd.org

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Thursday, January 26, 2017 7:49 p.m.

Miles, I'm going to switch from my work account to my personal e-mail address. I hope that's okay.

FROM: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Thursday, January 26, 2017 7:54 p.m.

Oh, goodness, I'd forgotten about that picture. Please keep in mind that I'm not photogenic. Like, at all.

More importantly: You Googled me? No fair! There are a million Miles O'Connors!

Are you a soccer player? Or an ice hockey defenseman? (No, wait, that's Myles-with-a-y.) Or a TV star?

FROM: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

TO: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

Thursday, January 26, 2017 7:58 p.m.

Not at the moment. Sorry. I'm just plain old Miles O'Connor.

Shouldn't you be catching bouquets and charming smitten groomsmen? Or taking lots of selfies, since you're totally photogenic, despite your protests?

FROM: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Thursday, January 26, 2017 8:08 p.m.

Sadly, my life is not a romantic comedy. My current record: Zero bouquets caught. Zero smitten groomsmen. Zero selfies.

It was a lovely wedding, though.

FROM: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

TO: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

Thursday, January 26, 2017 8:13 p.m.

The groomsmen are fools.

FROM: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Thursday, January 26, 2017 8:20 p.m.

Thank you. That's sweet.

FROM: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

TO: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

Thursday, January 26, 2017 8:22 p.m.

That's the truth.

FROM: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Thursday, January 26, 2017 8:25 p.m.

Are you sure we couldn't schedule a Bookmobile stop for you? I could try to tag along. I'd really love to meet you.

Or maybe you could make it to the library? Just for a brief visit?

FROM: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

TO: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

Friday, January 27, 2017 4:13 a.m.

I can't. I'm sorry.

FROM: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Friday, January 27, 2017 6:11 a.m.

No need to be sorry. You told me from the beginning that you couldn't. If you could, I imagine we wouldn't be writing right now.

FROM: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

TO: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

Friday, January 27, 2017 6:17 a.m.

And that would be tragic. From the very start, a message from you brightened my entire day.

Not because it came from you in particular, of course. I just love talking about e-book downloads and lending periods. Nothing like a good chat concerning MOBI files to cheer a man up, I always say.

FROM: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Friday, January 27, 2017 6:20 a.m.

Haha. Same here. Nothing makes the work day move more quickly than troubleshooting devices I can't actually see using apps that differ depending on the specific device used.

Wait, did I say quickly? I meant painfully.

(Kidding. I don't mind. I really do like helping people.)

FROM: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

TO: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

Friday, January 27, 2017 6:25 a.m.

I know, Mary. Believe me, I know.

1 MESSAGE SAVED IN DRAFTS FOLDER

FROM: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

TO: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

Tuesday, February 14, 2017 8:58 a.m.

We've been writing for weeks now. I wish I could

You should know how much I

Fuck, I'm a coward.

FROM: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

TO: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

Tuesday, February 14, 2017 9:46 a.m.

Happy Valentine's Day, Mary.

1 MESSAGE SAVED IN DRAFTS FOLDER

FROM: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Tuesday, February 14, 2017 9:55 a.m.

Are you alone today? I've never asked if you have a girlfriend. Or even a wife, I suppose. You seem so...isolated, I guess.

Maybe I could come visit you at some point? Would that be okay? We could

Would you like to

Don't be stupid, Mary Louise. The man probably has three wives and twenty-seven children scattered across North America.

FROM: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Tuesday, February 14, 2017 10:00 a.m.

Happy Valentine's Day, Miles.

FROM: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

TO: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

Friday, March 24, 2017 11:22 a.m.

It occurs to me that we've been writing each other every day for a couple of months, and I still don't know whether you grew up in Nice County. Have you ever lived anywhere else? And do you like it here?

FROM: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Friday, March 24, 2017 12:13 p.m.

I grew up here in Nice County. My dad is the chief of police, and my mom is vice president of a regional bank, so we were always very committed to the community. No moving around. On the first day I worked here at the library, I already knew the names of most of the people who walked through the doors. That didn't make me any less nervous, of course.

I hope you won't take this the wrong way. I love my hometown. I love the orchards and the farmers markets and the mountains. I love my coworkers, who've become my closest friends. I love (most of) our patrons. But I wish we had more museums and cultural opportunities. I also wish more families like mine lived here. Nice County itself is somewhat diverse, but the Battlefield area...not so much.

Anyway, that's why I ended up going to UCLA for college. I stayed there for a few years after I graduated, but it didn't work out. I moved back home about two years ago.

What about you? Where did you live before here?

FROM: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

TO: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

Friday, March 24, 2017 1:49 p.m.

I moved from LA to Nice County in December. What a coincidence, huh?

Anyway, back to you. I can't imagine how it felt to grow up in such a small, homogeneous community. If you don't mind telling me, what was that like for you?

And are you dating anyone? Engaged? Married?

FROM: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Friday, March 24, 2017 2:04 p.m.

Single. For the moment.

Can you tell me more about what you did back in California? Do you have family out there? Why did you move?

FROM: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

TO: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

Friday, March 24, 2017 5:08 p.m.

I did carpentry. But my old job didn't work for me anymore, so I left. I'm trying to figure out my next step here in Nice County.

I have one brother who still lives in LA.

Mary? Did I offend you with my question about your childhood?

FROM: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Saturday, March 25, 2017 9:17 a.m.

You didn't offend me. Don't worry. But I'm not sure if I'm comfortable sharing such personal information about my life with a man who doesn't really tell me much about himself in return.

FROM: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

TO: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

Saturday, March 25, 2017 10:01 a.m.

What do you want me to tell you?

FROM: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Saturday, March 25, 2017 10:15 a.m.

Please forgive my nosiness. But...we've been writing every day for months. Sometimes dozens of times a day. And I don't even know if you're married or have a girlfriend. I don't know if you have children somewhere. I don't know what you do on a daily basis. I don't know why you left California or why you chose to come here or how long you're going to stay. And I don't know why we can't meet in person.

Again, I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry.

FROM: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

TO: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

Sunday, March 26, 2017 3:03 a.m.

I'm not married, and I don't have a girlfriend. No kids.

I had some health issues late last year, and I'm still reckoning with how to move forward. I'm basically throwing myself a pity party, and I don't feel good about inviting anyone else to the celebration. Not even you, the most patient woman I've ever (virtually) met.

I don't plan on going anywhere. As far as I'm concerned, Nice County is my final destination. I can't go back to my old job, and my brother and I aren't close anymore.

If you feel like you should stop writing me, I'll understand. If you're willing to keep corresponding, though, I promise not to push for personal information I'm not willing to give in return.

FROM: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Sunday, March 26, 2017 4:45 a.m.

I'm so sorry you've had health issues. If there's ever anything I can do to help, please let me know. I mean it.

I want to keep corresponding. I might not be able to write quite as much as I have in the past, though. Angie convinced me to sign up for an online dating service a while ago, and I've been swamped by matches and messages. Sorting through all the information can be overwhelming. It takes a ton of time, much more than I ever anticipated.

So far, from what I can tell, online dating is like that old saying: The odds are good, but the goods are odd.

Here's hoping I find someone normal soon!

FROM: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

TO: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

Sunday, March 26, 2017 8:51 a.m.

If my pity party ever ended, would you still be interested in meeting me?

FROM: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Sunday, March 26, 2017 8:55 a.m.

_Of course_ I'd love to meet you.

But in the meantime, what movies have you been streaming? Any award winners?

* * *

Miles stared at the e-mail on his monitor, his heart beating so loudly it echoed in his ears. There it was, his answer. The signal telling him he needed to take his life back in hand. An ironic phrase, considering.

He'd run out of time. If he wanted to find out whether he and Mary could become more than virtual friends, it would have to be soon. Just because the guys at the wedding had been too stupid to realize what they'd overlooked, and just because her online matches to this point had apparently been weirdos, his luck couldn't hold out forever.

That he knew. With the sort of intimate bitterness borne of endless weeks spent in pain. That pain was diminishing day by day, but the damage was done. Permanent.

For three months, he'd been recuperating from an injury that should never have occurred. Would never have occurred, had either his luck held out or his common sense intervened. In a matter of seconds, his charmed life had vanished forever, fully due to his own stupidity and bad judgment. He'd accepted that fact. Almost embraced it, actually, the same way he'd embraced his isolation from everyone he cared about.

Even from his brother. _Especially_ from his brother.

Then Mary had appeared in his life like an unexpected gift two months ago, and he hadn't known whether to weep in gratitude or expect another blow.

So he'd remained hidden away like a coward. But that wasn't an option anymore, was it? Not if he wanted Mary—or at least the possibility of her—more than he wanted his isolation.

He looked down at himself. In recent weeks, his old tees had become too tight. Same with his custom-fitted, well-worn jeans. So he'd taken to cranking up the heat and walking around shirtless, covered only by a pair of forgiving boxers. If anyone came to the door—and by _anyone_ , he meant Eugene, the pizza delivery guy—Miles put on a robe.

Three months' worth of unkempt beard made him nearly unrecognizable, which wasn't an accident. His shaggy hair flopped over his eyes. And he had the lowering suspicion that he didn't smell too good at the moment.

A quick sniff near his right armpit proved that theory correct.

In his present state, he certainly didn't deserve the attention of a woman like Mary. She was not only kind and smart and funny, but quietly beautiful too. No doubt she also bathed a lot more regularly than he currently did.

He'd bookmarked that photo of her helping kids at the library, but he didn't need to click on the link. He'd memorized every feature already. Her warm brown skin and wide, high forehead. Her big, dark eyes. The way the bridge of her nose crinkled when she grinned. The black hair swept neatly back into either a ponytail or a twist of some sort. From that single picture, he couldn't tell which.

He'd spent weeks and weeks wondering. He wanted to know.

She wore a small locket, which fell an inch or so above the modest neckline of her blouse. Discreet earrings. Clothes that fit well and flattered her curvy, fit frame.

She was lovely. So lovely, and he wanted to see her in the flesh more than he wanted just about anything in his life right now.

And he would see her. Eventually. It would simply take a little preparation. More exercise, less takeout, and significantly better grooming. By the time he met Mary, he was determined to bear some semblance to the man he'd been before the accident. Whether that would prove enough to ignite real-life chemistry and win her over, he didn't know.

But he had to try.
3

FROM: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

TO: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

Friday, April 21, 2017 11:58 a.m.

You must be nearing your lunch break. I hope you whipped any troublesome patrons into shape this morning. How'd your performance evaluation with Angie go?

I ran on my treadmill after breakfast. Since then, I've been watching documentaries about a few places I've visited over the years. Addis Ababa, the Andes Mountains, etc. Gorgeous scenery.

You're off this weekend, right? Do you have big plans?

FROM: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Friday, April 21, 2017 12:15 p.m.

The evaluation was just fine. Angie's happy with me and what I do for the library. Next time, though, maybe I need to talk to her about finding ways to make my work a little more...I don't know. Challenging? Varied?

But overall, it's a great job, and I love her and my coworkers. I don't mean to be whiny. Sorry about that.

Instead of complaining, I should be figuring out different ways to help our patrons. Maybe I should propose that class I told you about the other day? The one where I'd help them with their résumés and job applications?

Or maybe I should focus less on work and more on my family. My brothers and their wives always need a babysitter, and my mom and dad could use some help with their yard. There's plenty to keep me busy, both in and out of the library.

Sorry to ramble. Let me get back to what you wrote.

Sounds like you had a great morning! If you'd recommend any of those movies you've been watching, I'd love the names/links. I wish I were braver about traveling to new places. But for now, reading and seeing films about them will have to suffice.

And yes, for once, I actually DO have big plans! I finally met a guy who seems normal and nice on that online dating site. Just in time, too, since I was planning to shut down my account and acquire a dozen cats (transitioning directly from "bachelorette" to "cat lady" with lightning speed!) right around the time we were matched.

Anyway, I'm having dinner with him after work tonight. He lives near D.C., so we're meeting in the middle. Wish me luck.

How about you? What are your weekend plans?

FROM: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Friday, April 21, 2017 3:22 p.m.

Miles? Are you okay? I usually hear from you before now.

FROM: marylouisehiggs@xyzmail.com

TO: milesandmilesoconnor@xyzmail.com

Friday, April 21, 2017 4:41 p.m.

Miles?

* * *

The doorbell rang, its cheerful peal incongruous in the dingy cabin.

"Oh, shit." Miles gave up trying to button his still-snug jeans and contemplated the front door. He didn't really have time for a tête-à-tête with Eugene, the local pizza delivery guy. Especially given Eugene's usual lack of urgency and propensity for lengthy lectures.

But hell, the man worried about him. And how could Miles fault Eugene for that?

Besides, the bad timing was his own damn fault. Exhausted by his morning run on the treadmill, he'd been too busy napping to see Mary's e-mail about her date that night. At least until almost three o'clock in the afternoon.

In a flash, he'd realized his grace period had officially ended, and he would be meeting her for the first time under decidedly inauspicious circumstances. If he planned to get to the Battlefield Library before Mary left for the day, he didn't have time to see a barber. He didn't have time to buy new, better-fitting clothing. He didn't have time to rediscover his long-neglected abs.

In fact, pretty much all he had time to do was attack his beard with a pair of clippers and take a shower. Luckily, his recent improvements in the stall had helped decrease the time he needed to spend in there. But in the rush of getting un-smelly, trying to squeeze some damn toothpaste on to his frayed toothbrush, and choosing a tee that de-emphasized his diminishing but still-noticeable gut, he'd completely forgotten the pizza he'd preordered that morning via text message.

He'd meant it as a treat for himself, an inexpensive celebration of his decreasing pain and an acknowledgment that all his fitness and nutrition efforts had paid dividends. He could actually zip his jeans now, even if the button still eluded him. When he moved his shoulders, the stitches in his tees didn't pop anymore. And were his cheekbones finally starting to reemerge? At least if he sucked in his cheeks like a starving fish?

Dammit. He shouldn't have ordered the pizza.

By the time the bell rang again, Miles was already unlocking and doing his best to open the damn door. Someone hadn't framed the opening correctly, and the stupid thing would only move if he gave it a violent tug. Shoddy workmanship, plain and simple.

Four months ago, he'd have fixed it before lunch his first day in residence. Now he simply did his best to ignore the issue. Along with the squeaky floors—he suspected the builders hadn't used thick-enough plywood for the subfloor—the water damage at the southwest corner of the building, and the ghastly popcorn ceilings.

Finally, he managed to wrench the door open. Eugene regarded him on the other side of the ripped screen with doleful patience, his cheeks still pink from the heat of the kitchen. "I don't want to give this to you."

Miles had a solution for that. "Then don't. I'm kind of in a hur—"

"But you ordered it, so here it is. Extra-large Meatsapalooza, extra cheese and sauce. Or as I call it, Diabetes in a Greasy Cardboard Box." Eugene flung open the screen door and shoved the pizza box into Miles's stomach, pushing until Miles was forced to take it. "I thought you weren't ordering pizzas anymore."

Miles deposited the box on to the rickety kitchen table and reached for his wallet. "I'm not. Usually. Give me a minute to grab your tip, and then I need to get going."

"I don't want a tip. The thought of making money from your eventual stroke sickens me." Eugene shoved his sweat-stained baseball cap further back on his head. "Didn't you read the pamphlets I gave you last time?"

Yes, he had. He'd also checked for the millionth time whether his rural corner of Nice County featured any other pizza places that delivered. And for the millionth time, he'd confirmed that Eugene's Eunique Pizzas was his one-and-only option.

Since business wasn't exactly booming, Eugene served as his own delivery driver. He also served as a nutritional counselor, whether his customers liked it or not. Miles assumed not, since—once again—Eugene's business wasn't really raking in the dough.

Dough. Ha.

"Have you considered that maybe your informational pamphlets about the health dangers of pizza have driven away potential customers?" Miles couldn't help asking.

Eugene's bleary eyes narrowed. "I don't lecture everyone. Just people who order pizza every single night for weeks on end."

"I don't do that anymore." Miles scowled at the short, round man in his doorway. "I haven't for almost four weeks now."

"Hmph. My point stands." Eugene folded his arms across his chest, unimpressed. "You need to stop riding the pizza train, son."

When the man produced an egg in a Tupperware container, Miles stifled a groan. "I don't have time for my regularly scheduled 'This Is Your Brain on Pizza' demonstration right now, dude. I have things to do."

Eugene brightened. "I noticed. First time I've seen you in real clothing in months. You should throw out that ratty-ass robe, O'Connor. It's enabling your bad life choices."

"We'll see." He did _not_ have time for this discussion. "Anyway, I need to get going. Excuse me."

Eugene's eyes widened as Miles essentially gave him a one-armed shove out the door and followed him on to the front porch. "You're leaving the house? Really?"

"Really." Miles yanked the door shut and locked it.

Before going any further, he did a final check. A pat of his back right pocket verified that his wallet was present and accounted for. His front right pocket contained the car keys. If he kept his tee untucked, it would cover his unbuttoned jeans. Good enough.

Or it _would_ be good enough, if he could actually leave his own damn driveway. "You're blocking my car. Move it or lose it, Eugene."

Eugene lifted his hands in surrender, and the first smile he'd ever offered Miles dawned on his face. It was surprisingly sweet. "Consider me gone. Good luck, son."

Miles slid into the driver's seat and let Eugene close the door for him with only a little pang of bitterness. Moments later, Eugene's compact car was raising a dust cloud along the gravel driveway, and Miles was poised to reenter the world again.

The key turned easily in the ignition, and the familiar rumble of the engine soothed him. He let the noise of the gravel under the wheels drown out his thoughts as he drove at top speed toward the library—and toward answers to the questions he'd been asking himself for months.

Will she recognize me? And what will she do when she notices my arm?

* * *

The GPS led Miles inexorably toward the sturdy-looking building on the hill, its bricks a warm red in the late afternoon sunlight. A wall of sparkling windows offered the Battlefield Library a stunning view of the nearby mountains. Installing those windows had probably taken a crapload of time.

Appropriately enough, the library abutted a grassy Civil War battlefield on one side. On the other, shrieking children were running and climbing all over an expansive playground.

That playground was pure chaos, but the library itself looked so...tidy. Neat and orderly, like Mary in the lone picture he had of her. He, on the other hand, was about to burst through the doors like an ill-kempt, wounded Sasquatch.

_Don't think about it_ , he told himself. _Just do it. The library closes in ten minutes, and you don't have any time to waste. As it is, you just have to hope that Mary didn't leave early for her date._

He doubted it, though. Over the course of three months and countless messages, he'd grown to understand her. Most nights, she stayed late at the library to research different topics for her patrons or help Angie prepare the building for the next day's programs. She didn't skip out on even a minute of work for anything less than an emergency.

He knew—he _knew_ —Mary was still there.

Vague nausea tightened his belly as he locked his car and moved toward the library's entrance. A quick scan of the building from outside the glass doors didn't reveal anyone at the circulation desk. From Mary's e-mails about her daily routine, he figured she and Angie were probably reminding any remaining patrons of the closing time and battening down the hatches for the night.

A bell tinkled when he walked inside the library, and he jumped a bit. So much for a quiet, discreet entrance.

A blond woman called out a greeting from the workroom behind the desk, her back turned to him. "Hello! We're closing in about ten minutes, but you're welcome to stay until then. And if you need any help, let us know."

Angie, unless he was mistaken. Mary's boss and friend.

Grateful for a few last moments of anonymity, he called back, "Thank you."

He scanned the library, desperate to see Mary but so terrified by the prospect that his knees were shaking.

He couldn't find her anywhere.

Eye-catching posters for upcoming events covered the walls, and a small children's area to the left boasted kid-sized bookshelves and lots of big, fluffy stuffed animals. For some reason, Mary had mentioned avoiding those creatures at all costs, but she'd refused to elaborate as to why. Now, maybe he'd have the chance to ask her in person. God help him.

Near the wall of windows, a massive stone fireplace held court, surrounded by comfortable-looking couches. From her e-mails, he knew the library had a few small meeting rooms too, as well as a computer area. But mostly, he just saw stacks. Rows and rows of bookshelves towering above his head, each stuffed to capacity with neatly shelved paperbacks and hardcovers.

So much to look at, all impressive. But no Mary.

Had she already left for the day? Had Angie convinced her to get an early start on the drive to her date? Goddammit, had he waited too long?

A small, curtained doorway lurked on the back wall, which seemed odd. Maybe she was in there? He strode toward the space, noticing a small sign by the doorway as he got closer. Adult Reading Room, it read. You must be 18 or older to enter. Space monitored by security cameras _._

His brows rose. _Whoa_. _What kind of library_ is _this, anyway?_

Then he heard a woman's quiet voice. Calm and low. Sweet. It was drifting from behind the back of a study carrel tucked in a corner.

Mary.

"I had no idea they even held weddings there," she said. "What are your plans for the ceremony?"

The man sounded pleased. "The cap'n will do the leg-shacklin' on the fo'c's'le. The reception be on the main deck, and we'll serve grog and hardtack to landlubbers and buccaneers alike."

Miles glanced around, but no one was lingering nearby to offer an explanation for the conversation in progress. As far as he knew, Nice County remained landlocked and untouched by piratical depredations upon the high seas. But hell, he'd only lived in Maryland for a few months. Maybe he'd missed something?

Her voice became even warmer. "That sounds wonderful, Clarence. And it looks like you found plenty of books about weddings. Is there anything I can do to help before we close tonight? I could keep these books set aside for you until tomorrow, if you'd rather not take such a huge stack home."

"Ye be an angel, lassie. Me and me beautiful bride, Swashbucklin' Sharon, want to plan our tablescapes, but we're a-fearing we'll empty our trunks of pirate treasure. So here I sailed, hoping yon library would have DIY wedding guides. And ye did, so thank ye kindly. Please bury these in the sand until me next visit tomorrow morning."

"I'll mark the spot with an X," she promised. "And please tell Sharon I'd be happy to assist you two with any projects you find in the books. I'm not an expert crafter, so I can't promise perfection, but I'd love to help make your wedding beautiful."

"I'll let her know. You're a kind woman, Miss Mary. This old salt be grateful." His chair scraped as he rose to his feet. Apparently, he was a tall buccaneer, because he towered over the carrel at full height.

Now that he could be seen, panic reclaimed every nerve in Miles's body, jangling his thoughts and rushing in his ears. He moved a few feet away, backing up until he was half-hidden by another work station. With a quick adjustment, he made sure his left side faced the wall. And then he watched and waited as he tried his damnedest not to sweat.

Clarence and Mary emerged from behind the carrel. But before they could see him lurking a few feet away, Angie strode from the front of the library over to Clarence, a huge grin on her face.

She gathered the skinny man close and gave him a tight squeeze. "I hear congratulations are in order. And Grant says you'll be holding your ceremony at Buccaneer Times, which seems the perfect spot."

_Buccaneer Times? Well, that explains the pirate-ship wedding_.

"Aye. I suppose Grant also informed ye that he and Sam are two of me groomsmen."

"He did. Also that you're scheduling him for a puffy-shirt-and-breeches fitting. As far as I'm concerned, the tighter the better." Angie pulled back and beamed at him. "I'm so happy for you, honey."

Clarence's crooked smile revealed braces. "I owe it all to ye, Angie. After perusin' the volumes in yon smut room, I knew how to treat me pirate lady right. In the captain's quarters, if ye know what I mean."

For just a moment, Mary buried her face in her hands. When she dropped them again, her smile had become a little pained.

"I'll consider that the room's greatest legacy." Angie tilted her head. "In fact, why don't I set up a pirate erotica display for the month of your wedding? That way, you'll have lots of books to bring on your honeymoon for inspiration."

Mary's hands rose, but she appeared to will them downward before they met her face a second time.

"Well, shiver me timbers. You're a sailor's delight. And if me bride finds the books"—Clarence waggled his brows—"enlightening, ye'll be a sailor's lady's delight too."

Angie's grin widened. "I certainly hope so. I'll start working on the bibliography this week."

"Thank ye again, Angie. Well, I'd best be goin'." Clarence gathered up his pirate hat and the eye patch he'd apparently removed while reading. "Time to put some shrimp on the barbie. Or maybe fry up fish and chips in the galley."

Barbie? Fish and chips? Had they suddenly swerved from Pirate Land and come ashore in Australia?

Just then, Angie turned her head and caught Miles's eye. "Sounds good. Before you head out, though, I think you may have a visitor."

She nodded toward Miles, and Mary looked his way for the first time.

He didn't see any judgment in her wide-set dark eyes. No disgust at his uneven beard and overlong hair. No disdain at his ill-fitting clothes.

No recognition, either. Just curiosity and the natural warmth he'd anticipated.

"I don't know the landlubber." Clarence gave him a crisp salute and ambled toward the library door. "So I'm guessing he's yours, Miss Mary."

Oh, God. He needed to talk to her. Introduce himself. See how she'd react to the knowledge that he—of all people—was the man she'd been e-mailing for months.

"May I help you, sir?" She offered him a welcoming smile, her professional demeanor impeccable and seemingly sincere.

"I..." He faltered, unsure he could actually go through with it.

With a friendly nod his way, Angie headed toward the front of the library, a huge ring of keys jingling in her hand. Mary's attention, however, didn't stray from him. She watched and waited with a patience he envied.

He was coming out of his skin. No more. No more delaying the inevitable.

"I'm Miles," he told her, his voice strangled and rough. "I came to see you."

Her mouth fell open. In shock? In distress?

Then Mary's face lit with the biggest, most piercingly beautiful smile he'd ever seen. The bridge of her nose crinkled as she beamed at him, and so did the corners of her eyes.

"Oh, my heavens!" She rushed toward him. "Miles! You're here!"

He held out his right hand, and she came to a halt a couple of feet away from him.

Her smile faded. "Miles?"

Slowly, inch by inch, he made himself move away from the wall. "I came to see you," he repeated. "And I came so you could see me."

Then he turned so she could look at his left side. The too-tight jeans. The T-shirt that clung with unfortunate faithfulness to his transformed body.

And most of all, his sleeve.

Correction: his mostly empty sleeve. Pinned shut above his elbow so no one—not even Miles himself—could see the ragged remnants of his left arm.

Her quiet gasp seemed to echo in his ears.

"Here I am." He forced a tight smile. "Well, most of me, anyway."
4

_Oh, thank goodness_ , Mary thought.

She couldn't wait any longer. Ignoring the tension that tightened every inch of Miles's frame, she rushed forward and threw her arms around him. He inhaled sharply at the first touch of her body against his, an inadvertent echo of the sound she'd just made. Then he went very still. So still she could barely detect his breathing.

But he felt solid against her. Strong and vital in a way that forced her to blink back tears.

As she pressed against him, he stiffened even more. Then, slowly, he relaxed and allowed himself to be held. After a few seconds, his arm curved around her, and she squeezed close to his broad chest and rested her head on his shoulder.

He smelled good. Like expensive soap, citrusy and spicy. Which seemed odd for a man whose choppy beard, overgrown hair, and ill-fitting clothes proclaimed him less than interested in appearances and pricy trappings.

"I'm so glad you're here," she whispered, and his arm tightened around her.

For months, she'd been convinced Miles was either wasting away from some sort of degenerative illness, cancer-stricken, or so severely hurt he couldn't leave his house.

Yes, she understood that an amputated arm wasn't a minor injury. And yes, she ached for him and the pain he must have suffered. Heck, the pain he might still be suffering. But here he stood in front of her, vibrant and full of leashed energy. Alive and healthy, albeit missing most of his left arm. She'd take that over the alternatives she'd envisioned any day.

"Is this...okay?" His cheek rested on her head, and his deep voice rumbled through her.

That involuntary gasp had hurt him. She wished she could snatch it back. Swallow it before she saw him react to it, fresh misery clouding his hazel eyes. Too late now, though. All she could do was show him, by word and deed, that the anxiety vibrating through every inch of his frame had no cause. That she accepted and cared about him exactly as he was.

"Of course," she said.

With one last squeeze, she stepped away and studied him from head to toe. From this moment forward, she didn't want him to feel like he needed to hide anything from her. So she scanned him carefully, taking her time.

His shoulders shifted and bunched. "I probably don't look like you expected."

"You don't." She smiled. "You look better."

He snorted. "Right."

"Trust me, Miles. I'm not lying."

And she wasn't. She'd pictured him gaunt and sallow, not simply pale and disheveled and sporting a tiny belly. His solidity, the reassurance that he wasn't fading away on the other end of their computer connection, comforted her. And she could feel the muscles beneath his flesh, testimony to his basic fitness.

Even that soft tummy charmed her. He was clearly a man who ate, as well as exercised, and she was a woman who particularly appreciated that.

"I do." He gave a little nod. "I do trust you."

"Good," she said.

His hair, thick and unruly, contained a million shades of brown, russet, and gold. Before his injury, she suspected he'd spent a lot of time in the sun. The faint lines across his forehead also indicated sun exposure, or maybe that he was a man who'd experienced a lot of pain. Probably both, given his injury. And the crinkles at the corners of those beautiful hazel eyes showed that he'd once laughed and laughed often.

He was a handsome man. The word Angie would probably use? _Delicious_.

For once, Mary agreed with Angie. To _delicious_ , though, she'd add _vaguely familiar_.

Had they already met? Maybe out in California?

"I feel like I've seen you somewhere before." She pursed her lips and thought back to UCLA and her three years of teaching in the Los Angeles school system. "Any chance I ran into you while we both lived on the west coast?"

"Just one of those faces." He shrugged and looked around, clearly eager to shift her scrutiny away from him and his injury. "Want to take me on a tour of the library?"

"Sure." She waved an arm toward the wall of windows. "As you can see, we're situated near the mountains, so—"

"Excuse me." Angie had come up behind them. "If I'm not mistaken, you're the patron Mary let have a card without any ID, correct?"

Mary winced. "You knew that?"

"Of course I knew. You wrote to Mr. O'Connor using our library e-mail account." Angie's shoulders lifted. "Keeping track of our correspondence is part of my job."

"It's all my fault," Miles interjected, his brows drawn together. "She wouldn't have broken the rules if I hadn't begged her."

Angie grinned. "Don't worry, Lancelot. You don't need to ride to her defense. I agreed completely with her decision, which is why I never talked to her about it. The reason I'm bringing it up now is because you're actually here. And I assume you have ID with you?"

"Oh." His brow cleared. "Yeah."

The two women watched as he worked his wallet out of the pocket of his delightfully tight jeans. He slid the driver's license from its slot without any problem, but fumbled a bit as he tried to offer the card to Angie without handing her the whole wallet.

His face turned ruddy. "Sorry."

"No need to apologize." Angie took his license. "Let me go lock the front door, and then I'll issue you a physical library card. It'll only take ten minutes or so."

Mary angled a sharp look at Angie's retreating back. Ten minutes? Since Miles's information was already entered into the library system, all the Battlefield manager had to do was confirm the data using his license. The verification should require thirty seconds, max.

Maybe she didn't want to leave Mary alone with Miles. Or maybe she wanted to do a little online research about him before departing?

Knowing Angie, probably both. Heck, she was probably in the midst of running a background check on the man already.

No matter. Angie wasn't Mary's concern right now. Miles was.

"Back to the tour." Mary laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and urged him toward the front of the library. "Let's start with the children's area and make a loop."

He strode ahead, his battered sneakers squeaking with each step. "I glanced in there earlier. Didn't you say something about avoiding the stuffed animals? What was that about?"

They stopped in the doorway to the brightly lit room, and he turned to her with his brows raised in inquiry. Her cheeks heated, and she looked down at the nubby gray carpet beneath their feet. She wanted to answer his question, of course. But how to do so politely?

"A coworker got snowed in here a while ago. She made a bed of the stuffed animals." Mary cleared her throat. "Which she shared with the man who's now her husband."

"Ah." Miles's little cough sounded a lot like a chuckle. "I see."

"Fortunately, no one else did. But we all heard about it, to my sincere regret." When he didn't seem shocked, she ventured a bit further. "If you ever visit the Downtown Niceville Library, I'd give you similar advice concerning their stuffed animal collection."

When she glanced up at him, his brows had risen even higher. "The same person?"

"Nope," Angie called out cheerfully. "That was totally me. With my boss. During the workday."

He blinked down at Mary. "Is this some sort of initiation rite for employees?"

"I hope not." She had to laugh. "Because otherwise, my employment isn't official, and it never will be. I'm not that kind of librarian. And I'm pretty sure Sarah has never christened a pile of stuffed creatures either."

Angie emitted an odd sound at the circulation desk, something between a gasp and a screech. Her gaze flicked from the computer monitor to Miles, and then back again.

He shifted uncomfortably. "Is everything okay?"

"Just something in my throat." Angie grabbed her water bottle from beneath the desk and took a swig. "It's gone now. Anyway, I'm all done checking your information. Let me give you your license back, as well as your brand-new card."

When she held them out, he shoved both into his front jeans pocket. "Thanks."

"I have some work to do in the community room." She caught Mary's eye as she flicked off most of the library's lights. "Just let me know when you're ready to head out, and I'll go home then."

A lie. Mary knew for a fact that Grant was waiting for Angie at their house. But she also knew Angie would never leave one of her employees alone in their dark, closed library with a virtual stranger. Even one Mary herself trusted.

She nodded her thanks. "Okay."

As she and Miles wandered around the library, he listened intently as she pointed out the public computers, the self-checkout machines, the various book collections, and all the other things that filled her workdays. He lingered a long time at the DVD and Blu-ray section, studying the titles with unusual focus. But the only time he interrupted her was when they passed by the curtained entrance to the Adult Reading Room.

His face split into a tentative smile for the first time, and Mary felt like a hibernating bear stumbling from her cave into a bright spring day: dazzled, disoriented, and bathed in unexpected warmth. Awakened somehow, even though that didn't make a lick of sense.

_Staring is rude_ , she reminded herself. _Pay attention to the conversation_.

"Oh, no, you don't," he said. "You were about to walk right past this place without saying a word about it, weren't you?"

Her shoulders rose and fell in a sigh. "I was certainly going to try."

"Spill it, Ms. Higgs."

She gazed at the cathedral ceiling of the library, praying for strength. "Angie tends to read a lot of books with explicit content. Explicit in an, um, intimate sense."

"You mean she reads erotica," he clarified helpfully.

"Yes. Erotica." She shifted from foot to foot. "And she made a display in the back of the adult fiction section with those books. At least until she received complaints."

Some sort of activity appeared to be happening beneath his beard. As far as she could tell, he was doing his best not to laugh. "Complaints about her erotica display. In the public library. Who'd have guessed?"

"Our patrons loved the display, actually. Admin, though..." She winced. "Not so much. Anyway, long story short, Angie eventually agreed not to create any more displays like that. Instead, the library's assistant director let Angie take a former study room and transform it into a home for Nice County Public Library's only official erotica collection."

She waved an arm at the curtained entryway. "And voilà! Our Adult Reading Room was born. Although most people call it 'Angie's Smut Room.'"

He bounced on his heels, his eyes lit with anticipation. "This I have to see."

"Feel free. Take your time." She waited, but he didn't move. "I thought you wanted to look inside?"

His smile took on an unexpectedly wicked edge. "I do. With you as my tour guide."

That grin crackled with charisma and a man's confidence in his own appeal. And for a fleeting moment, the shell of self-consciousness and discomfort surrounding Miles seemed to crumble into dust. The man he must have been before his injury stood before her. The man he must have been when he was living in California.

For the first time since she'd met Miles in person, Mary wondered what exactly she'd invited into her library and her life. He no longer existed solely as words on a computer screen. He wasn't simply another patron in need. He was more than just a friend. And he wasn't, perhaps, the tame creature she'd imagined him to be.

The man standing by her side radiated heat and energy. Visceral appeal.

It made her nervous, but she couldn't say she didn't like it.

She opened the curtain and ushered him inside before letting the fabric swing closed behind her. And suddenly they were standing inches apart in a small, dimly lit room, surrounded by books about lovers and pleasure. Some of which she'd read at night, shocked and curious, peeking through her fingers as her legs tangled in the bedcovers.

Miles gazed down at her, his mouth parted. Her own lips felt parched, and without thinking, she licked them. His eyes followed the movement. She could have sworn she saw him shudder, just a little bit.

Time slowed, dripping like honey as she waited to see what would happen.

He reached for her, unhurried and deliberate, and she swayed toward him. But the strong fingers that had seemed destined to cup her cheek or smooth her hair veered at the last moment, instead touching the locket at her throat.

"I saw this." His voice had turned low and hoarse. "In the picture. Hanging perfectly between your collarbones."

She swallowed. "I wear it every day."

His fingertip lingered over the locket, stroking a feather-light path along her engraved initials. Goose bumps rose on her skin and shivered through her bones.

His eyes stayed on hers, steady and bright, watching her reaction. And then his hand dropped, and he stepped further into the room. Further away from her.

"This is quite a place." He turned toward the shelves on the back wall, so she couldn't see his face anymore. "I'm surprised Angie didn't consider the red brocade wallpaper overkill."

Mary's eyelids had grown heavy, and she blinked them all the way open. "She said she was going for something between a chic boudoir and a whoreh—" She stopped. "I mean, a house of ill-repute."

He laughed briefly. "In that case, mission accomplished."

She touched the cover of a new hardback, which Angie had recently purchased in honor of Penny's brother Sam. He played amateur hockey at the local ice rink, and Angie had no doubt thought he'd be delighted by the library's acquisition of _Get It Deep and Work the D: An Erotic Hockey Anthology_.

"Have you read that one?"

Miles's voice startled her, and she immediately jerked away from the book. Embarrassment heated her cheeks as she folded her traitorous hands together.

"No," she said a bit too loudly. "I haven't."

He'd turned back to her, but was leaning against the bookshelves across the room. His right hand fiddled with the hem of his tee. "Not a fan of hockey?"

"I am, actually. Just not as much a fan of"—she gestured toward the shelves—"all this."

"So you haven't looked at _any_ of them?" He slanted her a dubious, amused look. "Not even as a dutiful employee, committed to knowing and recommending the books in her library?"

Her lips curved. "Well, maybe one or two."

"Which ones?"

Angie's loud voice came from outside the curtain. "Everything okay in there?"

_Oh, thank goodness_. Mary opened the barrier to answer her boss. "We're fine. Just finishing our tour of the building."

Angie gave her a surreptitious thumbs-up and a questioning look. When Mary nodded in response, Angie poked her head into the doorway.

"Hello again, Miles," she said with a cheerful wave. "Mary, I'm about to head out for the evening. Were you two almost finished, or should I leave without you?"

"I think we're just about done. I should be getting home and making dinner soon, I suppose." Mary stepped out of the Adult Reading Room, relief and disappointment twined tight in her belly. "Unless you wanted to stay longer, Miles?"

Before he could answer, though, Angie spoke again. "I think you might be forgetting something, honey."

Mary and Miles both stared at her.

"Dinner-wise?" Angie hinted.

Realization widened Mary's eyes. "Oh! Oh, crap. What time is it?"

A frantic glance revealed that she'd stayed almost an hour past closing time. Which meant the earliest she could reach the restaurant for her date was...late. Way too late.

"Excuse me." She ran for her purse and grabbed her phone.

_I'm_ so sorry, she wrote in a quick e-mail to her date. _I promise, I'm usually on time for dates. But I stayed late at work tonight and am running about an hour behind. Again, I sincerely apologize. Are you still interested in meeting for dinner?_

The response arrived almost instantaneously. _An hour? That's not just late. That says you don't care about me or my time at all. Forget it. And please lose my e-mail address._

_I understand_ , she typed. _Again, I'm sorry._

She sent the message and removed his e-mail address from her contacts list. _Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit._ She was never late. Ever.

Except tonight. Tonight, when Miles had arrived out of the blue, despite saying he could never visit the library. Only hours after she'd informed him of her upcoming date and her need to leave immediately after work.

Now that she considered the matter, it all seemed more than coincidental. Especially since Miles was standing a few feet away from her looking a tad pleased with himself, rather than confused or regretful.

Her arms akimbo, she glared at him. "Tell me, Miles Barrett O'Connor. Did you come here tonight specifically to disrupt my date?"

"This seems like an excellent time to return to the community room." Angie was halfway across the building in a shot. "Call me if you need me, honey!"

Once her boss had disappeared, Mary turned back to Miles. "Well?"

He gazed somewhere over her left shoulder. "I spent the last month preparing to come see you. But it's possible I finally chose tonight to visit because of your e-mail this afternoon."

Torn between pleasure—he'd been planning to see her for the past month?—and irritation, she stared at him. "He canceled our date and told me to lose his e-mail address. I hurt and inconvenienced an innocent man, and I feel terrible about it."

"Of course you do. That's who you are." His broad chest expanded as he inhaled deeply. "I apologize, Mary. I just thought..." He met her eyes. "I thought this might be my last chance to see if what we had online could translate to real life. Because if your date really was a nice, normal guy, he'd snap you up in a heartbeat. So ready or not, I had to come."

Her tapping foot slowed to a halt. "It's hard to stay angry when you say something like that."

"I hope so. But I swear, I'm not lying to you." His hazel eyes were serious. "Please forgive me."

"It's fine." She sighed. "Although he was the lone normal guy I'd met on that dating site."

"What were the others like?"

"Most of them were pretty horrifying." She pursed her lips and thought back. "Please excuse me for being crass, but one of them compared his man parts to a can of Pringles and invited me to 'get down there and pop.' He informed me that once I started, I wouldn't be able to stop. I had my doubts. Since I chose not to start, though, I guess I'll never know for sure."

Miles began laughing, which she spoke over.

"Another man's introductory message asked me to kick him in the testicles. I declined."

"Oh, my God, Mary," Miles wheezed.

"One recent match told me my choice of clothing in the profile picture made me look old and dowdy." She watched as Miles's grin turned into a scowl. "Angie tells me that sort of comment is called 'negging.' Then he told me he couldn't see a relationship with someone like me. He added, however, that he'd be happy to, um, have relations with me."

Miles's right hand formed a fist. "Jackass."

"That's not even the whole story. When I declined his offer, he called me a conceited witch and said no other man would want me."

"I assume he actually called you a word that rhymes with witch."

"Correct."

He glowered at the phone in her hand as if it had personally offended him. "No wonder you almost shut down your account and acquired a crapload of cats. I'm only surprised you didn't join a nunnery or decide to lop off all men's private parts."

She couldn't lie. If she hadn't been Protestant, she'd have been sorely tempted. By the nunnery, not the penis-lopping.

"Well, I'm obviously not going out with the guy from D.C. tonight," she said. "So how do you feel about dinner at Sallie's Diner? It's casual, and the food's good."

He froze. "You want me to eat out at a restaurant? With you?"

"Yeah." She smiled. "I don't know you well enough to invite you to my house or visit yours. So a restaurant is really our only dinner option."

His eyes fell to the floor. "I'm sorry. I just—I can't. Not tonight."

"Tomorrow? Or maybe this weekend?"

His answer was barely audible. "I don't think so."

She understood. She really did. Maybe after meeting her face-to-face, his spark of interest had gone cold. Or maybe he was uncomfortable with public exposure because of his injury. But in either case, she'd stood someone up for the first time in her life because of him. Her stomach was growling. And she'd stayed at work an extra hour for a man who was giving out decidedly mixed signals.

He was happy to disrupt her dinner with another man, but didn't want to have dinner with her himself? Fine. Good. Tomorrow, she'd reconcile those two facts in her head and regard them with her usual equanimity. But for now, her patience had reached its limit.

"Okay. No problem," she said. "Then let's tell Angie we're ready to go. I'm hungry."

As they locked up the building and walked out to the parking lot, she could tell Miles wanted to say something. But whatever it was, the words didn't emerge from his mouth, even when Angie climbed in her car and gave them some privacy. And Mary couldn't exactly force him to speak his mind.

"Good night." She'd never learned how to hold on to anger or irritation for long. So when they reached his car, she couldn't resist. She offered him a friendly hug, relieved once more that he stood in front of her strong and healthy. "Nice to meet in person at long last."

But because her annoyance had only faded, not disappeared entirely—not yet—she pulled away quickly. And also vowed to herself that she'd let him take the initiative in any future physical contact.

"Yeah." His mouth was tight, his lips downturned as they parted. "I'm glad we finally met."

When he drove off, she walked over to Angie's car. "Thank you for waiting for me. I appreciate it."

"Is everything all right?" Her boss's green eyes were searching. Concerned.

"Yes." Mary offered a halfhearted smile. "But let's talk about it tomorrow. It's getting late, and I need to eat something."

Angie's forehead creased. "Why don't you come over for dinner?"

As much as Mary loved Angie and Grant, she didn't want to chat. "I think I need a quiet night at home. But thank you." In an attempt to distract her friend, she added, "Tomorrow morning, let's talk about a program idea I have. I'd like to do more to assist job-hunting patrons."

With obvious reluctance, her boss nodded. "Okay. See you then."

The two women said their good-byes and went their separate ways, Angie to her loving boyfriend and Mary to her silent home.

Well, not entirely silent. The television kept her company as she ate her Cobb salad and wrote out her proposal for the new library program. She had a long chat with her mother about which plants in her parents' garden required weeding and fertilizer, and when she could come over to do the work. And in two other brief phone calls, she and her brothers agreed on good dates for her to babysit their kids.

The flurry of plans and conversations was almost enough to push aside her troubled thoughts. Almost. Her uncertainty about Miles and her niggling dissatisfaction at work refused to leave her brain entirely, no matter how firmly she tried to banish them.

Forgetting about Miles was a lost cause, she finally decided. Especially given the new voice mail on her phone, which she discovered right after taking a hot shower late that night.

At some point while Mary had been talking to him in the library, Angie had apparently called. For what reason, Mary had no idea.

The message itself only confused her further.

"Hey, honey. Just a tip from me to you," Angie said, her voice so low Mary had to turn up the volume on her cell. "Press Miles about his life in California. Trust me."

Mary played that recording a few times as she sat in front of her computer and watched her inbox, searching for a message from Miles that never came.

_Press Miles about his life in California_. _Press Miles about his life in California_.

Her bright computer screen hurting her eyes in the dark, she waited. Waited and wondered.
5

When Miles's mind wandered to Mary for the thousandth time, he shifted without thinking. And the toothbrush he'd wedged between his knees fell to the cracked tile floor. Again.

This time, he didn't bother to replace it. Getting a fresh one would require opening yet another new plastic package, and he didn't have the energy to get the scissors. Instead, he simply put the toothpaste on the counter, picked up the toothbrush, and rinsed it in the sink.

The house cleaner he'd finally hired had scrubbed everything with bleach yesterday, including the floors. Good enough.

Back between his knees the toothbrush went, braced there while he gave the toothpaste tube a one-handed squeeze. And after almost four minutes, he was able to finish brushing his teeth, a process that had previously taken a mere two minutes.

At four months post-amputation, he guessed this was it. This was his new life, where simple tasks would require at least twice as much time as they once had.

Twice as much time, of course, was a vast improvement from a couple of months ago. God only knew how long he'd taken to get showered and presentable when he'd first moved to Nice County. Too long. So long that he'd stopped bothering most of the time, preferring his own stench to the bitter taste of humiliation and frustration.

And yes, he'd known how to fix many of the issues that made showering difficult. For God's sake, he was a carpenter, not to mention a fan of Google. But even simple fixes entailed trips to local hardware and home-goods stores, when he didn't want to be seen. Worst of all, they obliged him to find out for sure just how much—or how little—he could do with his one remaining hand and his carpentry skills. He'd employed his tools without thought for so long, as a natural extension of his own body. Now he had no idea how to use them effectively.

More than a decade of experience, wiped away in a single stupid moment.

So after checking the dwindling total in his savings account, a month ago he'd swallowed the bitterest pill of his life and hired a handywoman.

Him. Hiring someone else to do basic home repair. He'd laughed after that first phone call to Jessie, laughed until his mirth turned into something else entirely.

But now the wall of his shower featured push dispensers for shampoo and conditioner, like the ones in public restrooms. Near those, Jessie had placed a bath pillow covered with a scrub cloth, so he could put soap on the cloth and wash his right arm. She'd used suction cups for that, which meant he could have easily done it himself. He hadn't, though.

A non-slip mat for the bottom of the shower helped ensure his lack of balance wouldn't betray him at an inopportune, naked, and soapy moment. In the kitchen, she'd installed an electric can opener and a separate jar opener under the counter. And while she'd been working on those and other modifications to his cabin, he'd gone online to purchase additional fixes. A cutting board with suction feet, a lip, and spikes to hold foods in place for slicing or spreading. A mezzaluna for chopping. A fork-knife combo utensil called a knork. A hook to assist with buttons. A crapload of zippered plastic bags, since unsealing the ones that had to be pressed closed didn't work without using his teeth, which wasn't exactly sanitary. Lockable elastic laces for his sneakers.

None of those items, of course, helped with opening a new box of cereal. Or changing a trash bag. Or peeling bananas. And while they improved his daily life to a startling extent, none of them replaced his fucking arm.

Not that it felt gone. Not really. When he lifted his left shoulder, the ease of the movement, the lack of weight, always startled him, because he could still sense his phantom limb. Parts of it, anyway. Its size seemed to decrease month by month, the features becoming less defined. But it remained. And it remained immovable, no matter how small it got or how hard he tried to control it.

At least the horrendous agony—the sense his missing arm was being crushed, bound tighter and tighter over the course of the day—had disappeared almost entirely, changing from phantom pain into phantom sensation. Other than occasional jolts of electricity in his fingers, brief but horrible, he was rarely bothered by it anymore.

Another month and he'd be off his gabapentin entirely. The dosage he took to treat his phantom pain was already a small fraction of what he'd taken immediately after the amputation. And the amputation site itself didn't hurt at all. No need for painkillers.

Which was handy, since painkillers and driving didn't mix. And he needed to run a few errands this morning, ready or not.

After his new morning routine—one that lasted almost an hour, rather than the thirty minutes he preferred—he headed out to his car. His cell phone rang just as he unlocked the door. A single glance at the display, though, told him he didn't want to talk to the caller. So for the millionth time, he rejected the call and let his brother leave a message. A message he'd never bother to access, like the messages of so many other people.

Talking to his old friends and coworkers would only remind him of everything he'd lost. And talking to Teddy would only rekindle Miles's helpless fury. Fury at his brother for betraying him, and fury at himself for his own naïve idiocy.

He shook off the memories as he opened the door. _Better to leave the past in the past._

Once inside the car, he took his time setting the temperature and the music, since adjustments during the drive would mean taking his hand off the wheel.

The drive itself he found soothing. The woods and fields rolled by on his left and right, punctuated by an occasional stream, farmhouse, or silo. The cows and horses regarded him with mild curiosity or dismissed him entirely, and he relaxed into a task he could still complete easily and anonymously. Only when he got closer to the center of town did his fist start to clench on the steering wheel.

People. So many people everywhere. And surely some of them had seen him before.

_Mary_ , he reminded himself. _Remember her eyes when you said you wouldn't go to dinner with her?_

On a Monday morning, Battlefield's small salon didn't have any customers waiting, and the shop owner herself was the only stylist available. He supposed that was about as private as he could expect.

Luanne smacked her gum as she herded him to her black padded chair. "You find gold in them thar hills?"

He huffed out a breath, amused despite himself. "If I hit the motherlode, I'll be sure to share a few nuggets with you."

"Much obliged." She ran her hands through his hair, evaluating it with narrowed eyes. "You ready for me to turn you from a prospector to a fine prospect for local ladies?"

"I only care about one local lady," he said truthfully.

Luanne's nest of teased, unnaturally red hair didn't move as she tilted her head and studied his chin. "She like that scraggly beard? Because right now, it looks like a blind, rabid chipmunk attacked it. Or maybe you just can't use clippers worth a damn."

He cracked his first smile of the day. "The latter, ma'am. I'm desperately in need of your assistance. Could I get a haircut and a shave?"

"Oooh. Ma'am." Her blue eyes twinkled as she grinned back at him. "Aren't you a charming young man? And I suspect you're quite a looker beneath all that mangled fur."

"I guess we'll find out." He bent his head forward so she could snap the black nylon cape around his neck.

"Your hair feels clean, so no need to shampoo. Save you a little money." She paused with her finger poised on the trigger of a spray bottle. "Did you have a cave-in at your mine, or should I be thanking you for your service?"

Her face had sagged into tired creases, and her gaze strayed toward her mirror. On the top right edge, he now saw, she'd taped a faded picture of a young man in uniform.

He winced, as he always did at the question. Or, more frequently, the statement. People assumed he'd lost his arm on a battlefield, rather than a construction site, and they thanked him without asking for confirmation. The shame of it burned every time.

And this time, given his guess as to her circumstances, hurt even more.

"I'm sorry." He looked down at his lap. "No service. Just stupidity."

"Ah." She sprayed his hair with water. "In that case, I'll save my thanks for when you give me my tip. Chunks of gold ore, right?"

A weak smile was all he could manage. "Right."

Thirty minutes later, he looked like a new man from the neck up. Or more precisely, like the man he'd been until a few short months ago. Only a little less cheekbone-y.

"Huh." Luanne smacked her gum for the thousandth time, accepting his substantial, non-gold tip with a pleased nod. "You're a handsome devil. Just as I suspected."

"Thank you, ma'am." His face felt naked, and his smooth-shaven cheeks offered no protection against the chilly spring air when he stepped through the propped-open front door.

"Come back soon." Luanne poked her head out the door. "Good luck finding gold. And keep me updated on the pursuit of your local lady."

The pun was sitting right there, waiting to be used. How could he resist? "I'll be sure to let you know if it _pans out_."

Luanne thought for a moment. "Oh, I get it. Very funny."

"Thank you." He preened a little bit.

"Just a hint from me to you: When you're wooing your lady, I'd rely more on your looks than your puns, son." With one final wink, she disappeared back inside her shop.

That had gone better than expected. But next he was heading to the big discount store where all the locals shopped, and he was doing it without the cloak of a beard or overlong hair. Luckily, though, he'd thought ahead. After parking in the sprawling lot outside the store, he pulled on his baseball cap and cocked it low over his eyes.

As he browsed through the endless racks and searched for clothing he could comfortably wear until he shed the rest of his pizza pounds, the weight of dozens of eyes seemed to drag at him, slowing him down even as he wanted to hurry.

He'd moved long past trusting his own perceptions, though. Maybe they were looking at a stranger in town. Maybe they were looking at a one-armed man. Maybe they were looking at a guy they recognized. Or maybe they weren't looking at him at all, and he was simply paranoid.

Either way, he intended to be gone soon. One size up from his normal shirts and pants ought to do the job, so he threw a few basics into his cart without thinking too hard. Then he went into the dressing room, removed a small pair of scissors from his back pocket—brought along for just this purpose—and clipped the price tags from a green tee and a pair of dark jeans. His back pocket also contained a couple of small pins, which he used to close the shirt's left sleeve. Finally, he set the tags aside and got dressed in his new clothes, rolling up the old and shoving the bundle in his cart.

At checkout, he wordlessly handed the loose tags to the woman behind the register.

"Couldn't wait, huh?" She smiled, and although he wanted to get out of that store without any more human interaction, his mother—God rest her soul—hadn't raised him to be rude. So he smiled back with a nod, and she blinked.

Her eyes flicked from his face to his arm and back. As she rang up his purchases and dumped his clothes into the bag, her brow remained furrowed.

Finally, as he accepted his receipt, she spoke again. "Are you—"

"Thanks." He snatched the bag and fled, his cart still parked in the checkout aisle. His mother might have raised him not to be rude, but desperate times called for desperate impoliteness.

Only one stop left. The hardest stop of them all.

He'd spent the past month getting his life back together for a shot at wooing Mary. Stopped eating pizza. Exercised. Fixed and cleaned his cabin. Ventured just now into the public eye without the protection of his beard and floppy hair.

But he'd sabotaged her first date with another man. He had one arm and zero visible ab muscles. He'd avoided sharing any real personal information for months. He'd refused her dinner invitation. Twice. And then he'd gone silent online all weekend as he'd finally thought through the full implications of dating her and what it would mean for his anonymity.

He had no idea whether she'd forgive any of those things, much less all of them.

Well, okay, he suspected she would, because she was Mary, the kindest of souls. Even if she did forgive him, though, he still had no clue whether her invitations had stemmed from mere politeness or actual romantic interest. Or whether she had any desire to repeat her invitation and receive a different response.

He planned to get answers to those questions within the next few minutes.

This time, he didn't arrive right before Battlefield's closing time, but during Mary's usual lunchtime. Sure enough, when he walked into the building, he saw Angie and a petite brunette sitting behind the circulation desk. No Mary in sight. From her e-mails, he figured she'd settled in the quiet of the community room, eating the lunch she packed every day as she researched something for a patron.

Angie greeted him with a blinding smile as he came up to the desk, while the brunette—Penny, he suspected, given Mary's description in her e-mails—regarded him thoughtfully.

"Hello again," Angie said. "Here to check out books? Or to check out a librarian?"

Penny closed her eyes and sighed. "Subtle, Burrowes. Really subtle."

"No use beating around the bush." Angie's grin widened. "So to speak. Anyway, are you here to see Mary, Mr. O'Connor?"

"Please call me Miles." He shifted his weight. "If you don't mind, I'd like to talk to her while she has lunch."

"Oh, I don't mind. But she might." The Battlefield manager waved a hand toward the community room door. "Go ahead and find out. The door's unlocked, even though the lights are off."

Penny's brow furrowed, but she didn't object.

With a nod to both ladies, he went into the entryway and quietly opened the door to the community room. The shades had been drawn, but enough light filtered through the thin fabric to illuminate the space. The generously sized room boasted a kitchenette, a lectern, and two long tables surrounded by chairs, making it a perfect venue for large meetings and programs.

Mary sat in one of those chairs, her gaze on a huge book—a dictionary?—as she ate chunks of melon with a fork. Absorbed in her reading, she didn't look up when he entered the room. He shut the door with slightly more force than he'd used to open it, enough to announce his arrival.

Although her brown eyes widened in surprise, she didn't seem bothered by his presence. She also, however, didn't throw herself into his arms—well, arm—the same way she'd done Friday evening. Instead, she simply closed the book, which he could now see was a medical encyclopedia. Then she offered him a sweet smile. The same smile he'd seen her offer to the kids in that newspaper photo.

"Hi, Miles." She remained seated. "Good to see you again."

It was a greeting she could have given anyone. He couldn't stand it, not after months of daily correspondence and dreams.

As soon as he opened his mouth, he couldn't stop the avalanche of words. "I wanted to have dinner with you on Friday, but I was afraid to go out in public. My clothing didn't fit. My beard looked like I'd trimmed it with a weed whacker. My hair had reached the 'Cousin It' stage. I was basically Tom Hanks in _Castaway_ , only with fewer limbs and excuses."

She straightened in her chair. "I didn't care about any of that. I _don't_ care about any of that. Although I will say that you look especially handsome today. Green suits you."

"Thank you." With those words, all his efforts during the morning had become completely worthwhile. But he wasn't finished telling her what she needed to know. So after another deep breath, he kept going. "I spent the past month trying to lose my pizza-baby weight so I'd look presentable for you, but at the last minute, when you asked me to eat dinner out in public, I panicked. Not just because of my clothing or my beard or my hair, but because of this."

With a jerk, he extended his right arm. "I have one hand, Mary. One wrist. One forearm. One elbow. Maybe I shouldn't care that people stare, but I do. And it's even worse when they deliberately look the other way, like my missing arm is so alarming or distasteful that a single glance might turn them to stone, or like amputation is a disease they might catch via eye contact."

Her face crumpled in sympathy, but he didn't stop.

"I don't want to go out with you as your friend. Or not simply as your friend. I want to be your date. But I don't know whether I'm at the point where I can expose myself to a restaurant full of strangers and still relax enough to be myself and show you who I am."

She inclined her head. "I understand."

"So please come to my house for dinner tonight. I got the cabin cleaned, so I won't embarrass myself too much by showing you where I live." Striding up to her table, he stretched out his hand. And when she took it in hers, he exhaled for what felt like the first time in months. "Please say you'll give me a chance."

Her hand squeezed his, and she bit her lip for a second before responding. "Miles, I'm sorry, but...no."

He almost doubled over from the pain of the blow.

"I appreciate everything you've just told me, and I'm honored you trust me enough to share your feelings so honestly." She shook her head, looking pained. "But I still don't know enough about you to go to your house. No matter how much I want to date you, you're a man who refuses to discuss anything but the last four months of your life. I have to use some common sense. So if you can't go out in public and I won't see you in private, I think we're at an impasse."

His head dropped to his chest. He considered his life in California irrelevant at this point. Over and done with, unless someone recognized him—and that wasn't an issue he'd wanted to address with Mary yet. Not considering all the other baggage he was already bringing to any relationship with her.

But if she needed to know before they could proceed as a couple, fine.

He tugged firmly at her hand. "Come with me."

Her lips parted in surprise, but she rose to her feet. "Okay."

Her fingers still intertwined with his, he led her to the door of the community room and waited for her to open it.

"No free hand," he commented wryly, and she gave a little giggle.

He steered her past the circulation desk and two very attentive librarians, all the way across the library to the DVD and Blu-ray section. He knew what he'd find. The other day, during Mary's tour of the premises, she'd shown him this section, and he'd studied its contents.

The movies didn't interest him. Neither did the educational videos.

They reached the TV series shelf, and he scanned the titles—arranged alphabetically by the name of the show—to see where the Ns started.

And then, finally, there it was.

He let go of her hand so he could pluck the Blu-ray from the shelf. Her brows drawn, she accepted the case without question and turned it over in her grasp.

"Miles? What does this have to do with—" She peered at the cover and gasped. Much louder than when she'd seen his missing arm, he couldn't help but note. "Are you telling me—but there's no way. How in the world could you possibly be—"

He offered her a shallow bow. "Miles O'Connor. The Naked Carpenter, at your service."
6

When Mary's mouth dropped open, Miles scrambled to explain. "I know that sounds like I made adult films with punny titles about hammering, but I swear, it was a family-friendly show. Mostly, I just built stuff all over the world and talked about how each area's local conditions influenced architecture and building methods."

He glanced down at the cover of the Blu-ray and winced. "I also promise I wasn't actually nude during the filming. By 'naked,' they meant I built things without using complicated tools or expensive supplies." His hesitation lasted a couple of awkward seconds. "Also that I tended to take my shirt off when I got overheated. And I kinda got overheated a lot."

Honestly, the precise premise of _The Naked Carpenter_ and how it came by its name were the least of her concerns right now. She knew a show on the Home and Away Network wouldn't involve anything too lurid.

No, she definitely had bigger questions. "You're a TV star? Then what in the world are you doing here in Nice County?"

No wonder he looked so familiar. Her friend Constance had been lusting after him for years. _Years_. There was even a _poster_ of the darn man on board the Bookmobile, but somehow Mary had still managed not to recognize him.

Sure, when she'd first seen him, he'd grown out his hair, acquired a beard, and gained a few pounds. But how had she missed the resemblance? Especially after his shave and haircut? Had she really been so focused on his missing arm? Or had she simply not wanted to notice what was right in front of her?

He shrugged. "After this"—his eyes flicked to his left side—"I was looking for a place to recover in peace and quiet. My camerawoman said she had a cousin who owned a secluded cabin in rural Maryland, one he wanted to rent out. That sounded good enough to me."

A woman sitting at the public computers looked over at them. When her gaze hit Miles, she seemed to freeze, and her eyes got big.

"Let's keep talking in the community room." Mary nudged him in that direction, and he preceded her. As soon as the door shut behind them, she told him, "With that beard gone and your hair cut, you're not going to be able to stay anonymous for much longer, if that's what you were hoping. I think one of the patrons just recognized you."

"Crap." He closed his eyes and tilted his head back with a sigh. "I forgot to put my cap back on. I was in too much of a hurry to see you again."

She pursed her lips, fighting the warmth created by his words. "I take it you want to remain incognito."

"Preferably, yeah. I'd rather be Miles O'Connor, random weirdo in a cabin, than Miles O'Connor, former TV star fallen from grace. Literally. But I knew what might happen when I got cleaned up for you. You're worth it, Mary."

More warmth. Holy cow, if he kept complimenting her, she was going to become a pile of goo right there on the gray carpet. And she suspected the library's cleaning woman would not appreciate a pool of melted Mary.

"I don't know what to say." She kept peering at the Blu-ray in her hand, hoping she'd see another man on the cover. But no, there he was each time. Tanned and muscular, a two-by-four slung casually across his shoulder as he grinned for the camera.

Jeez, she'd never have found the nerve to e-mail _that_ man even once, much less hundreds of times. And now that she knew his background, she knew one thing for sure: No way were they going on a date, despite all her foolish daydreams.

His head tilted, he studied her. "Why do I get the sense my former job upsets you more than my missing arm does?"

"I wouldn't say I'm upset, exactly." She pressed her hands together. "I mean, good for you. I've never watched the show, but my friend Constance raves about it all the time. Congratulations on your success, Miles. Sincerely."

"But?" Those hazel eyes burned right through her.

"I don't date casually. If I know there's no future, I'm not interested. So..." The smile seemed to crack her cheeks, but she forced it anyway. "We can stay friends, of course. But I think anything more than that is out of the question."

"I don't understand."

She could see he didn't. The lines across his forehead—the ones caused by the sun, which now made total sense—deepened with his confusion.

"This is a temporary stop for you. You're going back to California at some point. And I'm not willing to start something that has an end date in sight."

The carpet swam before her eyes. Sure, she wanted to get to know him better. More than any other man she could remember. But she knew herself too well to embark on a voyage that would leave her shipwrecked and alone in the end. Some women could take that chance. Risk-taking, though, wasn't in her DNA. Not anymore.

And California, of all places? No way. No way, no how.

His hand gently clasped her upper arm, and she looked up to see him close. So close she could smell that expensive fragrance, which also made sense for the first time.

"I'm not going anywhere. Nice County is my final destination. I promise." His hazel eyes pleaded with her. Begged her to trust his sincerity. "I just need to figure out my next step. Whatever it is, though, it'll happen right here."

He thought he was telling the truth. She didn't question that. But she also didn't believe him. "I know you don't intend to leave, but you will. When your old life comes calling and wants you back."

In a seemingly unconscious gesture, his thumb stroked her arm through her blouse. She held her breath at the intimacy of the light contact, a shiver building at the base of her spine. But after a moment, the calloused pad of his finger snagged on the fabric, and the spell was broken.

His brow furrowed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to damage your shirt."

With one step back, he took himself out of easy touching distance. She exhaled slowly, disappointment mingling with her relief.

"You didn't. See?" She smoothed her fingers over the fabric. "It's fine."

He straightened his shoulders, and his jaw firmed with determination.

"Whether you believe me or not, I'm not going anywhere, so that's not an issue. You wanted to find out more about me and my past. There it is." He nodded to the Blu-ray in her hand. "Pretty much anything you need to know about me, you can find either on my show or online. And feel free to give your friends my contact information. You can all run background checks, look at old paparazzi pics, whatever. When it comes to you, my life is an open book. Just say you'll agree to a real date at my house tonight."

She shouldn't. She knew a man at a crossroads in his life when she saw one. Maybe he'd choose the same path she did, and maybe he wouldn't. A woman averse to risks wouldn't take the gamble.

Maybe, though, she was standing at a crossroads too. And maybe she wasn't quite as unwilling to take her chances as she'd previously thought.

"Okay." Her arm still felt warm where he'd touched it, the skin tingling and sensitive. "I'll do it. It's a date."

His clean-shaven smile revealed adorable creases in his cheeks. "Really?"

"Really." She shook her head, trying to look stern despite her answering grin. "Now please let me get back to work. I can't stay late tonight, Miles. I have plans, you know."

* * *

When Mary parked on Miles's gravel driveway that evening, Eugene pulled up beside her in his pizza delivery car. She couldn't say she was surprised. Although she didn't doubt that Miles would eventually be able to pull together a gourmet dinner for two—assuming he knew how to cook, anyway—she figured he probably wasn't ready for a challenge of that magnitude yet.

She cracked her door. "Hi, Eugene. How are you doing?"

"Mary?" He squinted at her. "Is that you?"

"In the flesh." She smiled. "Are you here with my dinner?"

His squint transformed into a narrow-eyed look of determination. "Not if I have anything to say about it."

Mary blinked as he stomped toward the front porch. _What in the world does that mean?_

Despite her curiosity, she couldn't ask him right away. Checking her hair and makeup in the rearview mirror took a few seconds. So did eyeing the wood-timbered cabin, which was charming despite the sagging front porch and peeling white paint on the door and window frames. By the time she made it up the two steps to the porch, the driver had rung the doorbell. And before she could say anything more to Eugene, Miles answered the door.

_Oh, my._ Wearing a bright blue T-shirt and pristine jeans, his hair still damp from the shower, he sucked all the air from her lungs. From the universe, really. And when his eyes met hers, all she could do was part her lips, attempt to breathe, and hope oxygen would resume flowing to her brain at some point in the near future.

He offered her a quick grin before focusing on the man in front of him. "Hey, Eugene."

Eugene glowered at his customer. "I thought you'd changed." He opened the screen door and shoved a box toward Miles. "But here you are, jonesing for another pie only three days after your last one. And even worse, inflicting your terrible life choices on an innocent young woman. Time to face the facts, son: You're a gluten glutton. A crusthead. A pizza stoner."

"Now, Eugene," she said soothingly, "it's just one pizza. You have to admit, that's a little harsh."

"He got three pizzas. Three! The rest are in there." He jerked a thumb toward his rusted compact car. "He's escalating again, Mary, and I want no part of it. But my code of professional ethics forces me to serve him anyway. It's an untenable situation, morally speaking."

If Miles rolled his eyes any higher, he was going to lose them in the back of his head. Mary bit back a laugh at his long-suffering expression, loath to offend sweet Eugene.

"First of all, I had no idea what Mary wanted on her pizza, so I ordered several. I'm not _escalating_." Miles looked from her to Eugene and back again. "Second of all, you two know each other?"

Eugene snorted. "Uh, yeah. Of course we do."

"I grew up here," she reminded Miles. "And every Friday night at the Higgs residence was Pizza Night, so we saw Eugene all the time. He makes the best pizza around."

Then it was Miles's turn to snort. "He also makes the _only_ pi—"

"Anyway"—she cast him a chastising look before turning back to Eugene—"I'm sure this is an aberration. I promise I'll keep an eye on his pizza consumption."

"Don't let him drag you into his doughy web of despair, young lady."

A violent coughing fit overtook Miles, and he turned away, his shoulders shaking.

"I'll be careful." She bit back a smile. "Should we maybe take the other pizzas off your hands before they get cold? And don't we need to pay you?"

"I don't want you supporting his habit. Make him pay." With a final grunt of disapproval in Miles's direction, Eugene headed to his car. "I'm doing this against my better judgment. His arteries are going to turn as hard as my brick pizza oven."

Miles hooked his arm around her waist from behind. "I wouldn't have let you pay anyway. When I ask a lady out on a date, I pick up the check. Even if our dinner involves pizza delivered by a madman."

His words, low and soft, seemed to travel from her left ear to her lower belly, sparking electricity the whole way. He was standing right behind her, strong and tall and so male she could hardly breathe.

"Not a madman," she whispered back. "Just a man concerned about you. Later, you'll have to tell me why."

"It's a long, sordid story, filled with pizza and self-pity and stern lectures from Eugene."

When he laughed, his lips brushed her ear. She instinctively swayed toward him. And before she realized it, her bottom was pressing into the cradle of his body with startling intimacy. They both froze for a moment, and she heard him swallow hard.

"Wow," he finally said, his voice husky.

They jumped apart when Eugene slammed his car door. "I have another pie to bake, so I don't have time to show you that video on my phone about heart attacks. But rest assured, you'll be watching it the next time I come this way."

"I figured," Miles called back to him, and then pressed a ten into her hand. "Can you give him this while I take the last two pizzas? He doesn't accept tips from me, but maybe he'll allow it from you."

Glad for an excuse to take a breather from Miles's potent charm, she let herself fall into a good-natured argument with Eugene about the tip while Miles dealt with the remaining food. And by the time Eugene had turned on to the winding country road that led to his restaurant, she felt normal again. Sensible.

Well, kind of. Following Miles into the wood-timbered cabin, she couldn't help but admire his round, muscular backside and the strength of his long legs in his dark jeans. The breadth of his shoulders in that blue T-shirt. The way his biceps flexed when he held the door open for her.

And the wry sweetness of his grin when he handed her one of Eugene's nutritional pamphlets. "So you too can lecture me on my wicked ways."

The absolute last thing she wanted to do was lecture the man. Although she hadn't minded his beard, she had to admit it: Seeing that smile in its full glory kicked up the pace of her heart. The pizza looked darn good, but Miles...he looked so scrumptious, she couldn't even formulate a coherent sentence.

No wonder the man was a television star.

No wonder Constance obsessed over him.

No wonder Mary wasn't sure she could hang on to her usual circumspection when it came to first dates, qualms or no qualms.

"Mary?" Miles gazed at her quizzically. "Are you okay?"

She shook herself back to reality. "Fine. Just a little hungry."

"I thought we might watch a movie on the couch while we had the pizza." He gestured toward a faded old love seat, virtually the only furniture in the living room apart from an enormous television. "My kitchen table wobbles."

That sounded exceedingly cozy, and maybe a teensy bit dangerous. Still, she couldn't say no. Didn't want to say no. So she went over to the two-seater couch and sat down on the right side. He settled on the other end, and they both took paper plates from a pile on the scarred coffee table. He'd set the pizza boxes to one side, and for a few minutes, they bustled around each other in a busy flurry as they chose their pizza slices, served themselves, arranged napkins, and grabbed drinks from the cooler near their feet.

Then they fell silent in the dim coolness of his cabin, sitting only inches away from one another. Awareness unfurled between them like a sweet pea's tendrils, drawing them ever closer together.

"Ready to begin?"

She knew he meant the movie, but she couldn't help reading more into that question. And either way, the answer was the same. "Yes. Let's start."

As if he'd read her thoughts, he turned to her and spoke quietly. "Trust me, Mary. I won't push you. I promise."

She offered him a nod and a smile of gratitude.

And then thought to herself, _Well, that's a shame._

* * *

Over the course of the evening, she found out for sure: Miles O'Connor was a man of his word. Unfortunately.

During the movie, he didn't stray over to Mary's side of the couch for a single moment. And after the credits rolled on the film—a non-gory historical epic he'd chosen with her interests in mind—he simply turned off his television and struck up a casual discussion of the plot and costume choices. She did her best to pay attention and keep up her end of the conversation, despite the potent distraction sitting only a scant foot away from her. But eventually, inevitably, the discussion petered out. A hush fell over them like a down comforter, warm and heavy.

No streetlamps or light pollution illuminated his lonely corner of Nice County. When the sun set during their conversation, his living room went dark. So dark they seemed alone in the world.

The hooting of owls outside and the rustling of tree branches in the spring breeze offered the only noise other than the whisper of their breaths, the rustle of his jeans as he shifted on the couch, and the faint sound of slick flesh on flesh as she licked her dry lips.

"Did I pick a good movie for you?" His voice had gone low and soft.

"The cinematography was beautiful, like I said. And I do love history." She crossed and re-crossed her legs, restless in a way she'd rarely experienced.

"In one of your e-mails, you said sweeping epics were your favorites."

"Well..." Telling a fib via e-mail was one thing. In person, she couldn't do it, not even to protect herself from embarrassment. "Second favorite, actually."

He leaned toward her. "You misled me?" He sounded amused. "Shame on you, Mary Louise Higgs. So what's your favorite type of movie then?"

"It's silly." Goodness knew her friends and family teased her enough for it. "Promise not to make fun of me?"

He crossed his heart. "Promise."

"Tearjerkers." She spread her hands. "I love a good cry. What can I tell you? If a beloved family member, friend, or pet is about to become terribly, picturesquely ill on screen, get me a ticket for the opening weekend. If devoted lovers are about to be torn apart for all eternity, buy some tissues in bulk and count me in. And above all else, if Pixar is going to create a silent montage of a loving couple's marriage, infertility, and eventual separation through death, expect me to sob into my popcorn for an embarrassing number of minutes, then watch the movie again a million times afterward."

"And that's..." He sounded bewildered. "That's a good thing?"

"Of course. If my sinuses aren't clogged and my eyes aren't bloodshot when the credits roll, I don't consider it a satisfying cinematic experience."

"So you're saying the movie I chose was too happy?"

"A little. I mean, everyone survived."

He huffed out a laugh. "You are a bundle of surprises, Mary."

In the dark, she could barely see his eyes. But she could feel his intent gaze resting on her, compressing her chest and spiking her heart rate.

He moved his hand from the back of the couch and stroked the chain around her neck. "Do you keep a picture inside this?"

"A photo of my family." She exhaled shakily at the trail of fire he was leaving on her skin. "I got it when I came back from LA. As a reminder of what's important."

"Hmmm." He played with the chain, tracing its path down to the sensitive spot between her collarbones.

_What were we even talking about?_ "I only take it off in the shower and in bed."

_Oh, dear. That came out wrong_ , she thought. _Way too suggestive, given the circumstances_.

_Or maybe it came out just right_ , a wicked little voice in her mind argued.

His fingers stilled, and she could hear his harsh intake of breath. She froze, unsure of what he wanted and what he'd do next. Even less sure of what _she_ wanted and would do in response.

A moment later, he sprang from the couch and turned on the overhead light. She scrunched her eyes shut against the glare of the fluorescent bulbs, wrinkling her nose.

"I had a great time tonight." In one smooth move, he scooped up their paper plates and dumped them in a nearby trash can. "I hope we can do it again soon."

Some hints required interpretation. Some, however, did not.

She rose from the couch. "Thank you for the invitation. I enjoyed myself."

His phone, perched on the coffee table in front of her, rang. He glanced at the screen and rejected the call. Then, his shoulders stiff with new tension, he powered the cell down entirely.

"You could have taken that," she said. "I'm about to leave, anyway."

"No. I couldn't have." For the first time since they'd met, his voice had turned short. Forbidding.

She winced. "Okay."

"Sorry." He sighed. "I just don't want to talk to anyone but you tonight."

Two minutes later, she found herself standing beside her car in the bright glow of his porch light. And after he offered her a swift, firm peck on the cheek and opened her car door, she climbed inside and turned the key in her ignition. He shut the door behind her without another word.

She didn't roll down the window and force the matter. She simply buckled herself in and started her quiet drive home.

Normally, she wouldn't consider the distance from his house to hers particularly long. But that night, for Mary—alone, confused, and wondering where she'd gone wrong—it seemed like a world away.

And that's how it felt, too. Like Miles O'Connor might as well have existed on the other side of the Earth.
7

Mary's phone dinged as she pulled into her driveway, and she eagerly dug it from her purse, hoping Miles had sent her a text. He hadn't. Instead, Sarah had sent one of her frequent all-caps, emoji-laden messages.

DYING TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENED ON YOUR HOT DATE. DYYYYYYING. YOU MUST TELL ME IMMEDIATELY AFTER YOU GET HOME, LEST I EXPLODE FROM FRUSTRATED CURIOSITY.

She'd included at least a dozen emoji skulls, several emoji bombs, and—inexplicably—a plump emoji eggplant.

Well, Mary didn't want her best friend to die, did she? So she sent a response right away:

Just got home. There wasn't time to tell you earlier, but I have big news. Related to the date, but even bigger than the date. Want to come over?

The response arrived within seconds. _Yes! I'll be there ASAP. My mutant man-beast boyfriend could probably use a little break from basking in my magnificence. And when I return home, he can tell me how desperately he missed me._ A brief pause, and then another message. _At least, he'd better tell me that_. _Otherwise, he's in deep, DEEP_

The message ended with another little emoji, one that resembled a swirl of chocolate frosting with eyes. Mary suspected, however, that Sarah had intended a different interpretation.

She giggled and got out of the car. And by the time she put away the day's detritus, changed into pajamas, and washed off her makeup, her doorbell was ringing.

Sarah didn't even make it completely inside the house before she started talking. "So what's the big news? Is he a spy? A long-lost prince? Is he about to sweep you off to his tiny but wealthy and remarkably photogenic European kingdom, where his family got deposed in a tragic military coup, but now the populace wants the royal family back in charge, and he'll be their new ruler and you'll be his gorgeous queen?"

"Um..." Mary closed the door. "No."

Sarah flopped on to Mary's overstuffed living room couch, her blond curls bouncing. "Is he a superhero? Can he shoot webs from his wrists, or"—she looked hopeful—"somewhere else?"

No point in delaying the inevitable. Before Sarah could dream up any further explanations, Mary handed over the Blu-ray she'd checked out from the library that afternoon.

"What's this?" Sarah asked, and then looked more closely at the cover. "Oh, holy crap."

Her jaw agape, she turned over the case and began to read the back.

Mary sat down beside her. "I know. I had no idea. I mean, his name isn't _that_ uncommon. Who'd have thought a television star would be living here in Nice County?"

"He basically is a prince," Sarah whispered. "You're dating a prince of the HATV Network. And his kingdom resides in the hearts and loins of adoring women across America."

Mary wrinkled her nose. "Ew."

"Heck, his kingdom resides in Constance's loins. She's going to freak out when we tell her." She tapped the picture of Miles on the cover. "Incidentally, I'm not sure I've ever seen a T-shirt that tight. He might lose circulation to crucial organs, but that's a price I'm willing to pay. Or, more accurately, have him pay."

Trying not to look too hard at that tight, tight shirt, Mary laid a hand on Sarah's arm. "Please don't say anything to Con. I think he wants to keep it quiet for now."

"Oooh. I like having illicit knowledge. Especially when I can taunt people who'd like to have that same knowledge. Excuse me."

Sarah's phone appeared in her hand, and within seconds, she was beginning an all-caps text to Constance: _HAHA, SUCKER. I KNOW SOMETHING YOU D_

Mary took the phone away. "Sarah, please."

"Oh, all right." Her blue-gray eyes flicked to the plastic case in her lap. "Have you seen his show before? I'm guessing not, since you didn't recognize him."

"I haven't. Although, to be fair, I might not have recognized him anyway. The first time I met him face-to-face, he had a big beard, overgrown hair, and slightly different proportions than he did on his show."

To be honest, she kind of liked that hint of pudge. It made him seem more human. Approachable. Not like the apotheosis of fitness and nutrition, a human trigger for memories and behaviors better left in her past.

"Not to mention a missing limb, which probably drew a good chunk of your attention." Sarah's voice softened with sympathy for Miles, and she traced his left arm on the package. "Do you know what happened to him?"

Mary shook her head. "No idea. And I want to wait until he tells me, instead of trying to pry it out of him."

"Whatever it is, he's done a damn good job keeping it quiet. Con's his biggest fan. If she knew, she'd have told us long ago."

"I get the sense he's not too comfortable with the loss of his arm. Not yet, anyway. He doesn't really want to go out in public. There's a reason we ate at his house tonight, rather than going to a restaurant."

"Poor man." Sarah's eyes had clouded with tears, evidence of the soft heart hidden beneath her usual bluster. "Did the date go well?"

"I thought so, at least until the end. We had pizza, watched a movie, and chatted for a bit. I was even feeling a spark, which doesn't happen often for me. But I only got a peck on the cheek at the end of the night. And that was fine," Mary hurried to add. "I mean, I don't even kiss most guys on our first date. Still, I was surprised. Maybe he's not as attracted to me as I thought."

"Or maybe he's holding back for some other reason." Sarah appeared thoughtful. "I'll contemplate the issue while we watch him pound some bolts or whatever."

_Here's hoping Chris does most of their home repairs_.

Mary tapped the Blu-ray in her friend's lap. "You want to see _The Naked Carpenter Special Collection: Hammering and Nailing His Way Across America_?"

"Are you kidding?" Wiggling into a corner of the couch, Sarah propped a stray throw pillow behind her head. "Try and stop me."

Three hours later, Sarah had munched her way through a defrosted box of Girl Scout cookies, while Mary had inhaled a bowl of popcorn. They'd drained several cans of Diet Coke each. They'd also watched three episodes of _The Naked Carpenter_ and witnessed more than their fair share of Miles's tanned shoulders, spectacular abs, and broad chest.

He had a bit of hair on his chest. Not too much. Just enough to glisten in the sun and catch a drop or two of sweat as he swung his ax and wrestled his saw.

Mary needed to start watching more HATV, obviously.

Sarah slurped up her last sip of Diet Coke with a straw. "Do you think his contract required him to remove his shirt at least once an episode?"

It wasn't a far-fetched question, given what they'd seen. "Possibly. He said he simply got overheated a lot, but I'm not sure how that could be true during an Alaskan winter."

"I liked his sign-off. Punny but cute."

At the end of each show, he'd announce, "Time to hit the road. Miles to go!" And at some point during construction, he'd always say, "How much Connor is in this building? Miles O'Connor!" and then chortle afterwards. His glee was so infectious that Mary couldn't help laughing with him, no matter how many times she heard the joke.

Truthfully, though, she hadn't paid as much attention to the actual content of the show as she might have done another time. Instead, she'd watched the way Miles moved. She'd studied how he used his left arm in flawless concert with his right. Holding nails. Positioning wood to make the perfect cut. Carrying tools and supplies. Bracing himself in uncomfortable positions as he built various structures, as promised, across America.

She'd watched him climb scaffolding with the easy grace of an athlete. He swung and balanced and tripped lightly over obstacles with boyish exuberance and untold faith in his own abilities, a golden god who shone in the sun's loving rays. Fearless. Gregarious. Curious about people and the communities he visited. Jovial, his face lit in a perennial grin that held unmistakable sweetness and just a hint of deviltry.

That Miles hadn't visited the library. She'd seen glimpses of him, but only in private. Only for moments at a time.

Miles O'Connor—the Naked Carpenter, the man who'd been able to fix any problem he tackled, the man who'd seemed to have absolute faith in both himself and the goodness of the world around him—had virtually disappeared. Somehow, he'd become a pale, cautious recluse who hid behind ball caps and lived in a run-down, austere cabin. A cabin whose door barely opened and shut.

Her next breath hitched.

"Mary?" Suddenly, Sarah was perched right beside her on the couch. "Are you okay?"

Mary blinked hard. "Just a little sad."

"For Miles?" Sarah put an arm around Mary's shoulders and pulled her close.

Mary nodded. "Because the accident obviously damaged more than his arm."

Despite her inveterate chattiness, Sarah always seemed to know when to stop talking. For a minute, she did nothing more than provide a soothing embrace and a soft shoulder. Precisely what Mary needed.

That soft shoulder remained dry, though, as Mary soaked in the comfort but fought back the tears. Just like she always did. She really had nothing to cry about, after all, not compared to Miles or so many other people. So what would be the purpose of weeping? What would be the point of making other people uncomfortable, even if it might ease her own heart?

After a minute, Sarah pulled away enough to meet Mary's eyes. "So he's emotionally damaged. Too damaged for you to date?"

Mary snorted out a soft laugh. "He rushed me out of his house like it was on fire, Sarah. I don't even know if he'll ask me on another date."

"But if he did?"

"I'd say yes. I like him, and I think we have chemistry." Mary sat up straight, gently detaching herself from Sarah's consoling hug. "But even with that chemistry, and even if he asks me out again, I don't think we'll be getting too intimate anytime soon."

"You don't think he's ready for that?"

"Exactly. And I'm not ready either." Despite what her hormones had been urging her to do earlier on his couch. "I won't be ready until I'm sure he really wants me, not just a distraction or someone to keep him company in his bunker."

Sarah's smile was wry. "So maybe it's good he hustled you out the door tonight, huh?"

"I wouldn't say that. I was hoping for a kiss, at the very least. And not on the cheek, either."

"Hussy." Sarah gave her an affectionate squeeze and rose from the couch. "It's almost one in the morning on a school night. I guess I'd better head home. Besides, Chris is probably getting lonely, whether he admits it or not."

A few more laughs and good-byes, then Sarah was gone. And as her friend's headlights vanished in the distance, Mary thought, He's not the only one. Not tonight.

8

Miles spent an embarrassing amount of time staring at his phone the next morning, working up the nerve to call the woman he'd essentially ejected from his house the night before.

So what if I panicked at the end of our first date? I'll make it up to her during our second date. If she agrees to it. Which she might not. But you don't know until you try.

Once he repeated the pep talk often enough, he almost believed it. At least enough to pick up the damn phone and tap her name on his contacts list.

To his surprise and relief, she not only answered his call, but also agreed to another date at his house that upcoming weekend. Which, fortunately, gave him enough time to make the place presentable for her. Maybe even enough time to rediscover his ab muscles?

As the weekdays passed, his runs on the treadmill got easier, as did his crunches, lunges, and squats. Jessie's improvements to the house started making a noticeable difference in its function and appearance. He even began to practice some simple cooking while his handywoman worked nearby, figuring she could help if he either chopped off his remaining fingers or set his kitchen on fire.

And, most importantly, he resumed his daily e-mail messages with Mary, falling into their easy rapport like a soft bed. By the time the weekend arrived, he figured he could handle another intimate evening alongside her without freaking out at any point.

Maybe. Possibly?

When his doorbell rang that night, he took a deep breath before answering.

"I made a salad," he informed Mary as he swung open the newly repaired door. "In the sense that there's lettuce in a bowl and an unopened bottle of dressing next to it. I expect a lot of praise. Maybe even an assertion that it's the best prewashed salad from a plastic box you've ever had."

Opening that box had taken some doing, but she didn't need to know that.

The bridge of her nose crinkled when she grinned, and he could barely stop himself from planting a kiss there. "I promise to be suitably impressed. And we should have a great dinner, then. I brought brownies for dessert. I made them just an hour or two ago, so they're still warm."

She lifted a rectangular pan, and the scent of chocolate wafted toward him. He breathed it in, content.

"You're a goddess, Mary Louise Higgs." He gazed hungrily at the brownies. They looked fudgy, exactly how he liked them. "Thank you."

Her smile turned teasing. "You're welcome. But I'm disappointed about the lack of pizza. I was hoping to witness Eugene's 'This Is Your Brain on Pizza' egg demonstration."

A puff of dust appeared at the end of Miles's driveway as a small car turned off the main road. "You may get your chance. I decided not to push my luck with an entrée, too."

By the time Mary had deposited her brownie pan on to Miles's kitchen counter and returned to the porch, Eugene had arrived. He came to a screeching halt near the cabin, his wheels sliding a bit on the gravel. And when he climbed out of his car, he did so with a disapproving grunt.

"At least you only got one pie this time. But I can't countenance the addition of breadsticks." His pink face was determined as he marched toward the front porch, boxes in his arms. "That's a slippery slope. First you order breadsticks. Then it's cheese sticks. Then come the dipping sauces. Next thing you know, you're stuffing pepperoni in your crusts and dead on the floor within a month. I can't watch it happen, son. Not to you."

Eugene's expression changed, though, when he got closer to the cabin. "Did you fix the front porch? And repaint the trim and window frames?"

_I wish_. Controlling a wince, Miles watched Eugene and Mary study the work Jessie had done over the past week. His handywoman was skilled, both efficient and persnickety about her measurements. He appreciated both, even as he resented the ease in her every movement and the need for her help.

"I didn't do it, but I made sure it got done." He shut the front door behind him. It closed easily, and then reopened without a single hitch. "I also got the door repaired."

"Huh." Eugene handed the pizza and breadstick boxes to Mary, then walked up to Miles and peered in his face. "I think you may have cheekbones again."

"Really?" Miles fought the urge to find the nearest reflective surface for confirmation.

Mary deposited the food on the coffee table—newly polished, its bolts tightened—and came back to the door. "Miles, may I leave the tip for Eugene this time?"

"Nope. Thanks, though." He fished a ten out of his front jeans pocket and offered it to Eugene. "Here you go. Please charge the rest to my credit card."

For the first time in months, Eugene actually accepted the tip. Miles decided that was as good a sign as any that he didn't look as pitiful as he once had.

After tucking the ten into his wallet, Eugene lingered on the porch, his brow furrowed. "I brought along my eggs, but..."

A quick glance at Mary's face revealed mixed emotions. She clearly did want to see the egg demonstration, but probably also wanted to eat her damn pizza while it was still warm.

"Can we do it quickly, Eugene?"

The man brightened. "Of course. Just give me a moment to prepare the eggs and my musical accompaniment."

Ten minutes, three broken eggs, a lengthy drum solo, and one very messy Tupperware container later, Eugene's car was crunching back down the gravel driveway.

"Wow." Mary stared after the car as it turned on to the road. "I had no idea pizza could crack my skull like a sledgehammer. Or that my brain contained so many yolky bits."

"I think Eugene takes a certain amount of creative license." He held out his hand to her. "Let's go inside and eat. I think I picked a movie you'll like even better this time."

Her fingers curled around his, strong and steady. "What is it?"

" _A Lady from Nottingway_. Set in the nineteenth century. Tearjerker Reviews rated it five handkerchiefs, so I think you'll be happy. I mean, sad. But also happy."

He still had no idea why anyone would watch a movie she knew from the beginning would make her cry, but whatever. Not everyone found a lathe exciting either. He was willing to roll with it.

Once the door shut behind them, she smiled and nodded toward the coffee table. "You got plates. And silverware!"

"I figured salad wasn't necessarily a finger food." He let go of her hand and shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether to be pleased at her reaction or embarrassed by his choices for their previous date. "And the movie seemed too classy for paper plates."

She served herself a huge mound of salad, a glug of dressing, a breadstick, and a couple of pieces from the veggie lover's pizza—her favorite, as he'd noted last time. "I'm all in favor of anything that decreases the amount of dishwashing I need to do."

Just like before, they settled on to their sides of the couch, and he started the movie as they began eating. This time, though, his nervousness eased enough for him to observe something a little odd. Well, maybe not odd, but at least notable.

When Mary ate, she did so very methodically. The salad disappeared first, the breadstick second. After that, she seemed to follow a sort of pattern with her pizza. She'd take a couple of small bites. Then she'd stop, set down the slice, and wait a minute before picking it up again. Two bites, stop, wait, and resume. Again. And again.

The routine repeated itself for one-and-half slices. Finally, halfway through her second piece of pizza, she sat looking down at the cheesy remains of her dinner for a long moment before pushing her plate away.

For the life of him, he'd never seen someone eat pizza or anything else with such deliberation. By the time she'd finished contemplating and consuming her dinner, he'd mowed his way through half of their pizza, leaving nothing but microscopic scraps in his wake.

Despite his rampant curiosity, though, he wasn't going to make a single comment. Maybe he wasn't the world's biggest dating prize at the moment, but even he knew better than to remark on someone's eating habits. Plus, telling her he'd been watching her eat? Creepy. Creepy _and_ guaranteed to make her uncomfortable about ever consuming food in front of him again.

Given his fixation on Mary, he hadn't been paying too much attention to the movie. So he was surprised when she turned to him after twenty minutes, pointed at the screen, and declared, "A secret admirer didn't send Annalee that love note. Her students did."

Had he missed something? "But the note said it came from an ardent admirer who felt too shy to approach her, and Horatio certainly seems interested. Besides, we haven't seen the kids do anything but sit in her class."

"Mark my words. The students did it." She settled back against her cushion, her legs crossed beneath her. "And by the way, Horatio's up to no good as well. Trust me on that."

He took a moment to admire her jeans and draped knit shirt—the first truly casual clothing he'd ever seen her wear—and how they fit against her curvy, strong body. She'd even arrived in tennis shoes, which she'd promptly removed and politely placed just inside his front door.

Good thing he'd had the place cleaned. Otherwise, those white socks would be gray by now.

Finally, he forced himself to stop staring at his date and watch the movie. And fifteen minutes later, just as Mary had predicted, poor Annalee's heart had been crushed by the revelation that her mischievous students, rather than a besotted admirer, had been writing her the love letters. Mary reached into her little black purse and produced a travel pack of tissues, which she offered to him.

He lifted a hand in refusal. "Thanks, but I'm good. How the heck did you know the kids had written those stupid notes? And that Horatio would take advantage of the confusion to seduce her?"

"This isn't my first tragic rodeo." She dabbed at her eyes and grabbed a small brownie. "Poor Miss Simperington."

"There, there." He patted her on the shoulder, wondering if he should scoot closer and provide a supportive arm. "Please don't cry."

She waved off his concern. "Don't worry. I'm used to this."

So he returned to his corner of the couch to watch both the film and his date.

Eventually, his mind wandered to the post-movie portion of the evening. _Should I try to kiss her tonight? I mean, not just on the cheek? Are both of us ready for that step, or should I wait a little longer?_

Lost in his thoughts, he barely noticed when Annalee swayed on her feet at the front of the classroom, the back of her hand plastered against her forehead. She bent over slightly at the waist, as if sick to her stomach.

Immediately afterward, Mary poked him in the arm with uncharacteristic intensity. "Did you see that? That poor girl's either pregnant or dying. Maybe both."

He blinked at her, confused. "I don't know. She hasn't eaten much since Horatio's betrayal. Maybe she's just hypoglycemic."

"Nope." She blinked hard, tissues clutched at the ready. "With child or terminally ill. Wait and see."

Well, now he really did have to pay attention, if only to prove Mary wrong.

Thirty minutes and one heartrending plot point later, he accepted one of her tissues. "Man, those homes for unwed mothers were harsh."

"I know." Mary blew her nose with a distinct honking sound. "Good thing she found that terrible job as a scullery maid so she can support her moppet."

He paused the movie and took her hand. "Do you want to stop watching? I hate to see you cry."

"Are you kidding?" Her fingers intertwined with his, she tilted her head toward the television. "We can't stop now. I have to see what happens."

So he kept Mary's hand in his, glorying in the contact even as he despaired at poor Annalee's fate. Scene by scene, her clothing grew more tattered, and the shadows under her eyes grew darker. And then, in between scrubbing pots, she coughed delicately into a handkerchief.

This time, Mary snatched the remote control and paused the movie. "Aha!"

He groaned. "What now? Hasn't she suffered enough?"

"She totally has consumption." Mary sniffled and stabbed a finger toward the screen again. "See that handkerchief? At some point, she'll cough again, and there will be little flecks of blood on it. That's when we'll know for sure that she's doomed."

"First of all, what the heck is consumption?" He narrowed his eyes at Mary, outraged by the prospect of hapless Annalee enduring any further hardships. "And second, maybe she has a common cold. I mean, that garret where she and little Millie are staying looks inadequately insulated. There are drafts everywhere, did you notice?"

"Forget about the shoddy construction, Miles." She shook her head. "Poor Miss Simperington is going to die of consumption, now known as tuberculosis, sooner rather than later. Especially since we only have"—she checked the time on her cell phone and dabbed at her nose—"twenty minutes left of the movie. Just enough time to watch her waste away and say good-bye to her daughter."

Sure enough, ten minutes later, Annalee and Miles were both staring at a blood-stained handkerchief.

"Shit," Miles muttered and surreptitiously rubbed his eyes against his shoulder.

And ten minutes after that, the movie credits were rolling. Mary sobbed against his chest as he manfully sniffed away his own tears and rubbed her back.

"Poor Miss Simperington. Poor Millie," she whimpered against the fabric of his T-shirt. "It's all s-s-so t-terrible. They couldn't even afford a gravestone! Just a pile of rocks Millie collected for her mother's pauper grave!"

"Shhhh. It's okay." The room had grown dim, and he could barely see Mary in his embrace. But he could feel her. Oh, he could definitely feel her. "I'm sure Millie will do just fine at the home for poor, parentless kids. Although that woman in charge, Mrs. Withersneer, didn't seem very child-friendly."

"I hear there's a sequel coming out next year." She lifted her head from his shoulder. "Millie's story. Tearjerker Reviews is already predicting it'll be their first-ever six-handkerchief movie, based on the trailer."

"Oh, God." His head dropped back to the sofa cushion. "I'm not sure I can take it."

She sniffled one last time and patted him on his chest, right where his heart was racing at her nearness. "I'm sorry, Miles. Maybe we should have chosen a different movie."

Her fingers lingered lightly on his shirt, like a butterfly at rest, and he couldn't help himself. He covered her hand with his, ensuring she couldn't simply flutter away into the dark night.

His throat turned dry, and he swallowed hard. "It's fine. Really. I'm happy to watch whatever you want to see. But I'm not sure I understand why you love sad movies so much. Can you tell me?"

She didn't say anything for a moment.

He tried to catch her eye in the dark. "If that's too personal a question, feel free not to answer."

"That's not it," she said slowly. "I'm just trying to figure out how to explain it."

"Take as long as you need." He rested back against the couch cushion, gently drawing her with him. Without a murmur, she settled against his body as if they'd sat like this a million times before.

"I'm not..." Her voice was low. "I'm not very good at expressing myself sometimes. Especially when I'm sad. Watching tearjerkers kind of helps me get it all out, I think. And I really enjoy figuring out major plot points ahead of time." She bit her lip. "I'm sorry if you hated the movie."

"I didn't." He pressed a kiss against her forehead. "Please don't apologize. I was only curious."

He'd never met anyone with skin as warm and smooth as hers. And she smelled like brownies. Brownies, for God's sake. How could he resist pulling her closer?

"Miles?" Her fingers traced the seam on his shoulder. "I was hoping you could explain something to me too. Why did you get so upset when I asked about the books you'd been checking out? You know, when we first started writing each other?"

That particular distress seemed so distant now, so unnecessary, given her reaction—or lack thereof—to his missing arm. "Because I was reading books about people who'd lost limbs. If you'd seen what I was checking out, you'd probably have guessed what happened to me. And I didn't want anyone to know."

"Ah." She tilted her face up to his and smiled. "No wonder you got squirrelly, then."

"No wonder." He smiled back. "But I couldn't seem to stop writing you. We'd only been exchanging e-mails such a short time, but you'd already become one of the brightest spots in my life."

His fears had urged him to hunker down. To go back into hiding. But even then, he'd sensed that she was special. Even then, he'd somehow known only a fool would let her slip away without a fight.

And only a fool would let this moment—this opportunity—slip away now.

He stared down at Mary's beautiful face, only inches away. And then, before his fears could have their say once more, he lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers.

9

Mary knew she'd never forget that kiss. Not if she lived forever and made out with future platoons of men. Which seemed unlikely, to be honest. But even under those circumstances, she was certain the kiss from Miles would stand out in her memory.

More than a month later, she could still recall every detail.

His lips had brushed so tenderly against hers, ensuring his welcome before he took the contact any further. When she hadn't objected or pulled away, he'd settled his mouth more fully, exploring with deliberate care as he built the warmth between them into flame.

He tasted like tomato sauce, with a background hint of mint. Delicious. And when her tongue tentatively touched his, he rumbled deep in his chest and hiked her closer.

His hand slid to the nape of her neck, kneading the muscles there and sending shivery tremors down to her toes. His strong arm lay warm against her back, pressing her tight to his body as their tongues parried and played.

A single kiss had never caused such a dizzy buzz in her head before. A single embrace had never left her with an empty ache between her legs before.

And not once—not ever—had a man tempted her to throw aside everything she knew about herself and her need for intimacy before sex, to jettison all her concerns in favor of more.

More contact. More kisses. More friction. More Miles.

But before they could reach toward that _more_ , he'd retreated. Separated from her with one last, sweet press of his lips and gently eased her back to her side of the couch.

"You're so lovely, Mary," he'd said, his voice rough and low.

Then, to her astonishment, he'd risen to his feet, stacked their plates, divvied up the remaining brownies, and invited her to watch yet another movie in his home a few days later. Her mouth still soft and damp from his, her thoughts muddled and hazy with desire, she'd agreed. And when she'd gotten home, she'd deleted her online dating profile.

Their third date followed a familiar pattern. Once more, he chose a movie he knew she'd like. Once more, she ended up crying on his chest. Once more, comfort turned to heat as their mouths met. And once more, he stopped at a kiss, asked her out again, and sent her home.

Their fourth date was the same. So were the fifth and sixth dates.

Those evenings topped her list of all-time best dates, no contest. Her in-person rapport with Miles strengthened with each movie night, and so did her attraction to him. Between their continued daily e-mails and the time they spent on his couch, she felt like she could finish his sentences sometimes. He listened to her with such patience, gently pressing until she shared her opinions, even those she usually didn't express. By word and deed, he made her feel interesting, smart, and beautiful. Desirable and desirous.

Other than Sarah and her family, Mary would say he knew her better than anyone else in the world. And in many respects, she knew him just as well. But...

_But_. Such a difficult word.

But after six movie nights at his house, Mary was beginning to have some serious concerns about Miles.

He played at nonchalance when it came to his missing arm, usually choosing not to acknowledge it at all. Not even when he injured himself—with a dropped box or a hot pan, for instance—instead of asking for assistance. And after a month of dating, he still hadn't shared how he'd lost his arm, much less shown her the amputation site. Which was his choice, and she wouldn't press him on it for the world, but...

But. Again.

But she'd expected him to grow more comfortable with his changed body over time, to reconcile himself to the loss and move back into the world. Instead, he remained buried in his cabin, with occasional visits from his handywoman, his housecleaner, Eugene, and Mary as his only company. He bought everything possible online, and had begun having even his groceries delivered.

Her affection for him grew day by day, week by week. She didn't want to upset him, and she didn't want to stop dating him. She also knew she couldn't fix whatever was damaged inside of him, not without his willingness to acknowledge the scars and address them.

But she wasn't sure she could keep dating a man who refused to leave the house. A man who—even worse—didn't seem to think that was a problem.

So she had a plan. It involved her being much blunter than she usually preferred, and she didn't know how he would react. He might get angry. She might hurt his feelings. Their relationship might reach an abrupt end. If her strategy blasted him out of his darn cabin, though, she'd know she'd made the right choice.

The plan went into effect at the tail end of their seventh date, after he offered her yet another soul-searing kiss and shifted her to the other side of the couch.

"I'd love to do another movie night soon. I know you're babysitting for your brother tomorrow night. Are you free on Friday?" He was cleaning up the debris from their meal, the dirty plates and forks rattling as he stacked them.

After a good, bracing breath, she took her shot.

"Are you ashamed of me, Miles?"

The plates slipped out of his hand, landing with a crash back on the coffee table. He didn't pay them a second of attention. Instead, his stricken gaze whipped directly to her, and he began to shake his head violently.

"No! God, Mary, _no_. Why would you ever think that?"

"You never take me anywhere in public. And you're a Hollywood star. I'm just a small-town Maryland girl. I thought maybe—"

"No," he repeated, and moved to kneel in front of her. "I'm proud you're even willing to date me. I could never be ashamed of you, and I'm so sorry if I've ever given you that impression."

She gazed at him steadily.

His hand covered hers in her lap. "Do you believe me?"

"If you're not keeping me inside out of shame, why don't we go to a restaurant for our next date?"

Frustration and a hint of panic tightened his features. "You know why. I don't want to be seen in public. People would figure out who I am, and then the paparazzi might descend."

"So wear a ball cap, pull the brim low, and we'll eat someplace casual. No problem." She rose to her feet, letting her fingers slide from beneath his. "Is it a date?"

"No. I..." He raked his hand through his hair, still kneeling at her feet. "You don't understand."

"Then explain it to me."

He stared up at her in silence for a moment.

She licked her lips and forced herself to say the words. "If you're not ashamed to be seen with me, and you're only concerned about being recognized, I don't see why we can't go out in public, at least occasionally. On the other hand, if you won't leave the house after all these months because you don't want anyone to see your left arm—"

His flinch tore at her heart. He looked like she'd slapped him.

"—that worries me. A lot."

She'd never brought up his arm before. Not once. She'd just let him pretend it didn't matter, that it didn't affect him or their relationship.

No more. She didn't like making waves, but she'd do it for his sake. For _their_ sake.

A mighty battle was happening behind those hazel eyes. She could see it rage until he suddenly sighed, got to his feet, and began gathering the plates once more.

"That's not the issue." His voice was barely audible. "We can go somewhere else for our next date. Your choice."

_Oh, heavens_ , she thought. _I hope I made the right call. For both of us_.

* * *

"We're going to an actual restaurant on our next date. Which is a good thing," Mary told Sarah the following morning. "Probably." After a little further thought, she added, "I think."

Sarah leaned back in her overstuffed recliner. "With that kind of enthusiasm and resolve, I'm surprised you're not shouting the news from the hilltops or tattooing it on your butt to commemorate the occasion."

"I have a few misgivings." That was a vast understatement, even for Mary. But before she got into her various fears, she had to ask. "Um...did you redecorate this room?"

Sarah's sigh was long and dramatic. "Do I seem like the sort of person who'd hang splintery wooden washboards and old gas-station signs all over my family room? It looks like a substandard chain restaurant in here. One with a failing sanitation grade, due to disease-riddled rats prowling the premises and terrorizing innocent diners."

She cast a baleful stare at the chipped cookie jar on the shelf across from her. "'Just give me one room to decorate,' Chris said. 'I'll prove I actually have good taste,' he said. 'Let me buy things for our house now that my business is making more money,' he said. 'I'll go find awesome decorations at the antique mall,' he said. 'You'll love it,' he said. All bullcrap, Mary. All complete bullcrap."

"You don't seem like the antique sort," Mary ventured.

"If I wanted to be around old, half-corroded things, I'd wander into one of those shacks out in the woods where serial killers bring their victims. At least then I'd have the hope of eventually getting free and living in a house with adult decorations." Her scowl grew even darker. "Or dying. Which might be preferable to looking at rusty shears in shoddily crafted shadow boxes on my walls."

Mary stifled a snicker. "So why haven't you changed the room back to the way it was?"

"Stupidity." Her face softened. "And love. He's such a good man, and it's his house too. He should have a say in the decorations. At least for a month."

"What happens after the month is over?"

"This shit will mysteriously vanish. I plan to blame some heretofore undiscovered wormhole in Nice County for the disappearance. Or maybe a burglar who's really into bad home décor." Sarah glowered at the cookie jar a final time. "Anyway, enough about my horrible family room. What are your concerns about an actual, public date with Miles?"

Mary worried her lower lip with her teeth. "Someone might be mean about his arm, either on purpose or by accident. Someone might recognize him as the Naked Carpenter and out him to the entertainment media. Or, worst of all, someone might recognize him, tell everyone where he is, _and_ be mean about his arm. In which case, he'll never leave his house again. Ever. And it'll be all my fault."

"And people call me a drama queen," Sarah muttered. "Okay, so you have some legitimate worries. But what was the alternative? Letting him spend another six months alone in the woods? Another year? Another decade? The man we saw in that Blu-ray loved talking to people and helping them. He loved exploring new places and hammering all sorts of exciting pieces of wood."

"You don't think wood is exciting," Mary pointed out.

"Hell, no." Sarah levered her recliner back to a seated position. "But he obviously did. And I'll bet he still does. Does he plan to go back to his show anytime soon?"

"He says he's here for good, but..." Mary sighed. "That's hard for me to believe. As far as I can tell, his show's not even canceled. Officially, I think it's simply on hiatus for unexplained reasons."

Sarah thought for a moment. "Has he checked to see how much carpentry work he could do with one arm? Or if there are special tools he could use?"

Mary spread her hands. "I have no clue. He doesn't talk about his arm at all. I think he hates to acknowledge the amputation, despite how it's changed his entire existence."

"Here's my opinion on the whole matter." Sarah's voice had turned firm, offering the certainty Mary currently lacked. "I know you're concerned about what you did, babe. But I don't think you had much of a choice. Unless you were okay with your eventual wedding ceremony and any future childbirths taking place entirely within the confines of that cabin." Sarah leaned forward and patted Mary's hand. "Which I suspect you weren't. And God knows I don't want to go into the woods, not even to be your matron of honor. There's _wildlife_ out there."

To Mary's fleeting amusement, her friend lingered over the word _wildlife_ with the same disgust most people reserved for raw sewage.

"Yeah." Mary rubbed her face. "I guess you're right. Thank you for reassuring me."

"You don't look reassured." Sarah's eyes narrowed as she studied Mary's posture. "Is something else worrying you, too?"

"No," she protested quickly. Too quickly.

Sarah's eyes turned downright squinty. "You're lying. Shame on you, Mary Louise Higgs. Lying to your best friend. This betrayal may never fade from my memory. That is, unless you tell me what's making you anxious."

She kept her hands over her face. "It's so selfish, Sarah."

"Spill it, girlie."

Oh, God. She didn't want to make Miles's problems about her, but..."What if someone recognizes him and word gets out? And people take pictures?"

Mary peeked through her fingers at her friend.

"Didn't we already discuss this possibility?" Sarah's brow beetled. "It might happen, but it probably won't. I mean, the Naked Carpenter living in rural Maryland? No one will believe it." She gave Mary's hand another pat. "If he does get recognized, though, it won't be your fault. You might have given him a nudge, but it's his choice to rejoin the outside world."

Mary shook her head in frustration. "But what if people take pictures of him _and_ me? Together? And those pictures become public and wind up on the internet?"

"Ah." Sarah sat back in her recliner. "I see."

"People can be so vicious online. And yes, I know I shouldn't look at those sorts of articles or read the comments, but we both know that's easier said than done."

Her friend's blue-gray eyes had turned solemn. "You're smart and kind and gorgeous, Mary. Any man would be lucky to have you in his life. If randos on the internet can't see that, it's a problem with them. Not you."

Mary's deep sigh hurt her chest. "I appreciate that. But I don't know if I could handle the attention. Especially if it turned mean."

"I'm not saying it wouldn't hurt. But you're strong, babe. Anything that happened, you'd get through it with the support of your friends and family. And Miles, too, I'd hope."

With a few swipes on the screen of her phone, Mary returned to the internet sites she'd unearthed during a sleepless night. "Look at these. See what people said about his previous girlfriends?"

She'd spent hours the night before peering at photos of Miles escorting various women to and from various fancy Hollywood events or vacationing in various exotic locations. He didn't seem to have a set type. According to the tabloids and pop culture magazines, he'd dated white women, black women, Asian women, Latinas...all colors. All heights. All hair types. All sizes.

The two things his exes had in common: They were gorgeous, and they never, ever talked trash about Miles after a breakup. He paid them the same courtesy. As far as Mary could tell, he was still friends with all of them, which had to be some kind of miracle, given what she'd read about life in Hollywood.

Oh, and one more thing those exes had in common: A handful of vicious commenters on the online articles had either sexualized them, ripped them to shreds, or both. She wasn't entirely sure which upset her more.

His exes of color seemed to get hit the hardest, but all of them were fair game. People speculated about the sex acts the women had performed with Miles. Described the sex acts the women should perform on them instead. Criticized the women's faces and bodies. Called them fat or sluts. Analyzed every ripple and wrinkle of flesh, searched for flaws, and proclaimed each of the exes unworthy of his attention.

Those comments might as well have sprung from Mary's nightmares.

"This is ugly," Sarah said flatly, her gaze resting on Mary's phone. "Really ugly."

"I'm not sure I could handle that kind of scrutiny and criticism." For reasons she'd never told anyone outside her family or doctor's office. But Sarah had become her best friend months ago. Surely Mary could trust her enough to explain? "I...I used to have issues with eating. Eating and exercise."

Sarah's head snapped up, and she immediately reached for Mary's hand. But she didn't speak, simply waited patiently as Mary struggled to explain a period of her life she hadn't discussed in years. One she'd tried hard to put behind her.

She supposed she should start at the beginning. "I have PCOS. Polycystic Ovary Syndrome. Which means my hormones are out of balance, I have cysts on my ovaries, and I may have a hard time getting pregnant. But it also means I gain weight really easily. That was okay here in Nice County, where no one really cares that much about how you look, and I was surrounded by people who knew and loved me. But then I moved to Los Angeles for college."

Sarah's eyes widened. "It would be hard to find a place more different from Nice County than LA."

Mary nodded. "Which was the point of going there. But it didn't turn out like I thought it would. When I moved, I didn't know a soul, and I had a hard time making friends at college. Even graduating and getting a teaching position didn't help. Students came and went, and so did the other teachers, and I never felt like I found my own place."

"Oh, babe." Sarah squeezed her hand. "I'm so sorry."

"People in LA care about their appearance. A lot. So that was one reason for what happened. But more than that, I was lonely and disappointed and questioning all of my decisions. I needed a distraction, and I needed a new goal. Something concrete and visible."

"Losing weight."

"Changing my body. Exercising. Dieting." She swallowed over an aching throat. "When the weight didn't come off like I wanted, I exercised more and ate less. It became a problem."

By the end of her time in California, she'd typically worked out at least two or three hours in the gym each day, pushing as hard as she possibly could. Exercising until physical exhaustion replaced all her worried thoughts, and she briefly experienced the grim satisfaction of having controlled and conquered something. Even if that _something_ was her own body, her own muscles and joints screaming in distress, her own empty stomach.

"I was always hungry. Within minutes after each meal." The memory of that hunger—the desperate, painful craving for sustenance that had consumed her waking hours—still hadn't entirely left her, even years later. "So I was constantly thinking about food, and sometimes I couldn't stand it anymore. I'd eat until I felt sick, and then I'd barely eat anything the next day to make up for it."

Sarah's face sagged in sympathy and dismay. "That sounds so terrible."

All Mary could do was nod. "It was. And I got really rigid about how much I exercised. If I didn't reach at least twenty thousand steps a day, I felt like I'd failed."

Magazine articles and health-focused websites had recommended ten thousand steps. But the doctor had said Mary needed to exercise much harder than most people to lose weight, due to her PCOS. So she'd decided to double the number, just to be on the safe side.

Even on a treadmill, twenty thousand steps had taken a long, long time. And when she hadn't been able make it to the gym, she'd walked in circles around her coffee table instead. Walked and walked as she'd watched movies on her television, for hours at a time, until she'd reached her quota of steps. And then she'd staggered to a stop, her back aching and her feet on fire, and tried hard not to consider what all those circles said about her mental health.

She tugged at a strand of her ponytail. "Eventually, my hair started falling out."

No matter how carefully she'd handled her hair, she hadn't been able to stop the loss. After each shower, she'd found soggy strands clumped near the drain, and more had fallen out each time she used a comb or her flat iron. By the time she'd returned to Maryland, her scalp had started peeking through the locks of hair she had left.

And back home, when she'd begun eating normally again, the hair loss had abruptly stopped. Not a single hair—not one—had fallen out for months afterward.

Sarah's eyebrows drew together. "What did your doctor say about all this?"

"I didn't tell her everything, just that I was eating less and exercising more." Of course, the doctor also hadn't asked for further detail, which Mary now knew was problematic. Instead, Dr. DeClune had simply offered congratulations for the weight loss and a prescription for the hair loss. "So she wasn't worried. Until I got back to Maryland, I didn't realize how bad things had gotten, or that there were names for what was happening to me. Disordered eating and obsessive over-exercising."

Sarah spoke quietly. Gently. "Are those still issues for you?"

"Yes and no." She blinked hard. "Once I left LA, my family and my doctor here helped me get better. But I have to be careful."

Over time, she'd learned to listen to her body. Because if she didn't pay attention, she could easily end up binging and restricting or over-exercising again.

If she began feeling hungry, she ate a balanced meal as soon as she could. During that meal, she tried to gauge her level of fullness at regular intervals. And once she was satisfied but not stuffed, she stopped eating. Or she usually did, at least. One thing she'd figured out over the past couple of years: Perfection wasn't the goal. Progress—and kindness to herself—was.

Returning to exercise had taken her long months. But now she worked out in moderation, without counting steps or calories. Not to punish herself for her weight, but to honor her body. To maintain her health, not her pants size. And she never, ever exercised through pain anymore.

"What do you mean by careful?" Sarah asked

They'd finally reached the heart of the matter, the reason she'd brought up her painful history in the first place. The reason a public date with a television star made her very, very nervous. "I try to stay away from anything that might trigger my old feelings about my body."

It didn't take long for her friend to draw the obvious conclusion. "So the last thing you need is a bunch of people snapping photos of you and criticizing how you look online."

"I'm afraid of what would happen. That I might—"

Sarah finished her thought. "That you might relapse."

"You said I'm strong, Sarah, but I'm really not." She couldn't put it any more plainly. "I may have put my eating and exercise issues behind me for now, but that doesn't guarantee the future."

Sarah dashed away her tears with her knuckles. "What kills me, more than anything else, is that you're sitting there and telling me you're not strong. When you clawed your way back from the pain you experienced out in California. When you're the compass that guides me and the rest of our friends toward doing the right thing. When you're the most genuinely kind person I know, no matter how the people around you behave."

Another compliment might very well kill her. She needed to change the subject before she drowned in her own suppressed tears or spontaneously combusted because of sheer embarrassment.

"What do you know about compasses?" Her watery laugh became a hiccup. "I thought you said you never went anywhere without a GPS and an interstate within your direct line of sight."

"That's true. Unless Chris is with me. Because if we get lost together, I can simply ride his enormous, muscled back like a chatty koala while he tears apart trees with his bare hands and leads us to safety."

Just then, Chris came in through the garage, sweaty and breathless from his lengthy bike ride. He grinned at the women, and then strode over to kiss the top of Sarah's head. "I heard that. We giant man-beasts have our uses, huh?"

He whispered into her ear, and she nodded. "We're okay. Thanks, babe."

He left the room and came back moments later with a tissue box, which he placed between his girlfriend and her best friend. "Take care of yourself, Mary. I need a shower."

Sarah gave him a quick smack on his spandex-clad butt as he turned to go, and he aimed a scowl over his shoulder.

Mary's friend didn't seem concerned. "He may pretend not to enjoy a tap on his ass, Mary. But deep in his mutant heart, he's delighted Dr. Frankenstein finally found a mate for him."

He grunted in feigned displeasure. But both women could hear his smothered chuckle when he went upstairs.

Sarah's grin faded as she dabbed away the tracks of her tears. "So what are you going to do if someone recognizes Miles?"

"I don't know. But he plans to keep a low profile. I hope he manages to dodge anyone who might realize who he is." Mary blew her nose. "And no matter how worried I am, I can't run away now, Sarah. Not right before our first public date. We're walking into that restaurant together next weekend, come heck or high water."

"Are you sure?" Sarah's blond brows had drawn together again.

Mary smiled at her best friend. "Well, of course not. But I'm doing it anyway."

"Because you're strong."

"That's one explanation." Mary tilted her head in thought. "But strength and stupidity are often very hard to distinguish from one another. So I could just be making a really dumb choice."

"That's the spirit," Sarah said, and the two women high-fived.
10

Mary's friend Constance was staring at him. Again.

Not at his arm, luckily. But everywhere else, including places Miles hadn't anticipated such a close inspection. Casually, he propped his right foot on his left knee—that should block the view—and caught her eye.

"Is something the matter?" His damn jacket would have fully covered his crotch, but it wouldn't zip without a lot of clumsy fumbling. Which was a shame, since it was freaking cold in the Niceville ice rink.

She seemed to shake herself out of a fugue state. "Oh. No, I'm good. I've just always wondered whether HATV employed Photoshop in key areas when they made your poster. I have it in the Bookmobile, you know. So I can look at it all the time."

Mary tugged her cold fingers away from his and buried her face in her hands. "Goodness gracious."

With a final approving nod, Constance turned back to the game in progress. "No Photoshop needed. Nice."

"Thank you." What else could he say, really?

"She's not normally like this," Mary whispered through her fingers. "But she's had a bit of a crush on you for several years. I warned her ahead of time that we might be coming, but apparently that didn't help. I'm sorry."

"It's fine." In fact, he almost welcomed Constance's intimate examination. He'd received that sort of attention countless times over his five years on TV, and he knew how to handle it. Gawking fans didn't faze him.

What did make him nervous: the prospect of someone other than Mary and her friends noticing him. Recognizing him. Worse, recognizing him _and_ reacting to his missing arm.

But at the restaurant tonight, no one had seemed either alarmed or particularly curious about him and his amputation. Maybe the hostess and server had glanced at his left side more than strictly necessary, but they hadn't said anything or stared. He'd managed to order food that didn't require either a knife or the knork he'd left out in his car. And he'd had the distinct pleasure of watching Mary shine brightly in a setting other than his dingy living room.

So when she'd proposed going to the rink and watching her friend's husband play amateur hockey, he'd agreed. After all, he enjoyed ice hockey and figured he'd like Mary's friends too.

Turned out, he did. At least when they weren't perusing his junk. Con's bluntness amused him, and the few seconds he'd spent with Sam before the teams took the ice had been pleasant. No surprise there. He knew Mary wouldn't surround herself with disagreeable people.

But because his jacket still fit a little too snugly, keeping his snaps closed had turned into an ongoing hobby. Good thing the game was ending soon, or he'd become the rink's new, unofficial mascot, known only as Random Dude Who Froze in the Stands.

Once Mary lowered her hands, he intertwined their fingers again, more content than he could remember feeling for a long, long time.

"Go to the dirty areas, Wolcott!" Constance bellowed. "Get it deep!"

Sam's laughter carried, even from the other side of the rink.

Mary squeezed her eyes shut. "Oh, my."

Suddenly, a small figure in blue shot across the ice and maneuvered the puck away from Sam's stick. As Sam chased him to the other side of the rink, the rival skater raced to the net and shot the puck past the green team's stunned goalie.

A whoop echoed through the rink as blue team members and supporters celebrated the goal.

"Con, who's number thirty in blue?" Mary leaned forward and studied the player. "I can't believe how fast he skates."

Con grinned. "She. That's Natasha, the Tiny Terror of the Iceville Amateur Hockey League. She'll probably come by to chat after the game, mostly to taunt Sam about losing. I think she considers mockery part of the spoils of war."

"Ah." Mary winced. "Does Sam mind that?"

"Nope. Verbally sparring with her is basically his overtime."

After the final buzzer sounded—with the blue team easily taking the win, five to two, because of Natasha's hat trick—all the players headed into the locker rooms. All except Sam, who glided toward the patch of ice closest to his wife.

Constance, her expression as soft as Miles had seen it all evening, clambered down the concrete risers to meet Sam. Her right palm pressed against the glass, she waited.

When he arrived, he flattened his hand on the exact same spot.

Connected through the glass, they stood for a moment and gazed at each other. Then, without a word, he skated toward the showers while she packed up her seat cushion and snacks.

"Let's go sit in the lobby area. It's fucking cold in here. Mary, why didn't you wear a hat?" She tugged at a strand of her friend's hair. "You must have been freezing your ass off."

"I appreciate your concern for my backside, Mama Chen, but I'm pretty sure it's still there." Smiling, Mary rose to her feet and tugged Miles along with her. "I didn't bring a hat because I didn't think we'd be coming here tonight. But I'm glad we did."

No wonder she hadn't expected to watch the game. He'd given her every reason to believe he'd refuse the invitation, even though they'd been dating for over a month.

As they walked to the lobby, he leaned down to whisper in her ear. "We can come to the next game too, if you'd like."

The look of startled pleasure on her face almost stopped his poor, feeble heart.

_I think I'm falling in love with you,_ he thought. _I must be. Because I'd do anything to earn that expression. Go out in public. Become the ice rink's mascot, AKA Random Dude Who Froze in the Stands. Start thinking about the future again._

He forgot their public setting. He forgot his qualms about getting naked in front of her. He forgot his continuing nightmares about failing her in bed. He forgot everything but the sheer glory of Mary. And even though he suspected she wasn't much into PDA, he couldn't resist. He had to kiss her.

Her mouth parted in surprise beneath his, but she kissed him back. Her arms wrapped around his waist as their lips clung and wooed, and he couldn't remember ever feeling happier in his life.

Con cleared her throat. "Do what you want, guys, but you should know that people are starting to stare."

He ended the embrace after one last peck on Mary's cute nose. "Sorry to make a scene, beautiful."

"No problem." She pressed her free hand to her cheek, and he figured she was probably blushing. But she was smiling too, which was all that mattered.

God, she was adorable. Sweet and smart and funny. Everything he'd ever wanted in a woman. He'd suspected it from the beginning, and now he knew for sure.

Another thing he knew for sure: It was time to stop spending all day immersed in other people's stories, either online, in books, or on TV. And God knew he couldn't afford many more months without additional income. Rerun royalties only stretched so far.

Maybe he could do what his fans had always urged and write a book about his own past adventures. All while making a life with Mary here in Nice County, where no one knew him from before the accident. And if they were careful and he grew a beard—a better beard than before, he hastily amended—maybe no one would ever recognize him at all.

Lost in thought, he slung his arm around Mary and considered his options as the two women discussed the game and the library. The next thing he knew, players from both teams were emerging from the locker rooms, including Constance's husband.

Sam planted a kiss on Con's mouth before turning to Miles. "During my wife's extensive research on you, she found out you're a hockey fan. Did you play as a kid?"

"Yeah. Through high school." As discreetly as possible, Miles looked around himself. No one was standing too close, to his relief. He didn't want anyone to question why Constance would research a random guy so thoroughly. "I usually played center."

"Were you any good at face-offs?"

He racked his brain, trying to remember his stats. "A bit above fifty percent, I think. Maybe fifty-five? Sixty? God, I can't even remember at this point." Shrugging, he laughed. "I guess I must have been good enough. They never kicked me off the team."

"Because the green team could use an extra forward. One of our centers hurt his knee last week, and our bench is a bit too short now." Sam raised his brows. "Interested?"

Miles's cheeks heated in mingled embarrassment and anger. Why was Sam putting him on the spot like that? Especially when he knew—he _had_ to know—that Miles's playing days were over?

_These are Mary's friends_ , he reminded himself. _Stay polite_.

With an effort, he kept a smile pasted to his face as he jerked his chin toward his left shoulder. "Under other circumstances, sure. But not given my current condition."

An unfamiliar female voice came from behind him. "Yeah, you're definitely out of shape. Come to a few practice sessions, though, and I'll whip that fine ass into peak condition. And then you can join my team, instead of Wolcott's group of losers."

Somehow, he knew who must have arrived before he even saw her.

Short and tough-looking, with a pugnacious jaw and a dark ponytail. Clearly unconcerned about insulting others. Holding her very expensive twig with casual ease. She could only be one woman.

"Natasha." Sam sighed. "I didn't even speak of the devil. So why are you here?"

Yup, that's the one.

"Ah, idioms. One of the lowest forms of loser talk." With a flick of her fingers, she dismissed him and turned back to Miles. "What do you say?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "I think Nat just demonstrated why you'd enjoy being on my team more than hers. So what do you think?"

Miles blinked at the two of them, half-convinced he was hallucinating. What didn't they understand? Hadn't they noticed his empty sleeve?

Tired of dancing around the subject, he let go of Mary's hand, shrugged off his jacket, and revealed the T-shirt he wore beneath. The one with a pinned left sleeve, which he jabbed in their direction. "See? I can't do it. You'll both need to find some other guy who has two arms."

They stared at him, unconcerned.

"Why?" Sam asked. "If you don't want to play, no big deal. But if you're interested, please don't let a missing arm stop you."

Miles's jaw dropped. "I can't even hold my stick anymore. How could I possibly play?"

"You use your armpit as your top hand." Natasha shrugged. "Or get a prosthetic arm. Whatever works best for you."

Mary appeared to be in full-on cringe mode. But she didn't dispute what her friends had said, and a thoughtful expression was beginning to replace the discomfort evident on her face. Did she actually think he'd consider joining the team?

No. No way was he humiliating himself like that. "Even apart from balance issues, wouldn't that hurt like hell? I mean, my armpit isn't exactly tough and calloused."

Natasha tapped her foot on the concrete floor. "You can tape the living fuck out of the knob of your stick and desensitize your damn armpit. So what do you say? Are you in or out?"

"Out." Swallowing his bitterness, he managed to add, "But thanks for the invitation."

"Whatever." She slung her stick over her shoulder. "Bye, Con. Bye, Mary. I'll be skating against you again in a couple of weeks, Wolcott. You might want to wear extra pads on your ass, since it's most definitely going to get kicked."

Her strut to the front entrance drew the attention of the remaining players, who regarded her with mingled affection, fear, and respect. She didn't deign to offer them a single glance. Instead, she banged out of the rink the same way she'd torn up the ice—with complete disregard for anything but her goal and how fast she could get there.

"I love that woman," Con muttered, "but she's a fucking steamroller."

Once Nat disappeared into the parking lot, Sam turned back to Miles. "I know she's a pain in the butt, but she's not wrong. She used to have another guy on her team with one arm. He eventually joined the National Standing/Amputee Hockey Team, but he played with us for a few seasons. One of our league's best defenders."

"National Standing/Amputee Hockey Team?" Mary interjected.

"It's made up of amputees who can skate standing." Sam's eyes, a warm brown, caught Miles's. "If you decided to join the amateur league, the dudes on that team or the American Amputee Hockey Association could probably give you some tips. Stuff like how to tie your skates and deal with your stick."

_Jesus, couldn't these people let it go?_ "That's not going to be an issue. I appreciate the information, though."

"No problem." After hoisting his enormous duffel bag, Sam turned to Con with raised brows. "Are you ready to head home, love? Or do you want to ogle Mary's date a little longer?"

Not a hint of embarrassment crossed his wife's face. "Saw that, did you?"

"I think astronauts on the International Space Station were able to watch you drool over him." He shook his head at her, his lips twitching. "It's not nice to lust after your friend's man. Especially in front of your own."

"You'll survive. And she knows I might look, but I'd never touch." Con hugged Mary. "I'll catch up with you tomorrow, honey."

"See you soon, Miss Mary." Sam gave her a quick hug and offered Miles a fist bump. "Nice to meet you, Miles."

"Yeah." Con gave Miles one last head-to-toe perusal. " _Very_ nice."

"Control yourself, wife," Sam said, and then dragged her toward the parking lot.

When the door shut behind the couple, Mary took Miles's hand but didn't say a word. Which suited him perfectly, since he couldn't seem to speak or shut down the thoughts that kept screaming in his brain.

_Why did they have to bring it up? I don't want to talk about my arm. Shit, I don't even want to_ think _about it._

The best evening he'd spent in recent memory now felt tainted. Ruined by the reminder of what he'd lost and tried so fucking hard to forget. If only other people would let him.

Still, none of the blame belonged to Mary. So he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. She gazed up at him, her dark eyes tentative and worried.

"It's okay," he said, even though it wasn't. Not really.

She nodded, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. "What do you want to do now?"

"Let's get you back to the cabin before you turn into a pumpkin." He mustered up a smile and watched her shoulders relax a little. "It's late, and I don't want you overtired when you're driving home."

The fifteen minutes they spent in the car felt more like thirty. He didn't want to share his thoughts, and Mary didn't speak either, so they both sat listening to the radio without a word exchanged.

When they reached his driveway, he cleared his throat and tried to shake off his bad mood. "Want to come in for a moment?"

She studied him for a long time before answering. "Sure."

Keep it light. No more drama for tonight.

"This morning, I saw a documentary about Cuba you might like," he said as they walked up the porch steps. "But I forget the title. Let me check my DVR."

Her brow smoothed, the worry lines there disappearing. "Sounds great."

When he let them inside and turned on his TV, though, the familiar face staring back at him caused them both to stiffen.

A voice boomed over his speakers, too loud in the dim hush of his cabin. "What's next for Camille Lane? The Hollywood Entourage found out in an exclusive interview!"

Fumbling with the remote, he changed channels before he could hear another word.

That lovely face was an unwelcome reminder of his past, come back to taunt him at just the wrong moment. So he knew exactly why he'd flipped to another channel so quickly. What he couldn't explain: why Mary suddenly seemed to have withdrawn a million miles away, even as she lingered within arm's reach.

"Mary?" He touched her hand. "Are you okay?"

To his surprise, she shook her head.

"No." She blinked up at him, her big brown eyes wary. "No, I'm not sure I am."
11

Whenever she saw Camille Lane on screen, Mary sympathized a tiny bit with the paparazzi. Encountering Miles's most famous ex-girlfriend in the flesh must be like visiting the Grand Canyon. Faced with that sort of breathtaking gorgeousness, who _wouldn't_ want to take a picture? Or a hundred?

"What's wrong?" Miles moved closer, surrounding her with his warmth. So why did she still feel so cold?

She shook her head, unable to translate her thoughts into words. Despite what she'd just said, did she really want to have this conversation now? After an already tense evening? Wouldn't it be better simply to say good night and save her insecurities for another time? Say, the next millennium?

"That was Camille. I dated her for a few months last year." Miles's voice was cautious. "Maybe you've heard of her?"

Over the past decade, Mary had seen the woman in countless magazines, watched her walk innumerable red carpets. Camille Lane, formerly the face of a major cosmetics company and currently an award-winning dramatic actress, required no introduction. And even without having seen her on TV moments ago, Mary would have been able to picture her in excruciating detail.

Camille's curls were cropped short, emphasizing her long, regal neck, and her impeccably tailored dresses always clung to her slim figure in precisely the right places. The bright colors of those dresses contrasted beautifully with her famously flawless complexion, making her skin look like ebony satin, dark and smooth and glowing.

In her spindly, outrageously high heels, she towered above most of her costars, and she walked in those heels like she was wearing bedroom slippers. Mary would've broken an ankle within seconds. Diamonds—more than Mary had ever seen in one place, other than jewelry stores—dripped from Camille's delicate ears and surrounded the face of the watch on her graceful wrist. Another small, discreet diamond stud winked from the side of her perfectly flared nostril.

Mary couldn't even begin to guess how much all that jewelry cost. More than she made in a year as a librarian, she knew that for sure. Maybe more than she'd make in a lifetime.

And she certainly had no idea how Camille managed to maintain a figure like that.

Somehow, despite the abundance of her chest and backside, Camille appeared sleek and undeniably fit. Very much, in fact, like the exemplar of what Mary had hoped to achieve in California. She'd dreamed of that lithe strength, those muscles, those curves, as she'd rounded her coffee table for the thousandth time and listened to her stomach growl at night. But she'd never, ever achieved that kind of body. Instead, she'd only damaged her own.

Camille Lane's sheer perfection astounded Mary. Always had.

And sweet mother of mercy, that woman was Miles's ex. Which Mary had known, of course, but the unexpected reminder—of Miles's life back in California, of the contrast between herself and his exes—was rattling her more than it should have.

With a shaking hand, Mary discreetly tried to smooth the hair escaping from the twist at the back of her head. "Yes, I know her." A vast understatement. "I'm a huge fan of her work."

And she was. The movie that had won the actress so many awards— _The Quiet Dignity of Miss Charlotte Painbourne_ —had prompted Mary to empty several tissue packages in the theater, and even more when she'd re-watched the film at home. During the movie's first hour, Camille had beautifully depicted Charlotte's loneliness and grief at the tragic deaths of her entire family and every single one of her friends. And when poor Charlotte's life took an even worse turn in the middle of the movie, the actress's talent had truly shone through.

Mary offered honest praise. "I was amazed at how she portrayed a penniless yellow fever survivor lost alone in a blizzard with such subtlety. Some people would have made it seem over the top, but she paid respect to the story."

Miles turned away with a sudden coughing fit, waving off Mary's offer of help.

From her internet sleuthing, Mary had discovered that he and Camille had dated, but she hadn't realized they'd been together for months. _Months_ implied a certain amount of commitment. A certain amount of trust. And a certain amount of...well, intimacy.

Mary didn't consider herself a jealous person, but the thought of Miles in bed with another, much more glamorous woman stung. More than it should have. After all, Mary didn't really have that much of a claim on him, did she? Heck, he hadn't even asked her to spend the night, and they'd been dating for two months already.

Did he just not want her enough? Or had he somehow grasped that she wasn't ready yet? That she still had doubts about his future and her place in it?

Coughing fit over, Miles turned to Mary again. "I think you'd like her. She's one of the most genuine and kind people I know. Always happy to lend a hand for charity or her friends. Whenever I needed help, she had my back, no questions asked."

Everything Mary had read about Camille's warmth and expansive heart was obviously true. And the loyalty Miles inspired in his ex didn't surprise Mary one bit.

Miles was special. She saw it. Camille clearly saw it. Heck, millions of viewers across America and the world saw it too.

No matter what he said, Nice County wouldn't hold him forever. Not with friends like Camille and millions of devoted fans eager for his return to California.

What in the world was Mary doing with a man like him?

She needed a minute to think. "I'd like to use your restroom, if that's okay."

His brows furrowed. "Are you crazy? Of course it's okay. You're my girlfriend. Live in there, if you'd like."

A gentle rush of warmth displaced a smidgeon of Mary's anxiety. _Girlfriend_. He was calling her his _girlfriend_ , even though he'd dated one of the most famous women in Hollywood.

Maybe I do have a claim on him after all.

She made the familiar trip to his lone bathroom. And as she washed her hands after using the facilities, she looked up and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, under the harsh fluorescent lights.

Bags under her eyes. A tummy that refused to become concave, no matter how many crunches she suffered through. A hairline so high the mean kids in middle school had teased her about having a fivehead. No Hollywood glamour queen, not by a long shot. Pretty on a good day. Acceptable most days. And at the end of a long, tiring evening, maybe not even that.

Why did he want someone like her? Because he didn't feel like he deserved or could get better, given his missing arm?

Feeling shakier than she had in years, she left the bathroom and made a beeline for her purse. "I'd better go. Thank you for a lovely evening."

She got up on tiptoe and gave him a quick kiss, her eyes never quite meeting his.

When she turned away, though, he snagged her waist. "Mary? What's wrong?"

She shook her head. "It's not important."

"Anything that puts that look on your face is important." He tugged her to the couch, and she didn't resist. Not even when he settled her on his lap the way he always did after they'd watched a tearjerker. "If this is about Camille, I swear we're just friends. We haven't been together for over a year now, and there are no lingering romantic feelings."

Her face buried against his chest, she sighed. "That's not it."

"Then what? Was I rude to your friends at the end of the game? If so, I apologize."

He obviously wasn't going to drop the subject. Like Sarah, he was prepared to badger her until she spoke her mind.

_Damn. Damn, damn, damn. I didn't want to talk about this. Not tonight, anyway_.

She tilted her head back to meet his eyes.

"I..." Her dry throat hurt when she swallowed. "I'll never be like that, you know. No matter what I do."

He blinked at her, lines etching themselves across his forehead. "Like what?"

"I'll never look like Camille." She flung a hand toward the TV. "Or any of your other exes. If that's what you want—"

She cut herself off, unwilling to say the rest.

But as she'd predicted, he didn't let her swallow the words. "If that's what I want?"

"Why are you with me? I'll never look like a model or a Hollywood star. Not even if I went hungry all the time and exercised until my hair fell out."

His eyes widened, and he stared at her.

Now that she'd started, she couldn't stop. "Are you dating me as a consolation prize, because you don't think you can get the sort of woman you really want anymore? Not out here in rural Maryland? Not given your current circumstances?"

Oh, heavens. Why did I say all that? Why am I bothering him with my own stupid insecurities?

She held on to his shoulders for balance as he lifted his supportive hand from her back and cupped the side of her face. His hazel eyes had turned somber.

"I don't understand why you would ever think that." The brush of his thumb against her cheek, reverent and gentle, soothed her. "I don't even know where to begin correcting you, because there are so many things wrong with what you just said."

"But Camille—"

"Is a former model, yes. But is she more beautiful than you? No." When she opened her mouth to argue, he leveled her a stern look of warning. "Let me finish, please."

Reluctantly, she closed her mouth again.

"Okay, first things first. You're perfect. Gorgeous. And before you decide I'm simply saying that to make you feel better, let me be clear. I'm not lying. I'm also not saying I love your personality, and that makes you gorgeous to me." His face screwed up in a frown. "That came out wrong. I mean, your personality probably _would_ make you beautiful to me no matter what, but a workaround isn't necessary. Everything about you attracts me. Your mind. Your spirit. And definitely your body."

The intensity of his gaze was making her so darn uncomfortable, she had to shut her eyes. "But she's _shiny_ , Miles. And I would kill myself in those heels she wears."

"I'm a carpenter, Mary. I may be a carpenter who ended up on television, but I work with my hands. High-maintenance women and I don't do well together over the long term. I'd rather be with a woman who's gorgeous but would feel at home on a construction site." He smiled at her. "Or in a rural cabin. I don't want shiny. I'm not especially presentable myself most of the time."

He suddenly went still, and she opened her eyes to see him stricken and pale. "I mean, I used to work with my hands. Not anymore, of course."

She massaged his shoulders with loving care, soothing him the only way she could. Goodness knew, no words were adequate to encompass the raw loss she suddenly spied in every line of his face.

After a minute, he stilled her hands and refocused on her. "Let's go back to what you said about dieting and exercise. Do you really think I want you to lose weight?"

"I don't know." She glanced at her arms stretched in front of her, her thighs resting on his. "I'm built solid. I try to eat right and exercise regularly, but I just don't have Camille's body type."

His eagle eyes didn't miss a thing. "I love your arms. They're strong and soft at the same time." He ducked his head to nuzzle her biceps. "And your legs make me think things that would shock you, Mary."

Goodness gracious, she wanted to ask. But if she started blushing any harder, she was going to burst into flames.

"You don't need to lose an ounce or exercise a minute more. Hell, gain ten pounds. Gain fifty. Gain a hundred." He shrugged. "I really won't care. I've dated larger women before. Which you probably know, since you mentioned my exes."

"They may have been plus-sized, but they were still models, Miles," she couldn't help pointing out.

He waved a hand. "Irrelevant. We've already established that you're gorgeous. One final question, Mary. What's this about your hair falling out?"

Damn. She'd hoped he'd missed that stupid, telling reference. If she ever snagged another TV-star boyfriend in the future, she was going for a dumb one.

She gulped a little, and then told him what he wanted to know. Heck, what he _needed_ to know. "When I was in California, I had some issues with disordered eating and compulsive over-exercising. My hair kind of, um...fell out."

He didn't visibly react, but he didn't look away from her, either. "Tell me more."

So she did, sharing the most distressing period of her life with him and answering his many questions. If she'd had her druthers, she'd have done it all with her hands over her face. Every time she tried, though, he gently pulled them away.

"Usually, I think that's cute. But this is important. I want to see you," he said.

And how could she argue with that?

When she finished her story, he sat silent for a minute.

"I'm so sorry you went through that," he finally said. "I don't understand why you can't see how beautiful you are, but I promise to support you the best way I know how. And in return, I want a promise from you. Please promise to tell me if something makes you feel bad about the way you look. Right away, so I can help fix it, or at least make you feel better."

She nibbled on her bottom lip.

After a moment, he tugged on a stray lock of her hair. "Promise."

"I promise," she muttered.

"Now it's time for the hands-on portion of this conversation." This time, his expression only twisted a little. "Hand-on, I should say."

She leaned back. "What does that mean?"

"I've told you how perfect and gorgeous I think you are, but you still don't believe me. I can see it in your face."

The words spilled from her lips without her approval. "Well, you haven't asked me to...you know. Spend the night. And we've been dating for a while now."

This time, he let her cover her face.

"What would you say if I did ask you?" His voice had become breathless, and his body had turned tense beneath hers.

Polite evasion wouldn't suffice. She needed to tell him the truth. "I'd probably say no. I don't do, um, _that_ outside of a committed relationship."

At that, his body went from tense to rocklike. "You don't think we're in a committed relationship? Because from my perspective, it certainly feels and looks like one."

Oh, goodness. He was clearly offended.

"We are. Kind of." She forced herself to drop her hands and meet his eyes. "But I still think you might decide to return to California and get back on television. I mean, assuming you don't have enough money saved to retire now, what are you even going to do for work here?"

He shifted beneath her, his eyes going over her right shoulder. "I was thinking I might write a book. Maybe." His shoulders drooped. "Okay, so I'm not too sure what I want to do for a living yet. But I know I want to stay here. With you. I'm not cut out for life in Hollywood anymore."

_Because of your arm? If so, you might change your mind once you've had more time to recover_. She wanted to speak the words, but she figured they'd had enough painful honesty for one evening. She needed to let it go, at least for now.

"If you're not ready to spend the night, that's fine." He looked away from her again. "That's why I waited to ask. I didn't want to rush you, and I didn't think you were there yet."

Something about those statements rang false to her. But once more, she didn't have the fortitude to press him. Not right that second. Not when he was moving his hand to the back of her neck and tugging her close.

He captured her mouth with his, his typical caution transformed into flagrant carnality. His tongue staked a claim, masterful and skilled, all gentleness gone. And for the first time, she understood just how tightly leashed he'd kept himself for weeks and weeks.

His breathing became ragged, his body exuded heat, and he turned restless beneath her, running his hand up and down her back, along her side, and down to her bottom. He squeezed there with a low groan. And somehow, he maneuvered her into straddling him on the couch, her legs bracketing his hips as she buried her fingers in his hair and abandoned all thought.

For endless minutes, they sat entwined and kissing, so close she could feel every shift of his muscles, every rise of his chest. So close she could forget all her misgivings.

When he finally ripped his mouth from hers, she felt the loss like a slap.

He captured her hand and pressed her palm to the zipper of his jeans. Beneath it, he was hard. So hard that her breath hitched in shock and desire both.

"You're not ready." He was panting, color high in slashes across his cheekbones. "But for God's sake, Mary, don't ever doubt that I want you."
12

Enough with the treadmill. Miles was taking his exercise outside that morning.

The day had dawned sunny and a bit cool. Perfect running weather. He lived in an area with seldom-traveled roads edged by beautiful forests, so the view should be great. And if a car or two passed him on the road, a ball cap should suffice to keep him anonymous.

He stretched a bit, drank a bottle of water, ate a snack. All his normal routine. Then, unlike every other day, he opened his front door and locked it behind him, shoving his key into a little pocket in his baggy shorts. Down the driveway he went, breathing in the fresh air of the morning as the gravel crunched beneath his feet.

_Nice County really is lovely_. _Not crowded. No one else nearby. Just me, nature, and—hopefully—Mary. Maybe a family at some point, if things keep going well._

_A family would require sex_ , a nasty voice in his brain reminded him. _And you haven't had the nerve to get naked in front of her. Not even close._

_It'll just take time_ , he argued back. _I just need a little more time._

He walked for a couple of minutes. Then, when his muscles felt warm and loose, he kicked out his stride and broke into a run.

It felt a little weird, he had to admit. He'd become accustomed to the safety of the treadmill's frame, the knowledge that if he lost his balance, he could quickly clamp his right hand down on a piece of the structure and support himself.

His center of balance wasn't what it used to be. Removing something like ten pounds from one side of his body would do that to a man. He didn't like to think about it, but that didn't change the facts at hand.

_At hand_. He snorted and ran a little faster.

This patch of pavement was pretty narrow, a two-lane road with gravel on either side. Rutted from long-forgotten snowstorms and all the salt the county dumped for traction afterward, it could use some patches. It looked rough, but it was still functioning.

He sympathized.

The trees loomed over him on both sides of the road, leaves bright with the yellowish green of spring. The evergreens stood watch patiently, unchanging and dignified. A welcome breeze blew through his hair and rushed in his ears as he pushed his muscles and stamina to the limit. His chest heaved, and his lungs burned with the effort.

God, he missed being outdoors. Missed running alongside his brother.

_Don't think about your old life_.

The sound of a distant engine made him slow and move to the edge of the road. A rusted-out truck eventually overtook him with a friendly beep, and Miles waved in response.

Trying not to inhale the truck's exhaust, he began to speed up again. And then his foot hit something. A loose rock, possibly. A slippery patch of gravel, maybe.

It didn't matter, not right then. In a flash, he was airborne and headed straight for the pavement. Instinctively, he threw out his arms to catch himself.

The next thing he knew, he was lying curled on the gravel shoulder, his nose a fireball of pain, wetness dripping from his nostrils, and his right palm and both knees covered in road rash.

He laughed, the sound harsh and loud.

He'd thrown out his arms to catch himself. Arms. Plural.

In his mind, he still had two. He could still feel his left arm every minute of every day, after all. At one time, that invisible arm had caused him so much fucking agony he'd cried for his mother alone in his cabin. Now it didn't hurt, but he could still sense it. Smaller and less defined, but not gone. Never gone.

Only it _was_ gone. Forever. And the one arm he had left hadn't broken his fucking fall. His nose had.

In the distance, the truck's brake lights flashed, and through bleary eyes, Miles saw the vehicle make a U-turn. He didn't want help. He didn't want to talk to anyone. But as with so many unpleasant things these days, he wasn't going to have a goddamn choice, was he?

The truck came to a halt on the opposite shoulder, and a man wearing a John Deere cap peered through his open window. "You okay, son?"

Slowly, every inch of his body raw from either gravel or humiliation, Miles levered himself to his feet. When he swiped at his nose, his forearm came away bloody.

"I'm fine," he said.

The woman in the passenger's seat leaned way over to poke her head out of the window too. "You should go to the hospital. Your nose might be broken."

"We can take you," the man offered, his gray brows drawn together in concern. "We weren't doing anything important."

God, why were these people still parked? He'd said he was fine. "I don't have my wallet. Once I'm home, I'll go somewhere to get my nose looked at."

The woman poked out her head further. "Why don't we drive you home?"

The last thing he wanted to do was accept a ride from random people, like a child who'd wandered too far from his house and hadn't heard of stranger danger. But his head ached. He didn't even know exactly how far he was from his cabin. And really, what could they do to him that he hadn't already done to himself?

So it appeared he'd be relying on the kindness of strangers. Which made sense, since he sure as hell couldn't rely on himself anymore.

He climbed into the passenger's side of the truck bench as the woman scooted to the center. After giving them his name and address, he occupied himself with not dripping blood on to the vehicle's ripped upholstery. The woman smiled at him, but she let the conversation lapse after Miles merely nodded at her introductions and didn't respond to any of her other overtures.

They reached his driveway in silence. When the truck had parked near the cabin, Miles finally spoke again. "Thank you."

"Be careful getting down," the woman warned.

For just a moment, he wanted to bellow at her, to shout that he wasn't a child. But instead he simply nodded, slammed the door behind him, walked up to his cabin, and unlocked the door. Once the sound of their truck faded, he went inside and shoved tissues up his nose.

And then, because he didn't want to ruin yet another necessary part of his body, he got in his car and headed for the nearest urgent care.

* * *

No concussion. And an X-ray revealed that his nose wasn't broken, just swollen and ugly. He supposed that was good. A few days, some strategically applied ice packs, and over-the-counter painkillers ought to take care of the problem entirely.

He wasn't bleeding anymore. His nose only hurt a little bit. But he didn't feel any sense of relief.

Instead, his skin had become too tight, his muscles so tense he was trembling. He felt like a man holding the pin in place on a bomb, knowing one false move would result in bits of him scattered everywhere. But despite his best efforts, his grasp was loosening moment by moment.

Nothing helped him get a good grip. Not TV. Not the internet. Not even the months-old beer he found at the back of his fridge. And he didn't understand why. Why now, after all these months?

Nothing was wrong. Nothing was wrong. But telling himself that didn't help either.

He stood under a hot shower and let the water sting his cuts and abrasions. He let his mind wander for just a moment. And in a flash, the memory he'd suppressed for so long burst free, exploding into his consciousness.

He shuddered, his hand braced against the slick wall of the shower.

The blue sky above him, the rubble and sharp tools below as he hurtled toward the ground from the bare-bones scaffolding. Screams all around. Then agony and blackness.

Another rough laugh ripped from his throat, and his knees threatened to buckle.

Now he knew what was happening. He could even put it in Hollywood terms.

Today's fall was simply the PG version of what he'd experienced months ago. A sequel of sorts, the events of the original story driving the plot of the next one. His initial punishment, a lost arm in the first film, begetting more punishment, a bloody nose in the second.

All because of that fatal hero's flaw, hubris. He was such a fucking cliché. His pain today, his agony then—he'd earned them both months ago, years ago, with his cockiness, carelessness, and stupidity. He deserved them both.

He repeated that to himself, shivering under the now-cold spray. He _deserved_ what he'd gotten, more than he'd deserved his charmed life before the accident. And the reality, the permanence of his punishment had literally smacked him in the face today. The least he could do was acknowledge it.

No more pretending everything was fine. No more ignoring the obvious. No more aping normality.

He needed to rub his face in his own mess.

Leaving the water running, he stepped out of the shower and in front of the small mirror over the vanity. And for the first time since his accident, he deliberately raised the end of his left arm toward that mirror and examined its reflection.

The stitches had long since disappeared, but the skin there still looked new, pinkish under the fluorescent lights. And the doctors at the rural clinic hadn't given him a flat or rounded terminus. Instead, the end of his arm now had _topography_. Peaks and valleys. Maybe they'd been trying to save as much of his arm as they could. He didn't know. He'd been unconscious, then sedated. And then he'd been rushed to an American hospital, his severed arm left far behind.

So he didn't know why the area wasn't smooth. But he did know he could barely make himself map the terrain. To his eyes, it looked unnatural. Unnatural and disturbing.

In the shower, he only touched that arm to keep it clean, soaping and rinsing with as much speed as he could muster. He dried it off with quick dabs of the towel and did his best not to notice it at any other point during the day. To help him in that effort, he'd pinned the left sleeves of all his shirts shut. For others, yes, but mainly for himself. The last thing he needed was an accidental glimpse of his amputation site.

He didn't want to see it. He didn't want to acknowledge it.

He still didn't. But he wasn't giving himself a choice anymore.

His muscles clenched, his breathing harsh, he forced himself to take hold of what remained of his arm, the ragged remnants of what had once been whole, the unsettling shape of what had once been familiar.

"Your arm is gone, asshole. It's never coming back," he told himself through gritted teeth. "Never."

He explored every ridge and hollow. Touched every millimeter of skin and muscle and the tendons underneath. He peered at the sight in the mirror until he could close his eyes and still see it clearly. And then he opened the cabinet under the sink and took out the prosthetic arm he'd gotten after the accident.

Everyone had told him getting a prosthesis was a normal part of the process. But he hadn't really wanted it, and he sure as hell hadn't worn it.

The prosthetist had taken a mold of Miles's remaining hand and created a mirror image in painted silicone. It was almost entirely ornamental, just a prop to assuage the sensibilities of anyone who couldn't handle the absence of _something_ in place of his elbow, forearm, wrist, and hand.

To Miles, it was a reminder. A creepy, uncanny-valley reminder of what he'd lost.

And right now, he was going to use it for the first time.

He took his prosthetic left hand in his flesh-and-blood right hand and gripped it tightly. Then, with months of suppressed rage and despair detonating within him, he swung that motherfucker at the mirror.

The initial blow shattered the glass. But it wasn't enough. He swung and swung, knocking over his toothbrush holder and the vase of flowers he'd placed by the sink to impress Mary. Splintering the porcelain soap dish. Destroying everything, the same way he'd destroyed himself.

The last pristine items in the bathroom—the shelves on the wall, the gentle watercolors he'd had Jessie install for Mary's sake—crashed on to the floor. And when everything breakable had been smashed to pieces, he flung down the arm, climbed back underneath the frigid shower spray, and huddled in a tight ball in the corner. Keening and rocking like a child, the same child he'd claimed not to be with such defiance earlier that day.

He didn't know how long he stayed there. But when he emerged, he could barely feel his feet. Which was probably for the best, since he landed on glass with his first step out of the stall. Slowly, he swept up that glass and the porcelain and everything else scattered around the room. One by one, he bandaged his new cuts, the physical markings of his frenzy.

Afterward, he found his cell and wrote a text to Mary.

Can't make our date tonight. Sorry.

He didn't wait for a response, simply shut down his phone. And then he walked into his bedroom, shut all the blinds, and wondered whether morning would eventually come again.
13

After hours of radio silence from Miles, Mary decided to take action.

When she'd read his text, she'd been concerned but not panicked. Within moments, she'd sent him a brief e-mail asking if everything was all right. And then, when he hadn't responded to that message by late afternoon, she'd figured maybe his internet had gone down, so she'd tried texting him instead.

No answer.

By bedtime that night, she'd dismissed any worries about appearing desperate. Largely because she _was_ desperate. His lack of communication was completely out of character for him. For weeks, he'd called, texted, or e-mailed her multiple times a day. Always. And he'd never canceled a date before, especially without telling her why.

Two potential explanations came to mind. Either he wanted to break up with her and couldn't muster the nerve to say so—Angie had called that "ghosting," if Mary remembered correctly—or something had gone terribly wrong.

She was hoping for the former. If he'd decided not to see her anymore, fine. Okay, not fine, but she could handle it. What she couldn't handle was her growing uncertainty about his welfare.

That's when she began calling him. Every thirty minutes until midnight.

No answer.

Miles wasn't a coward. He wouldn't break up with her without a word.

She wasn't worried about ghosting anymore. She was worried about injuries. Life-threatening, incapacitating injuries.

He'd accidentally hurt himself before, as she well knew. Last month, she'd watched him carry an unwieldy box of tools toward the front door for his handywoman's use. The box had bobbled violently in his arm as he'd walked across the living room, almost tipping over several times. When Mary had offered help, he'd refused. And he'd done so with enough irritated emphasis that she hadn't asked again.

Then, of course, she'd had to watch as he dropped that box with a loud thud on to his right foot. He'd hissed in pain. But when she'd jogged toward his icemaker, he'd told her to let him be. That he could take care of himself. So she'd sat by helplessly as he limped to the refrigerator, made an impromptu cold pack with a dish towel, and peeled off his sock to ice a rapidly blackening bruise on his foot.

Afterward, he'd hobbled for at least a week.

Just days ago, she'd seen him juggle a heavy pan of brownies, which she'd brought to bake at his house. They'd gone into the oven easily enough. But freshly baked and piping hot, they'd required more careful handling. She'd asked to help. He'd rejected the offer. So the brownies had ended up on the floor, and the pan had seared his forearm.

That burn was still healing, covered by a bandage she changed every time she saw him. At least he'd let her do that much.

And those were only two of the incidents she'd actually witnessed. Heaven only knew how many times he'd hurt himself without an audience.

It was frustrating and heartrending. She didn't want to take away an iota of his autonomy, and she didn't want to question his decisions about what he was capable of doing. He had the right to refuse her help for any reason whatsoever, or for no reason at all. But she also didn't want to see him hurt himself again and again. Not when she suspected his refusals of assistance stemmed less from pride and independence and more from an unwillingness to even acknowledge his missing arm. From a pretense that his life and body hadn't changed at all, despite the fact that he barely left his cabin.

Had he fallen from a ladder? Cut himself while trying to chop food? Slipped in the bathroom and found himself unable to reach a phone?

The isolated location of his cabin, the privacy she knew he cherished, would leave him so alone in an emergency. No neighbors would hear calls for help. If he injured himself, no other houses sat within easy walking distance. And given how few visitors he typically received, he could go days without someone realizing all wasn't well in the O'Connor residence.

At least, someone other than her.

She'd seen this movie before. It usually ended with a silent ambulance making its sad way to the morgue, no hurry necessary under the circumstances. It ended with bereft family members and swelling violins as the camera panned over a row of gravestones. It ended with tears, and she didn't care to shed those in a real-life context.

No one was making a biopic entitled "Miles O'Connor: A Star Fallen Too Soon." Not on her watch.

So around one o'clock in the morning, she started gathering supplies. A couple of flashlights and extra batteries, since his neighborhood turned pitch-black at nightfall. Her fully charged phone. Snacks, bottles of water, and a first-aid kit.

Before two, she was rolling to a stop beside his car. The front door to his house was closed, and the flashlight didn't reveal any signs of forced entry. Either he was still inside or had suffered some sort of terrible accident outdoors.

A quick lap around the cabin didn't reveal him sprawled and unconscious on the ground. That relieved one of her worries, but left countless more unaddressed. He could be lying on the floor of his cabin, injured or dying. He could have wandered into the woods and gotten irretrievably lost.

Or, given the light she'd just seen illuminate the edges of a back window—his bedroom window, she assumed—he could have simply gone to bed without contacting her.

Because his blinds were drawn, she didn't know what was happening inside. But he was clearly home and well enough to turn on a light. And to be honest, she was getting more than a little embarrassed by her presumption and the depth of her worry.

_Miles has the right to spend an afternoon and evening without contacting me_ , she told herself. _Heck, he has the right to ghost me, even though I wouldn't have thought he was the type_.

She should drive home and leave him in peace.

Still, the nagging certainty that something had gone terribly wrong wouldn't leave her. His ability to turn on a light didn't necessarily guarantee his well-being, after all. Maybe someone had done or said something terrible to him because of his arm. Maybe he'd even been recognized, the paparazzi were heading his way right now, and he was panicking.

She shook her head. _You've been hanging around Sarah too much_.

Okay, maybe she was being a drama queen. But shouldn't she try one last time to talk to him? Just for a moment, to make sure everything was okay?

So without letting the prospect of either an in-person rejection or his possible anger deter her, she marched to the front door and hit the doorbell. Within seconds, she heard familiar footsteps nearing the entryway.

Her first thought: _Thank goodness. He can still walk_.

Her second thought: _Oh, no. If he's fine, he's going to think I'm a stalker_.

The porch light flicked on, and she squinted under its blinding glare. There was a momentary pause, during which she suspected he was looking through the peephole. And then the door opened, and Miles was standing in front of her.

With a single glance, she knew. He might not have injured himself terribly—although his black eyes, swollen nose, bandaged feet, and the little cuts over his arms and face argued otherwise—but something was definitely wrong.

He stared right through her, his hazel eyes stony. No goofy grin. Not a hint of the welcoming warmth she'd come to expect every time she saw him.

And goodness help her, he wasn't saying a word. Not one.

For the first time ever, she was intimidated by him.

_But he obviously needs you, Mary. Or if not you, someone. Be respectful of his wishes, but don't let him hide either_.

"What happened?" she blurted out. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." When she directed a horrified glance at his various bruises and bandages, he shrugged. "I fell earlier, but nothing's broken."

"Oh." She swallowed hard. "Good."

"Why are you here? I said I couldn't make it tonight." His voice sounded shredded, like he'd been screaming or crying for hours, even though she couldn't spy a trace of emotion on his face.

"I know, but..." Her hands spread in a helpless gesture. "I kept feeling like something was really wrong. And when I couldn't get in touch with you, I panicked."

"Well, I'm fine. And tired. I should be heading back to bed now." He reached for the door. "I'll contact you at some point tomorrow."

The impersonality of it all stung. The dismissal. The pretense that he was okay, when she'd never seen a human being suppressing so much pain. And she still didn't even know _why_.

"Good night, Mary." The door started swinging shut.

Her foot blocked it. "No."

As she'd suspected, he didn't try to force the door closed. She might not understand his current state of mind, but she knew he'd never hurt her. Not physically. Not on purpose.

This assertiveness wasn't like her. Not in the slightest. But he was worth abandoning her usual constraints.

She licked her dry lips and made her stand. "You can break up with me. You can refuse to talk to me again after tonight. You can even take out a restraining order first thing in the morning, if you'd like. But right now, you're letting me in and telling me what happened. I'm not leaving until you do."

His jaw tightened so hard, she was worried he'd crack a tooth.

Then he opened the door and stepped aside, allowing her into the cabin. She walked directly over to the lamp by the couch and flicked it on.

She waved him closer. "Let me take a look at you."

His jaw still carved from stone, he obeyed.

A slow circle revealed every bit of damage not covered by his loose T-shirt and jeans. The burn from the brownie pan, still pink but uncovered. The bruising around his eyes. His poor, misshapen nose. The innumerable cuts. The bandages she could see peeking out from the bottoms of his feet.

"What in the world happened to you?" She kept trying to picture an accident that would cause all his injuries, and she wasn't having a lot of success.

He put his hand in his pocket with deliberate casualness. "A fall. Like I said."

"Where did you fall, then? And what caused the cuts on your feet?"

Maybe she shouldn't keep pushing. It certainly wasn't her normal behavior. Instinct, rather than habit, was driving her now. Instinct and her longing for him to share himself with her. His true self, not the polished version he wanted to offer the world.

She'd shared a good portion of her darkest secrets with him the other night. The endless circles around her coffee table. Her hair falling out, strand by strand. The vigilance she employed to stop herself from falling into old, destructive habits.

If they were ever going to have a real relationship, he needed to share right back. She didn't want a self-sufficient monolith of a man, impervious to pain and struggle. She wanted _him_ , body and mind and soul.

To this point, he hadn't allowed her to get a clear glimpse of any of the three.

Tonight, she was either cracking his defenses or admitting defeat once and for all. If he couldn't even talk about his new injuries with her, his girlfriend of two months, what did they really have, anyway? Not a genuine relationship, Mary knew that for sure.

When he stayed silent, she took a deep breath and brought out the wrecking ball. The question that had remained unanswered. The unacknowledged elephant standing between them, using up all the oxygen and space in the room even while she and Miles pretended not to see it.

"Okay, then. Forget about today. What happened to your arm? How did you lose it?"

His face turned the white of bleached bone, and his breath grew fast.

"I'm a librarian, Miles. I do research. I know that the last time you were seen in public, you were shooting an episode of _The Naked Carpenter_ on location in South America. So I assume that's where the accident happened. Was it a car wreck? Did you have a problem with your tools? Was there an explosion of some sort?"

He was trembling. Then again, so was she.

"If you want a relationship with me, you need to answer my questions. Not because I'm nosy or want gory details, but because I can't love a man who doesn't let himself be known. I can't give myself to a man who keeps so much of himself locked away. And I can't reach your pain when you keep pretending it doesn't exist." Her voice broke. "I want to love you, Miles. I want to give myself and my trust to you. I want to support you. But I can't do any of those things if you don't _talk to me_."

His eyes met hers, and she could almost see the turmoil of his thoughts as he measured his fears against his longing. He stared at her, silent and motionless, for so long she began to doubt he'd ever open up to her, ever let her offer her heart and claim his.

If he hadn't started talking by now, he wasn't going to share himself with her.

She was losing him. For good.

All her blinking didn't suffice, not in the face of such pain. Hers and his both. And despite her best efforts, hot tears slid from the corners of her eyes.

At the sight of those tears, the first crack finally appeared in his façade.

He blinked too. Hard. "It was a fall. Like today, only worse. So much worse."

"From your show's construction site?"

His head inclined a bare millimeter. "The roof. The damage was too bad. There was no saving it. Not at a small clinic like the one they took me to. I..." He swallowed. "I woke up in an American hospital. My arm was still there. I knew it was. I could feel it. But then I looked over, and..."

His chest heaved. "There was nothing. My shoulder, a mass of dressing, and nothing."

She waited. He didn't say more, but the trembling had turned into shaking. She could almost see the pressure building within him, inexorable and ugly. And when it finally released, she wanted to be there to protect him and provide comfort.

Ignoring his unyielding stance, she walked up to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. "Let it out. Let it out, Miles."

_I'll hold you together, I promise_.

The dam crumbled. "My fault. It was all my fault. I was so fucking stupid, Mary. Showboating up on the roof like gravity didn't apply to me. Like I couldn't get hurt, no matter what asinine shit I did. One moment, I was mugging and waving to the camera, and then"—he stifled a sob—"I couldn't catch myself. I couldn't catch myself the way I had a million times before."

She held him tighter, so tightly her arms hurt.

"I tried, but I was out of control. Nothing to hold on to. I could hear people screaming. I think I was screaming, too. And then I was in the hospital, and my arm was gone. My career was gone. And I was in agony. From the amputation site, and from my goddamn missing arm. I didn't even have it anymore, but it wouldn't stop shrieking at me."

Each little hitch of his breath and jerk of his body tore through her.

Rubbing his back, she whispered, "Does it still hurt?"

He lowered his head to her shoulder. "The actual wound stopped hurting months ago. I don't take traditional painkillers anymore."

"What about phantom pain? From your arm, like you said?"

"They gave me another type of medicine. The same stuff they use to treat epilepsy and insomnia. A heavy dose at first, then less and less. I'm off that now too." He took a shaky breath. "I can still sense my arm. Most of it, anyway. And sometimes it feels constricted, like it's in a vise, but it's not actually painful anymore. I have phantom sensation, not phantom pain."

"So things are getting better?"

He stiffened against her, and she let him go when he pulled away.

"No." A few quick paces took him to the other side of the room, and he clenched his hand on the back of the sofa. "No, things aren't getting better, Mary. I still _don't have a fucking arm_."

She bit her lip, heartsick at his distress. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

"Every single thing I do takes at least twice as long as it used to, and there are things I can't do at all anymore. Including my goddamn job." His face was tight. Angry. "I can't even fix my own stupid cabin. My sense of balance is so off that I fall for no real fucking reason, like I did today on my run."

He swung his arm wide. "And when I go out, I'm constantly being watched. By people who'd pity me if they knew who I used to be and what I used to do. But even worse, by people who have no idea who I am, just that I'm a freak. The dude without an arm. The dude who didn't even lose his arm in some good cause, like war, or in some unavoidable accident, like a car crash. I lost my arm because of my own stupidity. Period."

She'd wanted this flood. She'd prodded and poked at him, battering at his defenses until she'd gotten it. Now she just had to hope that she'd made the right decision. That forcing him to talk would help him in the end. Because right now, she could only see his agony, brought to the surface because of her badgering.

"Then there are the people who come up to me." His laugh rang through the room, bitter and harsh. "They tell me how inspirational I am, when all I'm doing is pumping gas or picking up groceries. They carry my bags to my car without asking first. They tell me at least I'm alive, and that I should be grateful."

His voice rose to a near-shout. "I'm not here to teach other people lessons about _appreciating what they have_ or about _bravery_. I'm not _inspirational_. I don't want _admiration_ for performing basic tasks, like I'm a monkey or a child. I don't want help if I don't ask for it. I don't want people staring at my missing arm or, worse, looking away, like the sight is obscene. I don't want to be told _at least you're alive_ or _these things happen for a reason_ , because that's just telling me I shouldn't be angry or sad, at least not where it might make other people uncomfortable."

Her tears spilled over at his raw display of pain, and she didn't try to fight the tide.

"It's all bullshit, Mary, and I hate it." He dropped his arm to his side, his shoulders slumped. "I want my arm back. I want my life back."

This time, when she walked toward him, he pulled her in tightly. So tightly she could barely breathe.

"I don't want to feel stupid and clumsy and on display all the time," he whispered. "But my arm is gone, Mary. It's gone, and it's never coming back."

She rocked him in her embrace, soothing him as he began to weep.

Then, without letting him go for a single instant, she led them both back to his bedroom, kicked off her shoes, dimmed the bedside lamp, and got under the covers with Miles. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, a human cradle for his grief. She held him until his wracking sobs diminished and his breathing deepened and slowed. Until he slept in her arms, a welcome, precious weight.

And then she stared up at his ceiling for hours, waited for morning, and prayed to God that she'd done the right thing.
14

For a moment upon waking, Miles didn't register anything but the warm, soft female body snuggled at his back, breasts pressing against his shoulder blades, legs intertwined with his.

_Mary_ , he thought sleepily. _At last. But why is she wearing pants?_

He really wanted a good morning kiss, so he shifted to roll over. At his first abortive movement, though, her nighttime clothing choices became a lesser concern.

Had a herd of elephants somehow trampled him in his sleep? His muscles ached, his feet stung, his nose throbbed, and his eyes felt gritty. And he seemed to be wearing a T-shirt and jeans, when he normally slept stark naked.

_Oh, God. Oh, shit_.

She murmured something indecipherable and pressed closer, which helped allay the humiliation of the memories that suddenly flooded his awakening brain. The fall. His trip to urgent care. His text to Mary and subsequent inaccessibility. The rage that had claimed all his bathroom accessories as its victims. His breakdown in front of her and her tender care afterward.

He let out a slow breath. Yeah, it was humiliating. But she was still there, in his bed. Possibly out of pity, but possibly not.

Luckily, he had extra bathroom supplies beneath his sink to replace the items he'd destroyed. For instance, a new toothbrush he could use before she woke up. He'd subjected her to plenty the previous night. He didn't need to add morning breath to that extensive list.

She barely stirred when he detached himself from her embrace and slid out of bed. No doubt she was exhausted from all her worry and their late-night confrontation, and he wouldn't wake her for the world. Not even for that long-awaited good morning kiss.

The room remained dim, morning light peeking out in slivers around the edges of his blinds. But even in the near-dark, her familiar, beloved features almost stopped his battered heart. Her wide forehead, soft mouth, and the sweet curve of her cheek. The shadow of her lashes. Her great, dark eyes, now closed in slumber. Her compact body, soft and strong and nurturing.

He could love her so easily. Maybe he already did.

Either way, she deserved fresh breath. So he retreated to his bathroom, closing the door behind himself with an almost-silent click. After using the toilet, he washed his hand, wrestled open a new toothbrush—thank goodness for perforated cardboard—and went to town on his teeth.

As he brushed, he contemplated the bare surface of the wall in front of him. The mirror would need replacing, he supposed. At the moment, though, he suspected its absence was helping his state of mind. If he could see the full extent of the damage he could only feel right now—the battered nose, the cuts, and everything else he'd brought upon himself—he figured all thoughts of kisses and seduction would cease immediately.

Although...

He stopped brushing. This morning, something seemed different. His whole body felt lighter, looser. Weary, yes, but free of the terrible tension that had been his constant companion for months.

Someone had finally seen and heard it all. His fears, his fury, his history.

Not just someone. _Mary._

He began brushing again, considering the shift in their relationship.

She might wake up this morning and flee for the door. But he didn't think so. Not the Mary he knew. Not the woman who'd spent the night wrapped around him, offering comfort with her body and presence when she could have easily left for her own bed.

He spat, rinsed his mouth, and carefully placed the toothbrush next to his sink. Then he got out another new package and left it on the counter for her. After a deep breath, he opened the door to his bedroom and his future.

Time to find out the verdict.

His eyes went to his bed as soon as he left the bathroom. She wasn't there anymore, and his heart nearly seized in his chest. But then he saw her standing at his window, peering out into the woods behind his house through his open blinds.

_She didn't leave. She's still here with me_.

When he exhaled in relief, she turned and offered a sweet, shy smile. "Good morning."

"Morning." Should he try to kiss her? She didn't seem put off by him or in a rush to flee, at least not as far as he could tell.

When he moved toward her, though, she lifted a hand. "I need to make a quick stop first, please."

Of course. The morning-breath issue. And she probably needed to pee too.

"I put an extra toothbrush on the counter. Please feel free to use it." He cleared his throat, determined to get through what he needed to say. "I know I owe you more than a few toiletries, though. Thank you for coming here last night. And thank you for pushing me to talk about my arm. I think..." He shifted his weight. "I think I needed that. I feel better today. Better than I have in months."

"I'm so glad. And relieved." She directed a singularly beautiful smile his way. "And willing to talk about it more, if you'd like. But first, I could really use a minute."

Oh, God, he was stopping her from peeing. "Of course."

Just as he began to step out of her way, the current state of his bathroom occurred to him. "Um, I had some issues in there last night." Wait, that sounded bad. "I mean, not intestinal issues." And that sounded worse, but she'd see what he meant soon enough. "I'll be fixing the mirror and other decorations soon, I promise. But the facilities all still work."

Her brow creased, but she didn't question him. She was probably afraid of what he might say, and he didn't blame her.

"Okay." She headed for the bathroom. "I'll only be a couple of minutes."

Once she closed the door behind her, he rolled his eyes at himself. Intestinal issues? What kind of potential lover brought up _intestinal issues_?

Whatever. Too late to take it back. Now he needed to decide the next step. Should he get back in bed? Start some toast? Or continue lingering awkwardly near the bathroom, freaking her out when she finally emerged?

Bed. He wanted that kiss. Maybe a few kisses.

Hell, he wanted more than kisses. But unless he planned to make love to Mary with his T-shirt on, he had one last, towering hurdle to leap.

His arm. She'd have to see the amputation site. And this morning, for the first time, he thought maybe he was ready to show it to her.

Last night had proven a couple of things. Pretending that he was okay, that nothing had really changed in his body and life, hadn't made him happier. It had only held off his grief for a few months, letting it build until he couldn't hold back the tide any longer.

And hiding himself—physically, emotionally—took so much damn energy. Too much for him to offer what she deserved. His full attention. His presence at her side, wherever and whenever she wanted it. His body. His heart.

So he was done with it. Maybe his body and career would never return to what they'd once been, but that didn't mean he couldn't build a new life. That didn't mean he couldn't find a new career. That didn't mean he couldn't use his new body and test its limits. For work, for fun, and for pleasure.

With Mary. Always with Mary.

He had to trust her. He had to trust himself.

Removing his shirt seemed to require enormous strength and concentration. Every inch of its ascent over his head took a toll. By the time he tossed it on to the nightstand, he was sweating and panting. But he sat on the bed anyway, propping his back against the wall and stretching his legs out in front of him. The picture of ease, as long as she didn't look too closely.

As soon as the bathroom door began to open, he blurted out, "I saw pictures of one dude who turned his residual limb into a dolphin."

She stopped just outside the door. And even though she must have realized he was shirtless, she didn't allow her gaze to leave his face. "An entire dolphin?"

"Well, just the snout and head." He shrugged uncomfortably, feeling more naked than he ever had in his life. Including the time in college when he'd streaked through a soccer game. "He used tattoos. It was pretty amazing."

"Are you considering tattooing your left arm and making it into a sea mammal?"

Her eyes, so calm and warmly amused, eased his anxiety. "Probably not."

"May I look?" She didn't make a move toward him or put undue emphasis on the request. From her tone, she could have been asking to see a family photo or the inside of a new car.

He swallowed over a dry throat. "Yeah. But it's...not smooth. Or rounded. I don't know why. I should have asked at the hospital, but I was too overwhelmed." _Too unwilling to acknowledge my missing arm_. "I'm more like the dolphin guy than you might think."

Her gaze flicked away from him, and he wondered whether she was rethinking her request. Then she gave a little nod and reached for the hem of her shirt.

"Fair's fair." The navy knit fabric cleared her head, and she was suddenly standing before him in her light blue, lacy bra. "Now we both have something to look at."

He blinked. _Don't stare at her breasts. Don't stare at her breasts_.

But hell, hadn't she given him permission to do just that? And God knew he needed something to distract him from her study of his left arm. So he ceased any pretense of politeness and feasted on the sight of them, smooth and dark and full, curving above the pale fabric of her bra. Studied the way the gold of her locket gleamed against her flesh. Marveled at his undeserved good fortune.

She was gorgeous. Perfect. And she was climbing on to the bed, her knees brushing the outside of his left leg as she knelt beside him.

"Is the amputation site particularly sensitive?"

"No." He barely considered the answer, too focused on whether he could remove her bra with only one hand. On the fine grain of her skin and how velvety it seemed to his eyes. "Not anymore."

"May I touch it?"

That got his attention. His head snapped up, and he met her steady gaze. He could find no demand or disgust there, only inquiry. Only a desire to bring down the walls between them, once and for all. Touching the amputation site was an act of intimacy greater than handling any other part of his body, including his cock, and she knew it.

He realized that his head had begun to shake in instinctive refusal, and he forced himself to stop.

"All right," he managed to choke out.

She worried her bottom lip for a moment, and repeated in a whisper, "Fair's fair."

Then he didn't have to worry anymore about removing her bra, because she'd done it herself. She placed it on his nightstand, her hand trembling.

That little tremor snapped him out of his self-absorption. He wasn't the only uncertain one in bed right now. He wasn't the only one revealing himself in a way that didn't come easily. Although he certainly didn't expect Mary to be a virgin, he understood her well enough to guess that she hadn't offered her nude—or half-nude—body to many men in her life.

So he echoed her words in an attempt to make her more comfortable. "May I look?"

She licked her lips and nodded.

Studying her naked breasts did the trick. He barely noticed as she ran a light fingertip from his shoulder to the new terminus of his arm, as she traced the scars and contours, leaving him no secrets. Nothing to hide in shame.

Instead, he was attempting not to drool over her generous cleavage and large, deep brown nipples. They started out soft and hardened under his gaze.

He glanced up. Although she still held his left arm, she wasn't looking at it anymore. She was watching his face. His hand clenched on his thigh. The restless movement of his legs as he fought the need to touch. To stroke. To satisfy them both.

She inclined her head a little. "It's okay. You can touch me."

He lifted his hand, and God, he'd never felt anything as good in his life as the weight of her breast cradled in his palm. Never seen anything as beautiful as the arch of her throat when he teased her nipple with his thumb. Never heard anything as welcome as her little, aroused gasp when he rubbed more firmly over the pebbled surface.

Her own hands were exploring his shoulders, running tentatively down his chest. "You're so strong," she whispered. "I knew it, but it's different to feel it under my fingertips."

For months now, he hadn't regarded his body with an ounce of pride. Not in how it looked or what it could do. But at that moment, fierce exultation roared through every inch of him.

_I can still do this. I can still please a woman_.

Reluctantly, he let go of her breast with one last, lingering stroke of her soft skin. Guiding her with his hand, he urged her to straddle him. He wanted her weight on him, the heat of her against his chest. And most of all, he wanted her within reach of his mouth.

Her eyes heavy-lidded, she followed his lead.

"You're so beautiful," he told her. "The most glorious woman I've ever seen."

Her shoulders shifted. "You don't have to say that."

"I know I don't. Which is why you should believe me." Leaning forward, he halted a millimeter above the delectable curve where her neck met her shoulder. "I've been dreaming of kissing you here."

He could hear the smile in her voice. "You already _have_ kissed me there."

"You didn't let me finish." He was smiling too, letting his lips brush the sensitive skin at the base of her neck. His teeth nibbled gently, tugging on the chain there. He waited for the shiver he wanted. And when he got it, he elaborated. "I dreamed of kissing you here, and then moving downward. I want to worship your breasts, Mary."

He opened his mouth against her soft flesh and sucked lightly. She liked that. He knew it from all those amazing, frustrating make-out sessions on his couch. And sure enough, she wiggled a bit on his lap.

Giving her plenty of time to object, he braced his hand on her back and let his mouth drift lower. Over her locket, down to the curve of her breast. He nuzzled there, entranced by the plush softness against his cheek. Her grip on his shoulders tightened, and she stopped breathing.

He took her nipple in his mouth. Laved and rubbed it with his tongue, sucking until she arched in his lap with a moan. Then he shifted and did the same to her other nipple, working her patiently and with every ounce of skill he possessed.

She squeezed his shoulders, her short nails biting into his skin. He loved it, the pain so unlike the agony he'd endured for months. The pain that meant pleasure.

Finally, she dragged his head back up and claimed him with a ferocity he'd never experienced from her before. Open-mouthed and wild, she buried her fingers in his hair and brought their lips together in a fierce clash of wills and mutual passion. Their tongues battled and their teeth nipped as they devoured one another, their bodies pressed skin-to-skin above the waist.

When she released her hold and pulled away, they were both panting.

"Do you..." She cleared her throat. "Do you have, um, protection?"

Oh, Jesus. They were really going to do this. They were going to make love, just as he'd envisioned in his most fervent daydreams and his most vicious nightmares.

He could only hope that his nightmares wouldn't come true. That his first attempt at lovemaking with Mary wouldn't end in shame and disappointment. That he could please them both in bed, even with a single hand.

Maybe he could. Maybe he couldn't.

_But one way or another_ , he thought, _you're about to find out_.
15

At Miles's prolonged silence, Mary's brows drew together. "Are you okay?"

For a moment, he couldn't speak. Her lips were swollen from their kisses, her glorious breasts rising and falling with each breath. While in the bathroom earlier, she'd taken her hair down. It framed her face, tangled in a way that revealed how far they'd taken each other. How passionate they'd been and how passionate they might yet become, if he could silence his doubts.

He almost told her he was fine. They were fine. Everything was fine. But there was no point in hiding anymore. No point in pretense, not when she'd already seen all of what he was and flinched from none of it.

"I want to make love with you. So much, Mary. But I'm worried about the mechanics. I might fumble a bit." He let out a shaky breath. "Please be patient, and I swear I'll make it good for you."

Her shoulders relaxed, and she smiled. "I have no doubt about that. And it's not as if I have a ton of experience to draw on, either. We'll fumble through it together."

"Okay." Slowly, his tension eased. "Okay, that sounds perfect."

She swung off him and stood by the bed. Her face turned away from his—in shyness, as he knew—she unfastened her pants and let them drop to the ground.

"You should bronze that bra and panties set. And then buy a million more." He meant it. No thong had ever enticed him the way her modest lace hipster underwear was doing right now. "It's amazing on you."

Her generous hips and round thighs looked inviting. Soft and welcoming.

"I'll never be like those other women." Her voice was quiet. Low and worried. "I'm not a model, Miles. Or an actress."

Once more, he reminded himself that he wasn't the only one with fears and insecurities. He wasn't the only one who needed comfort. To become the lover he wanted to be for Mary, the lover she deserved, he had to remember that. Not just now, but always.

"I don't want you to be anyone but yourself." After a moment's thought, he decided to match vulnerability with vulnerability. "And I have an embarrassing question to ask."

She was still staring at the floor. "What is it?"

He indicated his lap with a wry expression. "Can you please help me with my jeans? Taking them off one-handed will probably be harder with an erection. Much harder. Pun intended."

Her eyes big and startled, she looked at him for the first time since stripping down to her panties. Then she laughed, and he joined in.

"Come here, then," she said through giggles. "I'll take care of you."

"We'll take care of each other, beautiful." He hopped off the bed and tapped that crinkle at the bridge of her nose with a single finger. "Just wait and see."

* * *

Remaining insecure, even while wearing only a pair of panties, was proving remarkably difficult in the face of Miles's obvious admiration and his own self-consciousness.

And somehow, the awkwardness had eased by the very act of acknowledging it. Mary found herself unbuttoning and unzipping his pants for the first time with hardly a twinge of embarrassment. Even the feel of his sizeable, boxers-covered erection against her hand didn't faze her in the same way it would have if he'd been suave or—she stifled another giggle—cocky.

Because of his arousal, those jeans needed some coaxing to unzip. But when she got the job done and pushed them to the floor, her reward was substantial. The sight of his muscular thighs and strong calves almost made her gasp. And his abs were equally impressive, although she had to admit it: She missed the pudge, the physical evidence that he wasn't returning to Hollywood anytime soon. The signal that any softness in her own body would be forgiven.

She was trying hard not to look at the region between his thighs and chest. At least for now. After all, wasn't it rude to stare at a man's endowments?

When she stood, his hot eyes scanned her again, greedily taking in every inch of her body. As if he'd been starved of the sight of her for months, and he planned to glut himself on the unexpected treat.

He skimmed his hand from her waist to her knee, his hold gentle but possessive. "I love your thighs. I want them wrapped around me. The sooner the better."

No, he didn't seem to mind her softness. There was no mistaking his physical reaction to her or the sincerity of his praise. And maybe she did find it a little embarrassing, but she also found it both flattering and thrilling.

Empowering, too. So much so that she was able to speak her mind in a way she'd never managed with her few previous lovers. "Your calves are amazing. So strong and defined."

He straightened his shoulders and puffed out his chest as he struck a dramatic pose. "I'm surprised you noticed. I don't like to show off my body. I'm very modest."

There he was. The lively, often-silly man she'd seen in that Blu-ray. She'd thought he'd disappeared forever, but no. Right now, that man was flexing in front of her without an ounce of shame and in only a few ounces of clothing.

From what she could tell, his self-consciousness had vanished during the last few minutes. He wasn't making the slightest attempt to hide his left arm from her. He'd referred to the injury without hesitation. And to her shock, he was even asking for help, something he'd never, ever done in the weeks and weeks they'd been dating.

He wasn't shielding himself anymore. At long last, she felt as if she understood him well enough to trust that he'd stay in Nice County. To believe that he didn't only want her as a distraction from his grief or as a consolation prize. To invite him into her body.

But for that to happen, she needed to shed one last barrier.

_Here goes_. She hooked her thumbs into her panties. Before she could tug them off, though, he quickly grabbed hold of her hand.

"Hold on, speedy pants. Or speedy underpants, I guess." He looked down at the blue lace and grinned. "This part I can do. And God, do I want to do it."

To her shock, he dropped to his knees in front of her. His head...oh, goodness, his head was right in front of her most private area, and she could feel her cheeks turn hot.

"Don't worry." He flashed her a wicked grin. "We'll work up to that part."

"That doesn't really ease my worries at all," she told him, but he just laughed.

His fingertips trailed along the waist of the panties, stroking her skin in that deliberate way of his that always made her shiver. He edged beneath the fabric, and her panties were descending, millimeter by slow millimeter, as he admired her. Private parts and all.

Then those panties came to a sudden halt. He tugged again, but nothing happened.

"Beautiful." He wasn't laughing anymore, but his lips were twitching. "It'll be challenging to make love if you won't open your legs at all."

"Your face is _right there_ ," she protested.

"I know." He blinked innocently at her. "It's my face. I'm very aware of its location."

"But if I open my legs, you'll see _everything_."

He nodded. "And?"

Goodness gracious, the man had no mercy. But he'd allowed her to study and touch his injured arm without protest, hadn't he? Couldn't she show some of the same bravery?

Without letting herself think about it any longer, she widened her stance.

"Mary Louise Higgs, you know better than that. A quarter inch isn't going to do it."

" _Fine_." With a little huff, she spread her legs for him, and the next thing she knew, her panties were whooshing down to her ankles.

She moved to step out of them, but he put a hand on her leg to stop her. "Uh-uh. Once you kick those off, I know your sweet thighs are going to snap shut again."

Her hands rose to cover her face. "Oh, for Pete's sake."

"I don't know who Pete is, but Miles is pretty happy at the moment." His fingers trailed up her thigh, and he planted a soft kiss on her knee. "Now just stay right there, please. Hold on to my shoulders if you need to, because I won't have a free hand."

She heard herself give a muffled whimper, one born of both intense arousal and intense embarrassment. "Miles."

"That's me. No Pete in sight. Sorry for any disappointment." He traced the line separating her thigh from her sex. "I love your curls here."

Then he was gently combing through those curls, his touch growing ever closer to her—

Oh, goodness, he was there. He was separating her labia and caressing her clitoris. Rubbing with the lightest touch she'd ever felt, using the slickness of her own moisture to glide over her most sensitive spot with impeccable timing.

Her breath rushed through her hands in a shaky gasp, and she swayed on her feet.

"Shoulders," he reminded her, and she reluctantly lowered her hands to grasp at him for support. But she kept her eyes tightly shut, because it was all too much.

Him, kneeling at her feet. Her, spread for his enjoyment only inches from his face. And the way he was touching her, with such care and skill, as if they'd been lovers for months.

_Like you'd know, Mary Louise_.

Heck, she'd only had two lovers before Miles. One of them had never put his face anywhere close to her vagina, despite his fervent desire to have her face near _his_ private parts. And with the other, she'd usually made love with the lights off, his hesitance and her self-consciousness combining to make their sex life decent but not awe-inspiring.

_Oh, my. Oooooh, my_. That was his tongue. Wasn't it? It felt like his tongue.

She peeked through one eyelid. Yes, that was definitely his tongue. He was holding her open with his fingers and softly licking and circling her clit with his talented tongue, and oh, goodness, it felt _amazing_. So amazing she felt pressure building down low, arousal and heat and tension.

Her hands weren't resting on his shoulders anymore. They were clutching his head and holding him to her as she rocked against his mouth, seeking more.

When he guided her back to sit on the edge of the bed, she didn't argue. When he disposed of her panties and wedged his shoulders between her thighs, she didn't give a peep of protest. And when his mouth descended on her once again, his fingers playing in the wetness of her vagina, she could only cry out and brace her arms behind her.

His tongue flicked at her clitoris until her legs, now slung over his shoulders, started shaking. Then, just as he slid a finger deep inside her and rubbed, he sucked her into his mouth with tender care, and she was gone. Completely gone.

Her mind a blank white, she pressed herself to him and gave herself over to the hardest, longest, most intimate orgasm of her life. She didn't care that she was moaning and trembling, that her body was opening and closing around his finger with almost violent force, or that her legs had snapped shut around his ears and she was probably suffocating the poor man.

Oh, goodness, the intensity of her pleasure. It faded after a few seconds to a gentler glow of satisfaction, but he patiently chased every last bit of it out of her, until she was lying boneless and breathless on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

_Holy crap. I've never experienced anything even close to that_.

For the first time ever while naked, all self-consciousness had left her. And as her thoughts began to filter slowly back into her stunned brain, she figured that probably explained a lot. Why she'd never responded the same way to previous lovers. Why Miles had been willing to push past her boundaries, past her embarrassment.

He'd known. Of course he'd known. The man was obviously an expert at all this.

And at that thought, self-consciousness made its reappearance. She raised her head and winced at the sight of Miles still kneeling on the floor.

"Your poor knees." Her voice was almost unrecognizable, shaky and hoarse. After clearing her throat, she tried again. "You must be sore."

But when he looked up, he didn't appear pained or impatient. He appeared triumphant and smugly male. So much so that she was tempted to laugh.

He got to his feet, shucked his boxers in a single movement, and climbed on to the bed, kneeling once more between her limp legs. "Only in a certain region. And I'm hoping you'll help me deal with that ache soon."

"Of course." She kind of wanted to close her legs again, but there was no point to that. He'd seen it all already. And apparently enjoyed the view, from what she could tell.

His self-satisfied smile died, to her immediate regret. Worry lines appeared across his forehead. "I'd love to do this with you underneath me, but I've had nightmares about losing my balance and crushing you. Are you okay with being on top this first time?"

And just that quickly, her awkwardness fled, replaced by the warmth of connection. "For the record, I wouldn't care if you did put your full weight on me. But I'm more than happy to be on top, if that's what you want."

The stiffness in his body eased. Except in one area, she couldn't help but note.

"Great." He inclined his head toward his nightstand. "If you're willing, I'd love for you to take care of protection too."

She'd never, not once in her life, rolled a condom on to a man's penis before. But there was a first time for everything, wasn't there?

By the time she located the foil packet and opened it, he'd flipped on to his back. His erection pointing toward his belly and his eyes on her, he seemed perfectly at ease with his nudity. More so than she was, that was for sure.

He was velvety beneath her fingertips. Thick and veined, the tip of his penis wet with his desire for her. Circling him in her fist, she stroked up and down.

His groan was immediate and loud. "God, that feels incredible."

Encouraged by his response, she didn't worry too much about fumbling as she put the condom on him, and she didn't let herself think too hard about her weight or how her stomach must look as she straddled his hips.

He was watching her with the sort of intent wonder usually reserved for goddesses and women much more glamorous than she was. And just when she was about to get up on her knees and take him inside herself, he shook his head.

"You're more beautiful than any sunrise I've ever seen, Mary. Any piece of art. Any cathedral. Anything, period." His jaw firmed, his admiration turning to determination. "And no way we're making love until you're turned on again. Just as turned on as I am."

That talented hand slid between her legs once more, stroking her sensitized flesh with unhurried care, playing and rubbing until she was arched back, her hands on his knees, her hips moving rhythmically toward release once more. Only then did he urge her up and over his erection.

When the tip of him nudged inside her, they both gasped. And then she slid down slowly, feeling his cock stretch her wide and sink deep. His mouth opened, his features tightening as if in pain, and she understood exactly how he felt. The intensity of the sensation was keen. Almost unbearable.

"Jesus," he panted. "Oh, God, Mary."

Finally, finally, her hips rested flush against his. She'd taken all of him, and it felt so damn good she wanted to cry or shout.

Tentatively, she began to sway her hips back and forth, and the way his erection rubbed inside her forced a long moan from her throat. After a few seconds, she found her rhythm. And as she did, his body rocked beneath hers in gentle movements, driving him even deeper with each thrust from below.

The pressure began to build again with unexpected speed, accelerating and strengthening as she raised and lowered herself with more force. Enough force that she could hear the contact, the slap of skin against skin, which would have discomfited her any other time. But she didn't care. She wanted friction. She wanted him as deep inside her as he could go.

He gave her everything she wanted, his hips bucking hard as she rode him faster. And then his thumb was there again, circling her clitoris while his cock filled her. That wasn't what she'd wanted. But as it turned out, it was exactly what she needed.

She sobbed as she came again, her inner muscles quivering and squeezing him rhythmically. A split second later, he gave a shout and gripped her hip, holding her down as he thrust deep and hard inside her one final time.

When the pleasure began to fade, she collapsed across his chest, panting from the exertion and the aftermath of her second intense orgasm. His hand smoothed over her damp back down to her bottom, which he gave a gentle squeeze.

"Was that okay?" He sounded ridiculously hesitant, given the circumstances. "I can't do everything I'd like with only one arm and one hand."

She raised her head to meet his eyes. "If you could do better than that with two hands, I'm glad you only have one. I'd never have survived the experience otherwise."

His lips curved. "Really?"

"Yes. Really." She plopped back down on to his chest. "I'm giving you my full weight. Take that as a sign of how thoroughly you've exhausted me."

"I want your full weight on me." He cupped her butt cheek possessively. "I want all of you. Heart, mind, soul, and definitely body. Because that was the single greatest experience of my life just now. Why did we wait so long to do this?"

He knew why. They both did. But those days were gone, turned to ash in the conflagration that had flared between them.

Still, she answered him. "Because if we hadn't waited, it wouldn't have been this good. Not for me, anyway."

"Fair enough." Gently, he eased her to the side and took care of the condom. "And now we need to wait again."

Her brow furrowed. "Why?"

He laughed. "Because I'm not eighteen anymore, and I think we both need a pit stop before we start over. After that, all bets are off, beautiful." Leaning over, he brushed his lips against hers. "I'm not done with you yet."

_Yet_. His wording sent a chill through her, even though she knew what he meant.

But that chill dissipated under the heat of his stare when she got up on shaky legs and headed for the bathroom. And just as she closed the door, she heard his incredulous laugh.

"Hey, Mary!" he shouted, his voice muffled through the wood barrier. "Maybe I'm eighteen again after all!"

"I don't know whether to be scared or flattered," she called back.

"I'm aiming for aroused." He sounded happy and carefree, and she couldn't help but smile in response. "And I plan to get you there as soon as you come back to bed."

She shook her head, a silly grin spreading across her face.

He didn't need to know it, but that particular goal had already been achieved.
16

Miles waved Sarah and Chris ahead to the next horrifying stop and pulled Mary into a dark spot on the putt-putt course. Which wasn't difficult, since pretty much all of Minnie's Mini-Golf Massacre remained shadowy and unsettling.

"Explain to me again why you and Sarah are best friends," he whispered in her ear.

He'd reversed his baseball cap to get close, and his warm breath caused little tingles low in her belly. His hand stroked up and down her back, an intimate claim in a public setting.

In the past, she'd shied away from those kinds of displays, but not with Miles. With him, she liked it. With him, she liked everything.

So she had no objection to the PDA. She welcomed his touch, whenever and however she could experience it. And his new ease with physical contact, his new willingness to go out in public, served as welcome evidence of his growing comfort with his changed body and changed life. So did his attendance at several of Sam's recent hockey practices. Miles hadn't promised to join the team yet, but she suspected it was a matter of when, not if.

Sure, he still wore his baseball cap everywhere outside his house and preferred to go by his middle name, Sullivan, to strangers. And on the rare occasions when people recognized him from his show, he told them they were mistaken. Because, after all, what would the Naked Carpenter be doing in Nice County, much less without one of his arms?

The lies discomfited her. But she appreciated the further evidence that he wasn't planning a move back to California. And goodness knew, she didn't want the attention of paparazzi either.

Their life together now seemed sustainable, in a way it hadn't when they'd been confined to his cabin and abortive make-out sessions on his couch. Since their first full night together at his house, they'd gone out in public as a couple at least twice a week. They'd bought groceries a few times. She'd dragged him to the movie theater to see _The Grief-Filled Life and Inspirational Death of Delores DeVry_ , and he'd even carried the obligatory box of tissues for them both. He'd met her friends, who taunted her with shirtless posters of him whenever possible.

He'd even met her family, who regarded him with open approval. Their casual welcome had come as a huge relief. She'd worried for weeks about how they'd respond to her bringing home a TV star, but they'd taken it all in stride.

"A good man," her mom had commented. "Good-looking too. You're lucky to have found each other."

What could Mary say? It was the truth. So she'd simply offered her mother a grateful hug and basked in the love of her family and the joy of having Miles by her side.

And unless she was working, he was rarely anywhere else. The two of them had spent pretty much every night together for the past month, and each inch of his body felt familiar against hers. Natural.

She allowed herself to melt into him, torso to torso. "You want to know why Sarah and I are best friends? I'm not sure I understand your question."

He snorted quietly. "Well, for one, she chose to celebrate the anniversary of her first date with Chris by going to a haunted mini-golf course. And I know for a fact you hate scary movies, so I'm guessing you don't like scary putt-putt either."

If she'd had a choice, Mary would have picked any other place in Nice County for tonight's outing. Possibly any other place in the solar system. Sobs of grief she could handle. Screams of horror? Not so much.

But she'd do just about anything for Sarah, because Sarah would do the same for her.

"They had their first real date here," Mary told him. "She would've gone with Helen and Wes instead, but they refused. According to Sarah, Wes said he wasn't mayor anymore, so he wasn't stepping foot on a blankety-blank, scary mini-golf course again without a darn good reason."

Miles's lips curved. "I assume he didn't use the words _blankety-blank_ or _darn_."

"I gave you the edited version."

"I figured. But I still don't understand why Sarah didn't come alone with her boyfriend. Wouldn't that be more romantic?"

"We're here to help guide authorities to their lifeless bodies." She sighed. "And to take the last-known pictures of them alive. Those are direct quotes, by the way."

He gave a contemplative nod. "That explanation definitely sounds like her."

All she could do was laugh. Because, yes, this whole outing was vintage Sarah.

"That's the part I don't get," he said. "You're so calm, and she's so..."

"Dramatic?" She dropped her head on to his chest. "I love that about her. She is who she is, and she doesn't apologize for it. She's hilarious. And most people don't notice, but she's really kind and loyal."

His kiss tickled the crown of her head. "I always figured you two bonded over your teaching backgrounds."

"That too." She nibbled her lip. "Don't you like her? Because I respect your opinion, but she's my best friend. I'm not giving her up."

"No, no, no. I like her." He pulled her in closer. "I was just curious about what drew you two together. And the question was kind of a red herring, honestly. I mostly wanted an excuse to drag you into the darkness."

Her heart skipped a beat. "And do what?"

"This." Without further ado, his mouth lowered to hers and claimed it.

Her lips parted under the persuasion of his talented tongue, and the kiss turned from G-rated to PG-13 with a speed she should have expected by now. How did their combustible chemistry still startle her every time?

The embrace lasted until a discreet throat-clearing interrupted her daze. She tore her mouth from Miles's and turned to see Sarah and Chris standing a few feet away, matching grins on their faces.

Sarah looped her arm around her boyfriend's waist. Or, more accurately, his backside, since he towered over her. "We got two holes ahead of you, and then we started worrying you'd been kidnapped by roving, putt-putt-loving cannibals."

"Sarah started worrying," Chris clarified. "I figured you were making out."

She beamed up at him. "So we followed your example and did that for a while too. But since we didn't want to make babies on a mini-golf course, we called a halt to the proceedings and came back this way. Which is a shame, because we could have named our child Minnie. Or Putter. Or maybe Massacre, if he or she turned out to be a goth."

Miles let go of Mary so he could put his baseball cap on the right way. "Can someone explain the name of this place to me? Or who exactly came up with the idea of a haunted mini-golf course?"

The group began moving toward the eighth hole, and he circled her shoulders with his arm. She snuggled close, as content as she could ever remember being.

Chris gave a characteristically laconic explanation. "Earl, the guy who owns the place, decided to make an iconic cartoon mouse the mascot for his course. He got sued, lost, defaced the sign, and let the place fall to pieces while he ran his car wash."

"Is that why poor Minnie's mouse brain is exposed on the billboard?" Mary asked. "I've always wondered."

"He did that because he lost a lawsuit?" Miles blinked down at Mary. "Earl sounds disturbed."

_Yes. Definitely_. "I don't know the man, so I can't really say."

Leaning over, he planted a kiss on her cheek. "Which means yes, you sweet lady."

She couldn't help but smile. That man could read her like a children's board book.

"Then Earl's car wash went under, and he didn't have money to fix up the course." Chris made a putt with his rusty club, avoiding its jagged edges with all due caution.

Sarah finished the story for him. "Last year, locals chose Minnie's Mini-Golf as Nice County's most nightmare-inducing Halloween attraction. Also Nice County's most likely spot to get drugged and have your kidneys stolen. And finally, Nice County's favorite place to dispose of wealthy relatives who plan to change their wills and leave everything to their cats instead of you."

As Sarah made her own swing, Chris cast a long-suffering glance at Miles and Mary. But as always, Mary could see him fighting a laugh. "Those last two aren't true."

Sarah propped her fists on her ample hips. "The first one is, though. Earl hadn't actually intended a Halloween theme, of course. But after that vote, he started getting a ton of kids."

Miles's grin gleamed in the dim light. "Let me guess. They all dared each other to complete the course, and it became a cult destination."

He made a hole-in-one with a single, easy swing of his crooked club.

"Nice shot, ringer," Sarah said. "Anyway, Earl added 'massacre' to the name and started calling the course haunted to capitalize on his success. It's basically the same course, only with higher ticket prices and a waiver to sign before you enter the premises. And, of course, he's installed barbed wire around the property to keep unsuspecting mini-golfers caged and doomed to imprisonment in his secret dungeon."

Chris patted her bottom fondly. "Kids were climbing over the fence to avoid the high ticket prices."

"Ah." Miles nodded. "That makes sense."

When they finished their hole, they approached the murky blue river that bisected the course. Although that river looked shallow and sluggish, they regarded it with caution.

"Anyone care to guess how many flesh-eating diseases the water could give us?" Sarah asked. "I'm thinking at least forty-two."

"The river's too wide to cross. So I guess our only real option is the bridge." In Mary's opinion, that choice wasn't a heck of a lot better. "I hate to complain, but is it even safe?"

Sarah contemplated the structure with narrowed eyes. "That thing looks like the first two little pigs built it. If a single asthmatic wolf comes along, we're all tumbling into the Stream of Death."

"Let me take a look." Removing a mini-flashlight from his pocket, Miles shined the thin beam at the bridge's supports and overall structure. "It should hold us, although I suggest we go one at a time to be safe." He shook his head. "Someone needs to tell the owner he could rebuild the bridge so it would appear even more rickety and dangerous, but would actually support much more weight. The man needs an engineer and a good carpenter."

Chris was watching Miles, his expression thoughtful. "You might be able to tell him that yourself. He often takes naps inside the terrifying windmill up ahead."

"He yells at kids when they disturb him, which only makes them shriek more. They love it. As far as they're concerned, he's a feature of the course, not a bug." Sarah shrugged. "Of course, they have no idea he's using the opportunity to study his eventual captives."

They crossed the bridge one by one, eyeing the wood beneath their feet with suspicion, and headed for the next hole. But just as they reached the cracked concrete tee at the next hole, Miles's phone rang.

That had been happening more and more frequently. When she'd first started dating him, he'd gotten a call or two every so often, which he'd promptly rejected. In recent weeks, though, his phone had been ringing day and night, up to a dozen times daily, and she had no idea why.

He might not know either, since he still didn't answer his calls. And as far as she could tell, he never called anyone back.

Sure enough, after a single glance at his phone, he tapped the screen and put the device back in his pocket. Then he wandered over to the hole and began to heckle Chris's putt attempts.

Sarah stayed by Mary's side, close to the bridge. "Is everything okay? Miles looks a little unhappy."

"I think so." Mary blew out a slow breath. "Those phone calls make him tense, and I don't know why."

Her friend furrowed her brows. "Have you asked him who's calling?"

"He always says it's no one important, and I haven't pressed him on it. I figure it's not my business." Although she'd begun to second guess that conclusion in recent weeks. Should she demand more details? Was she being naïve?

"Maybe reporters have gotten his number," Sarah guessed. "And he doesn't want to upset you by talking about it."

Mary spread her hands. "Maybe. I have no idea."

Before Sarah could say more, Miles's familiar voice rose over the background noise of the other mini-golfers.

"Hey, Mary Louise and DQ!" He waved from the far side of the hole. "It's windmill time. Come and protect your men!"

"Oh, Jesus," Sarah muttered. "Protect your internal organs at all costs, Mary."

As they approached the feature, Mary noticed that the steps leading up to the windmill looked like they'd been broken at some point and only partially repaired. But goodness help her, they needed to climb through the dark, dilapidated structure before they could proceed on the course, even though doing so seemed like a truly terrible idea.

Sarah pointed at the steps. "My man-beast of a boyfriend did that."

"Why?" Miles had come back to Mary's side. "Did he Hulk out when someone made him angry? Or is that standard behavior from a giant created in a catastrophic laboratory accident?"

Chris scowled as Miles and Sarah high-fived each other.

"Oh, man." Sarah kept giggling, even after Chris gave her a gentle swat on her backside. "I knew I liked you, O'Connor."

A sudden, wordless roar emanated from inside the windmill, and all four of them jumped. Her heart pounding in her chest, Mary was half-tempted to run for her life, double date be darned. And for once, Sarah's wide eyes reflected genuine alarm.

In a flash, Chris shoved both women behind him, positioning himself between them and the windmill and wielding his club like a sword. "I'll take care of this," he declared. "Don't come any closer. It's not safe."

Miles laughed. "I think you can put down your weapon, dude. I'm sure that's just Earl. We probably woke him from his nap in the windmill."

A grumpy voice echoed inside the structure. "Freakin' kids. Can't a hardworking business owner get some rest once in a while?"

Chris didn't lower his club. "Earl?"

"No, it's a troll." The man's voice was heavy with sarcasm. "Of course it's Earl, you jackass. Hurry up and get through the damn windmill before I kick you off the course."

Chris's glower didn't disappear, and his club didn't move. "If you try to hurt any of us, I swear I'll make you sorry."

"What are you, the knight of the putt-putt course?" A man's head, covered in rumpled white hair, poked out of the windmill doorway. "Just move on through before I stick your putter where the sun don't shine, Sir Panics-a-Lot."

Miles had been studying the steps and the rest of the windmill with his little flashlight while Chris and Earl exchanged mutual threats, and he interrupted the rapidly deteriorating conversation without apology. "Hey, Earl? I think you have a problem here."

"Oh, Jesus." The man trudged down the windmill steps. "This one thinks he's an inspector."

"Not an inspector. Just a carpenter." Miles pointed his flashlight at a particularly ragged section of the structure. "You've got termite damage. This windmill might not last too much longer if you don't fix it. And the bridge could use some work too."

"I'm not made of money, you know." Earl glared at the group. "Do you think it's cheap to maintain a place like this?"

"Uh, yeah," Sarah piped up. "Since you don't actually maintain it at all, as far as I can tell."

"It wouldn't cost too much." Miles inserted himself between Chris and the increasingly dyspeptic-looking owner of the course. "And like I was telling them, you could easily make your features look even more dangerous while actually improving their safety. You just need an engineer and a decent carpenter."

Earl's anger seemed to dissipate. "Really?"

"Really. You should invest the money to fix the bridge and windmill. It'll bring you more customers in the long run, and it'll protect you from another lawsuit."

That seemed to decide the elderly man.

"You." He pointed a shaking finger at Miles. "I want you to do the work."

Turning so Earl could see his pinned sleeve, Miles smiled. "Thank you for the offer, but I'm afraid I'd need someone to give me a hand."

Another bit of evidence that he'd lost most of his self-consciousness. Thank goodness.

"Puns are the lowest form of humor, boy." Earl squinted at him. "And I don't see why a missing arm would stop you from doing some of the work. No matter what, you could always supervise."

A startled look crossed Miles's face. "Yeah. I guess I could."

"Think about it. You know where to find me." The man waved a hand at the course.

"Yeah. Snoring in a dirty, termite-infested windmill-slash-deathtrap," Sarah muttered.

Earl scowled at her. "What'd you say, girlie?"

"Nothing." Miles gently nudged Mary forward. "The structure should hold for now, but let's go one at a time again. No sudden moves. And no stomping with your enormous, mutant feet, Gigantor."

Chris grumbled, his putter at the ready once more as he led the way for Sarah.

Earl stepped aside with clear reluctance. "Freakin' kids."

* * *

An hour or so later, the couples had said their goodbyes and separated. Miles held Mary's hand as they headed back to the parking lot. As they got close, she paused to let him take in the full effect of Earl's altered sign once more. Minnie's missing ears. The exposed mouse brain. The black dress. The mustache.

"I salute Earl's artistry," Miles finally said.

"Yes." She shook her head. "Poor mousie."

Most cars, she noticed, had parked in the darkened corners of the lot, no doubt to begin their nightmarish experience in appropriate style. She, on the other hand, had maneuvered as close to the lone functioning light as possible. "That was an interesting night."

"Yeah." He didn't say more, and he appeared lost in thought.

"What did you think of the job offer from Earl?"

Honestly, she wasn't sure how she felt about it. Earl seemed kind of...well, odd. But he was offering Miles the chance to do work he loved again, if only in a supervisory role. And who knew how much Miles could actually do with his tools if he tried? Maybe there were modifications that could be made to accommodate one-handed use?

"I'm not sure." Miles swung their hands as they began walking again. "I'm tempted, but I'd kind of made up my mind to do something else."

She waited patiently.

"Like I said before, I thought maybe I could, uh, write a book. Not about carpentry so much, but about the different places I went. I could tell behind-the-scenes stories and talk a bit about the architecture and building methods of all the locations we visited."

Startled, she came to a halt again. "That sounds amazing, Miles."

He gave an uncomfortable hitch of his shoulders. "I don't know whether I'm a decent writer or not. But I guess I'll find out soon enough."

"If you wanted, could you do both your writing and the work for Earl?"

"Maybe. I'd need to think about it." He sounded loath to discuss the issue further.

Fair enough. She let the topic drop, instead focusing on the welcome coolness of the night air as they reached her car. In fact, the evening was so beautiful, the humidity so unexpectedly low for Maryland in July, that she kept her window down as she drove, letting her hair ruffle in the wind.

He watched her the whole time, his gaze searching. And when she turned on to the country road that would take them back to his cabin, he spoke so softly she could barely hear him. "I'm sorry I was abrupt."

She shrugged. "You have the right to keep your own counsel."

"I know I'm still a work in progress. And I swear I'm trying to do better and be better. For you and for myself."

She smiled. "I'm a work in progress too, Miles. We all are. I'm not worried."

His lips quirked. "You have the most generous heart on the face of the Earth."

"That's not true." She steered carefully around a bend in the road. "But I'm glad you think so."

When she shot him a quick glance, he was still watching her with open affection. Still tracing her features with his eyes, as if he were trying to memorize her.

"I love you, Mary." In the darkness, the warmth of his voice surrounded her. Made her throat ache with joy and an ardency that matched his. "You're everything I've ever wanted, and more than I ever could have dreamed. Beautiful and smart and so damn kind, I can't believe it sometimes."

She inhaled deeply, her chest tight. "I love you too."

She'd never said those words to any man other than her father, brothers, and cousins. But she knew how she felt, and it wasn't merely attraction or infatuation. She loved the man sitting beside her with every bit of devotion her heart could muster.

Tears blurred her vision, and she blinked them away. "Thank you for making me so happy, Miles. Not only now, but every day."

"I wish I could hold your hand." His whisper held a new ache, one he tried to downplay with a little laugh. "I should have planned this better."

"You can." She reached out her right hand and waited until he twisted in his seat enough to take it. "And even if you couldn't, it wouldn't matter. I don't need a plan. I don't need perfection. I just need you."

The most full and beautiful silence she'd ever experienced descended over the car for the rest of their trip, and she marveled at the tectonic shift in their relationship. How her world suddenly seemed boundless and piercingly bright, all because of three simple words.

Then they turned into his driveway and saw the unfamiliar SUV next to the cabin.

"Who would be visiting you this late at night?" she asked, suddenly uneasy.

The air in the car had shifted somehow. Miles straightened, his jaw tight as they drew closer and saw the silhouette of a man on the porch. A tall man, lean, with a shaved head. Miles's hand fisted on his thigh, and he let out an inarticulate sound of...

Surprise? Rage? Despair? She didn't even know.

"Should we call the police? Or leave?" The phone sat in her console, within easy reach, and she could turn the car around quickly if necessary.

He cast her only a brief glance. "No. You can park, but please stay in the car."

Desperately worried, she followed his guidance and brought the vehicle to a stop. He got out without another word and marched to the front porch.

And because she'd left her window open, she heard the first words the stranger said.

"Please don't turn me away." His voice was choked. Pleading. "I'm your brother, Miles. Please give me a chance to make things right."
17

Even after he'd unlocked the door to the cabin, Miles didn't bother greeting his brother. He didn't want Teddy to feel welcome. He wanted Teddy gone, along with all other undesired reminders of Miles's previous life.

He might have accepted the loss of his arm. But he was still coming to terms with the loss of his work and his money, not to mention his trust in the man who'd once been his manager, his brother, and his closest friend.

"Miles..." Teddy shuffled his feet, clearly prepared to beg his way into the house. "I'm so sorry. I—"

Jesus. He didn't have the time or energy for this discussion, and he definitely didn't want to confront his brother in front of Mary. "Just get inside."

Teddy, hangdog expression intact, hurried through the doorway without another word.

Instead of following Teddy, Miles jogged down the porch steps to Mary's car and got ready to offer his own apologies. Because Teddy's visit had not only summoned bad memories for Miles, but also illuminated a part of his life and history he hadn't yet shared with Mary. A part of his life and history he should have explained long ago.

Acknowledging his omission might hurt her, and he was going to have to find a way to explain himself. But he couldn't do that in his driveway, with Teddy waiting in his living room.

"I'm so sorry about this." He leaned through her open window, studying her expression. At the moment, she looked more confused and concerned than pissed. That might change once he told her everything, of course. "My brother Teddy is here. And normally, I'd invite you to come inside and meet him, but Teddy and I have a few things we need to discuss first."

She flinched, and his heart dropped. "You...you, um, don't want me to meet your brother? Or stay with you tonight?"

Oh, God. Did she think he was ashamed of her?

"No, Mary." He grabbed her hand and held it tightly. "Whatever you're thinking, no. I'd be proud to introduce you to him and to all my friends. Hell, I'd show you off to the world, if it wouldn't bring the paparazzi down on us. But there are things I should have told you a while ago, and I don't want you to hear them from Teddy. I want to tell you myself."

Her fingers slipped from his. "More secrets?"

"I guess." Her withdrawal made his gut clench. "I didn't think they mattered. Not here. Not in our life together."

She bit her lower lip. "You're so tense, you look like you're about to snap in two. And you thought something that makes you this upset didn't matter?"

His head dropped to his chest. "I'm stupid. I have no excuse, Mary. But I'll make it up to you. I promise."

"You have a right to your privacy, Miles. You don't owe me anything." She glanced down at the key in the ignition. "I'd better get going. Your brother is waiting for you."

He couldn't let the woman he loved, the woman he wanted by his side forever, leave like that. Not when she suddenly appeared so damn distant. So he reached into the car again, this time cupping her velvety cheek in his palm. "I'm coming to you tonight. As soon as I'm done with Teddy."

She shook her head. "You should catch up with your brother. We can talk tomorrow."

"I can't wait that long." He bent down to capture her mouth with his, hoping the tenderness of the kiss would reassure her. Would mitigate his idiocy. "I don't want to spend a single night without you again."

Her big, dark eyes still looked troubled. "And you'll tell me everything?"

"Yes. I promise."

She simply nodded, started her car, and put it in reverse.

"I love you," he told her. "So much."

Her chest rose and lowered in a deep, silent breath. "I love you too."

He stared at the cloud of dust she left behind, aching with worry and furious at his brother for forcing his hand. Furious at himself for not doing the right thing by Mary and their relationship. Furious at his own unwillingness to confront everything he'd lost that awful day on the job site.

Why hadn't he learned his lesson? Why had he still been hiding from her, after everything they'd been through together? Hiding from himself, when he'd already acknowledged the futility of it all?

When he turned back toward the house, his brother waited in the doorway, his shaved head gleaming under the porch lights. His brows drawn, his shoulders shifting in discomfort, bags under his familiar hazel eyes.

Miles couldn't hide anymore. The past he'd wanted to forget had remembered him. It had found him. And now he was going to confront it, like it or not.

* * *

Teddy perched on the edge of the sofa, but Miles felt too restless to sit. Instead, he propped himself against the wall a good ten feet away from his brother and waited to hear the reason for the visit.

"You look good." Teddy audibly swallowed. "Much better than the last time I saw you."

Teddy had visited him in the hospital every day. Had tried to keep in contact after Miles holed up in his California home and began planning a move to Maryland. But at that point, Miles hadn't wanted to talk to anyone who'd known him before the accident. And before he'd begun to soften that stance, he'd found out what Teddy had done, and any longing for his brother and closest friend had vanished immediately.

So Teddy hadn't seen him since he'd been hooked up to an IV and various machines, his residual limb sheathed in a wad of dressing. Yeah, he probably did look a bit better now.

"When I was a kid, you always seemed larger than life to me." Teddy clasped his hands between his knees. "My big brother, who looked so much like Dad. Tall. Strong. Invincible. Seeing you in that hospital bed"—his voice cracked—"gutted me, Miles. You were so pale. So broken."

Miles's temper flared. "Did you come here for sympathy? To tell me about your own pain and loss? Because if you did, you can get the fuck out of here right now."

His brother leaped to his feet. "No! I came to apologize. To explain what happened."

"I know what happened." Exhaustion tugged at his bones, but he stayed upright. Rigid. "You either mismanaged or stole most of my money. And now, thanks to you, I need to start over practically broke."

Teddy jerked as if he'd been slapped, and all of Miles's big brother instincts urged him to comfort his sibling. To offer absolution and a consoling hug. But he'd already offered Teddy a job, millions of dollars to mishandle, and a get-out-of-jail-free card. That was enough. More than enough.

He fought to keep his voice even. "I already told you I wouldn't investigate what happened or go to a lawyer. So why are we even talking about this?"

"I didn't steal from you." Teddy's arms spread in appeal. "I swear I didn't, Miles. If you want a forensic accountant to confirm that, pick one, and I'll pay for it."

Miles laughed bitterly. "How? You don't have a job anymore."

"I'll borrow money. Just like I borrowed money to go back to school and learn more about business. So I won't fuck up again like I did before."

His brother sounded determined. Sincere. But who the hell cared at this point?

"It doesn't matter, Teddy." Miles's shoulders slumped. "Maybe you didn't steal the money. But you didn't tell me you'd lost most of it. And if I hadn't needed my savings after the accident, I don't think you ever would have come clean."

"I know." Teddy's eyes grew bright. "I know I did the wrong thing. That's what I was trying to explain. You were..." He began to pace the room. "You were so perfect, Miles. Larger than life, like I said. Everything came your way, and it all looked easy. You were rich and famous and funny and genuinely nice. I wanted to be like you. And when you asked me to be your manager, I was so proud. So proud."

He dashed away tears with his knuckles. "The money came flooding in, and I tried my best, but I started floundering. It's not like our family came from money. I had no idea what to do with it. So I'd try something, and it wouldn't work. Then I'd try something else, and things would only get worse. But I kept telling myself I'd learn. That I'd invest the money differently and earn back what I'd lost. That I had time, since you were bringing in so much income."

Oh, for fuck's sake. "That's all well and good. But why the hell didn't you _tell me what was happening_?" He could hear his voice rise, and he couldn't stop it. "I could have cut my losses. I could have gotten you some assistance. I could have found you a new position that didn't involve money-handling. Didn't you owe me some honesty?"

Teddy collapsed on to the sofa, his face gray in the lamplight. "I was so ashamed, Miles. I didn't want you to know. I wanted to fix the problem so you'd keep thinking I was like you."

"Like me?"

"Successful. Perfect."

Apparently, unwillingness to face reality was a family failing.

Miles crossed to the opposite corner of the sofa and sat heavily. "I'm not perfect. I've never been perfect. Not even when I had both arms."

After all, I handed all my money over to my little brother without checking to make sure he knew what he was doing. Without keeping an eye on my investments. Without anything but blind faith that my charmed life would continue.

He didn't say it. Shit, Teddy was already trying to smother sobs on the other end of the couch. No point in upsetting him further. Especially since the blame fell on both of them, as Miles had always known. As Miles had tried his damnedest not to acknowledge.

"I'll pay you back." Teddy's words were a vow. "If it takes me the rest of my life, I'll pay you back."

He appreciated the offer. But the amount of money that had slipped through Teddy's fingers would take more than a lifetime for his brother to repay, barring a lottery win.

Miles lifted a shoulder. "Don't bother. I'll have enough, as long as I find a job in the next few months. And it's not like we grew up rich. I can do without all the extras."

"I'm still going to try. Because you may not need the extras, but you deserve them. You worked for them." Teddy's voice was hoarse. "You deserved the truth, too. I wanted to explain everything and apologize months ago, Miles, but you never answered my calls."

"I was angry." He rested his head against the sofa cushion and closed his eyes. "At you. At myself. I didn't want to think about it."

"You had other stuff to deal with too."

This time, his laugh was short but genuine. "That's an understatement."

"I thought..." When Teddy paused, Miles opened his eyes to look at his brother. "I thought you'd be wearing a prosthetic arm by now. Most upper-limb amputees don't get one, but I figured you would. I did some research on the different types, and I was betting on a body-powered prosthesis. So you could still work outside and get it dirty. Not like a myoelectric prosthesis."

Miles had no idea what that meant. Other than the prosthesis he'd recently used as a battering ram, he hadn't seen any prosthetic arms in person. Hadn't gone to another prosthetist, either in California or Maryland. Hadn't even read about his options online. He'd told himself it was because he wanted to accept his body the way it now was, but that was bullshit. He hadn't wanted to acknowledge the reality of his loss.

And even though he'd begun looking at and touching his left arm again, he still hadn't done any research on prosthetic limbs. What would be the point? He'd adapted to his one-armed daily life well enough. And it wasn't as if he were going back to carpentry, right?

Earl's job offer crossed Miles's mind, but he immediately swatted the thought away. After all, what the hell did a cranky, possibly deranged old man know about Miles's capabilities?

"Nope. No prosthesis." He knew some people liked the type he owned, and he respected their choice. But it wasn't for him. The arm, expensive as it was, was going in the trash soon.

"Do you have a good occupational therapist?"

"I went a few times in California, but I didn't find one here." More avoidance. "I guess I should, huh?"

"Yeah." His brother hesitated, then spoke in a rush. "Like I said, I've been doing some research. I found specialists with good reputations within driving distance, and I have the information out in the rental car. Before I leave tonight, I could give it to you."

Teddy's eagerness to help, the effort he'd obviously made to learn about amputee issues, made it damn hard to stay angry. Or to verbalize the comment on the tip of his tongue: _Too bad you weren't this much into research a few years ago_.

"Thanks, bro. I'll look at it later." He sighed and finally let go. Of all his rage, both self-directed and otherwise. Of the distance he'd tried to impose between himself and the brother he loved. "You can stay here tonight, if you'd like. I'm going to sleep at my girlfriend's apartment, so I won't need my bed. And I want you to meet Mary before you go back to California. She's amazing."

When Teddy swiped beneath his eyes again, Miles knew his brother had gotten the message. Maybe everything in their past wasn't forgotten, but it was forgiven. They were moving on.

"Sounds good." His brother cleared his throat. "My flight leaves pretty early tomorrow, but I'd love to meet her before I head to Dulles. And if you and I could talk a bit before I have to go, I'd like that. I want to know what you've been doing."

God, he'd missed sharing his life with Teddy. "Not much, to this point. Watching movies. Reading. Spending as much time as possible with Mary. But I was thinking about writing a book."

"About all the places you've traveled?"

Miles nodded. "I've dictated a few pages. Don't know if they're any good, though."

"What..." Teddy sounded tentative again. "What about the job offer?"

Had his brother somehow mind-melded with Earl? How did Teddy know about the mini-golf repairs? Whatever. Miles was too tired to work it out right now.

"I'm not sure I'm interested. I think those days are gone. For obvious reasons."

His brother appeared cautiously enthusiastic. "I've been doing research, and I found you some great possibilities for a new manager. So if that's been worrying you, I think you'll be fine. And with a prosthesis, I'll bet you could do almost everything you used to."

What the hell?

Miles's brows drew together. "Maybe a prosthesis would help. Maybe it wouldn't. But why would I need a manager to fix a small bridge and windmill on a mini-golf course?"

His brother's mouth opened, then closed. "Have you listened to any of my recent messages? I mean, even one of them?"

Miles had been dodging everyone associated with _The Naked Carpenter_ , including his brother. He didn't answer his cell when they called, he didn't listen to their voice mails, and he deleted their texts and e-mails unread. No need to remind himself of a life and a job he couldn't have anymore.

"No. Why?"

Excitement dawned on Teddy's tired face. "Haven't you wondered why I've been calling so often the past week or two?"

"Honestly?" Miles shrugged. "Not really. I've been kind of busy."

Teddy was almost bouncing on the sofa. "Then you don't know. You have no idea."

Miles loved his brother, but it was getting late, and he still needed to talk to Mary tonight. He didn't have time for vague proclamations or confusing conversations.

Doing his best not to sound curt, he tried to get some clarification. "What? What don't I know?"

"Holy shit, Miles. I can't believe you haven't heard." At Miles's glare, Teddy threw his hands up in the air, clearly thrilled by the news he was about to deliver. "HATV wants you back on your show!"
18

Miles blinked. "I don't understand."

What the fuck? Why would his old network want to bankroll a show featuring a carpenter who couldn't actually do carpentry anymore?

"Because I'm still officially your manager, and since you weren't responding to calls or e-mails, your old producer contacted me. He said the network thinks there's still an audience for a show starring you. With a functional prosthesis, you should be able to do a lot of jobs on your own without a problem, and they'll modify as many of your tools as possible for one-handed use. They even talked about getting you an assistant for stuff you can't do alone."

"They want to make a show about their poor, one-armed former star and how he's coping?" Miles clenched his fist. "That sounds like a nightmare."

No way in hell he was setting himself up to be a figure of pity. Or, even worse, inspiration. He'd rather cut off his other damn arm.

"No." Teddy leaned closer, shaking his head violently. "No, Miles. Not at all. They don't want to hide your injury, and the show will need to address your recovery at times, but the execs are hoping to keep the fundamental premise of _The Naked Carpenter_. It'll be a show about travel and building with a star who happens to have one arm, not a show about a one-armed guy who happens to do a little carpentry and traveling on the side."

Miles's fist relaxed, and he could almost feel his blood pressure drop. He'd always respected his producer, Alan, throughout their many years working together. He was glad to know that respect hadn't been ill-founded. The premise Teddy was describing...Miles could live with it. Which Alan obviously realized.

But Alan and the HATV execs didn't understand the situation, did they?

He forced out the words. "I think everyone is overestimating how much I can do now. And a show starring a guy whose assistant does everything for him isn't much of a goddamn show."

"Okay." Teddy nodded. "So what can you do without help? Use a hammer? A saw? A sander? What have you tried so far?"

"Umm..."

Heat flooded his face as he finally acknowledged just how fully he'd hidden from reality these past few months. How his self-pity and fear had led him to avoid any situation that would make it clear, once and for all, what he couldn't do anymore. How his grief and anger over losing his full capabilities had stopped him from maximizing the resources he had left.

"I don't know what I can do," he finally said. "I haven't tried using any of my tools. Not even a hammer."

Teddy looked shocked. "Shit, man. I..." he trailed off and took a deep breath. "I've seen pictures of you as a toddler hammering away at your plastic construction set. You've always kept your tools close. Hell, the only time I've ever seen you angry before now was when that guy on your crew hid your tool belt as a joke. And you're telling me you've let all your tools collect dust for months now, without even checking if you could use them?"

A spark of renewed fury jolted Miles upright on the couch. "Fuck you. I lost my fucking arm. I had a right to be scared."

Teddy held up his hands, his own face turning ruddy. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Miles's anger slowly died, but the fear remained. What if he couldn't handle even simple jobs anymore? Would his crew laugh at him when they watched him struggle? Or worse, would they pity him? And what about the millions of people watching HATV? Did he really want to expose his vulnerabilities so fully on national television?

"We could figure out ahead of time what you can and can't do. The occupational therapist could help you compensate for the missing arm. And like I said, the network could help modify some of the tools." Teddy's voice was low. Pleading. "Don't you miss your crew? Or your friends?"

Miles had spent months dodging anyone who could compare the man he'd become to the man he'd been. Still...

"Of course I miss them."

Another understatement. His crew had become an extended family over the years. They'd traveled the world together. And whenever he'd come home to California, he'd always spent a lot of time with Teddy and all their friends.

He missed his brother. His friends and crew. The people he'd shut out of his life.

And as much as he hated to admit it, he kind of missed being famous.

Some people in the public eye hated their fame and avoided their fans, eschewing their notoriety however they could. Not Miles. He'd loved people knowing his name. Loved chatting with fans and learning about the lives of everyone on his job sites. Loved posing for pictures and signing autographs.

Sure, all the hubbub had proven exhausting at times. But after a couple of days holed up in his LA home, he'd always recovered and reentered the world, eager to engage with strangers and friends alike.

"Don't you want to know what you can do?" Teddy flashed an unexpected grin. "In my research, I discovered one advantage to having a prosthesis. You never have to worry about hitting your thumb with a hammer again."

Miles had to smile too. "Good point."

Since childhood, he'd always challenged himself. Always liked to push the limits and find out what he could accomplish. And he'd loved his job. Genuinely. The money and the fame had pleased him, but they hadn't driven him to work so hard.

And maybe it wouldn't be so terrible for other amputees to see someone like him on their television every week? Not as a figure of pity, a freak, or a source of easy inspiration, but as a normal guy working around obstacles unexpectedly thrown in his path?

"I'm sure Mary would love California," Teddy said, his tone coaxing.

And that's when reality punctured his burgeoning excitement.

He had a happy life in Nice County with his girlfriend. His girlfriend, whom he loved with all his heart. His girlfriend, who'd lived in Maryland pretty much her entire life. His girlfriend, who'd fled from LA, and who feared the scrutiny of strangers would conjure old demons.

If he decided to return to California—and that was a big if—would she agree to come with him? Or would he lose her?

"I don't know." Suddenly restless, he drummed his fingers on his thigh. "I need time to think about all this. And I want to see the offer in writing and have a lawyer look it over."

"Of course. I have the documents out in the car, and your producer said to call with any questions. But you might want to think fast," Teddy warned. "The network's offer won't stand forever. You'll have to figure out what you want sooner rather than later."

"I know." Miles heaved a huge sigh. "Believe me, I know I need to make a decision."

_And so will Mary, if I decide to move back to California_.

* * *

"HATV wants me to return to my show." Miles pulled Mary closer, until her head was resting on his shoulder. "They need an answer soon. And I don't know what to tell them."

Mary suppressed a flinch. "Wow. How..." After a hard swallow, she tried again. "How much time do you have?"

"Probably until the end of next week." He exhaled slowly. "My mind is a mess right now, beautiful."

She stroked his chest, trying to soothe him, as her own thoughts tangled and knotted.

A few minutes after midnight, he'd arrived at her apartment, alert and full of nervous energy. He'd apologized for coming to her so late, but she hadn't been sleeping anyway. Not with the memory of his distress at the sight of his brother so fresh in her mind, worrying her. Not with her heart aching, hurt that he hadn't shared something that obviously troubled him deeply. Not with her suspicions about what was going to happen.

When she'd answered her door, Miles had greeted her with a passionate kiss, undressed them both, climbed under the covers with her, tugged her close, and begun talking with an ease she'd never seen in him before.

Within minutes, he'd told her about the fiasco with Teddy and his money. He'd apologized for not telling her earlier, explaining that he hadn't wanted to deal with his anger toward his brother or face his own culpability in the financial disaster.

She didn't care about his money, although for his sake, she wished his brother hadn't mismanaged it. And she certainly understood why he hadn't talked to her about the issue before. It was painful on a variety of levels—familial, professional, financial—for him, and he was still dealing with the aftermath of his accident in so many other ways. She'd told him no apology for his reticence was necessary, and she'd meant it.

But this offer from HATV...

That was a different concern. A much, much bigger one.

Her needs and fears weren't important right now, though. His were. And if he could use help sorting through his options, she wanted to assist.

"What worries you about their offer?" She laid an arm across his chest, trying to memorize the feel of his body pressed to hers. The warmth that radiated from him, soaking into her tired bones. The tickle of his chest hair against her breasts. The way his hand rested on the small of her back, possessive and gentle.

Everything. She wanted to remember everything.

He heaved a huge sigh. "Oh, God. So much."

"Such as?" She tracked the rhythm of his breaths, of his heart. Stored the information away for a lonelier time.

To her surprise, he didn't hesitate before answering. "I don't know whether I can still do the damn job, even with the assistance they promised me."

The thought obviously troubled him, but he didn't seem paralyzed by it. Not anymore.

"You could run a few experiments here before giving them an answer, right?" She nuzzled into his neck, inhaling the spicy scent she loved.

"I'm not sure I really want to know, Mary. It..." He pursed his lips, obviously searching for the right words. "It'll hurt. The gulf between all the things I used to do and what I can do now. And God only knows how much harder I'll have to work for the few things I _can_ do."

"It may not be that few," she reminded him. ****

"Yeah. Maybe not." His legs moved restlessly in the sheets. "But I don't want to fumble on camera for all of America's amusement."

Oh, God. He would hate showing that kind of vulnerability to the world. "I'm sure HATV wouldn't let that happen."

He snorted. "I work with good people. But it's a business, beautiful. If watching me drop a handheld sander on my foot brought in enough viewers and advertisers, they'd show it in slo-mo twelve times a day."

"Let me rephrase. _You_ wouldn't let that happen."

At that, he smiled. "True enough. Smart lady."

"What else concerns you about the job offer?"

She knew what he was going to say, and she needed to hear it. At least one more time.

"I have a life and friends here in Maryland. And most importantly, I have you." He met her eyes, his fierce with determination. "I love you, Mary. I don't want to lose you."

He meant it. She could tell. But she could also tell that just as many factors, crucial ones, were drawing him back to his old life in California. Factors they both needed to acknowledge.

So she didn't react to his words. Didn't ask him to elaborate. Didn't beg him to stay, even though she wanted to.

"Okay, those are your worries. What about the offer makes it tempting?"

The lines on his forehead carved deep. "I enjoyed my job." He paused. "Not just enjoyed, actually. Loved."

She waited patiently, knowing he had more to say.

"I love the show. Partly because of the work, but mostly because of my crew. I've kept the same people for pretty much the entire run of the show. They're like my extended family. I don't know how many backwater bars we've been kicked out of, but it's at least a dozen. And we have certain rituals for each episode. Inside jokes and pranks."

"Like what?"

"Someone on the crew always chooses a random, bizarre word and dares me to say it during filming. I have to do it in a way where it sounds natural and won't get edited out." His worry lines disappeared as he laughed. "You haven't lived until you've tried to work _blueberry_ into a show about constructing a Siberian church."

_He slipped into present tense when he started talking about his crew_. _Telling._

She forced a smile. "I'll have to watch that episode."

He sounded contemplative. Wistful. "I think they took the accident harder than any of my other friends. Maybe even harder than my brother. When I was in the hospital, they came by all the time. God, they wouldn't stop crying. Wouldn't stop blaming themselves for my fall." He shook his head. "Like they could have stopped whatever stupid crap I was going to do."

He clearly adored his job. Not just because of the money and fame, but also the people involved. And there were more people he hadn't even addressed yet.

"What else do you miss about California?"

"My brother. The rest of my friends," he said immediately. "I know I haven't talked to them recently, but I care about them. A lot."

Her face felt like it was going to crack. How much longer did she have to keep smiling?

Long enough to let him work through his dilemma and come to the inevitable conclusion.

"Tell me about them," she said.

He let out a slow breath. "My parents died in a car accident a few years back. Maybe you saw that when you Googled me?"

"I did. I'm so sorry, Miles." She wiggled even closer, trying to offer comfort with the warmth of her body.

"It's okay." He gathered himself for a moment before continuing. "We were never close to our other relatives, so Teddy's my only real family. My best friend, too. When I'm in town, we usually go out to dinner a few nights a week. And we have a great group of friends. Some people in the industry, and some with regular jobs. We all get together every month or two. At beaches, amusement parks, someone's house. Even mini-golf courses. Non-haunted ones." The signs of his grief disappeared, and a reminiscent smile lit his face. "And wherever we go, we make way too much noise and eat way too much food."

"Sounds like fun."

Mary could almost see the dam that had broken somewhere inside Miles after his brother's visit. Suddenly, he was full of words, of stories, of insights into his past and his mind. He was even telling her about his friends and his work at long last.

In the space of a single evening, he'd transformed into a different man, one she'd only seen in glimpses before. This Miles was more confident. More open. Happier. Maybe a bit more cautious than the star she'd seen mugging for the camera on rooftops around the world, but much closer to that star than the grieving recluse she'd met several months ago.

She loved Miles in all his incarnations, including the one lying beside her in bed right now. But whether she could keep this version of Miles...well, that was a different story.

When he sighed again, his chest lifted and lowered beneath her cheek. "At least, I used to get together with my friends every month or two. Until I moved out here and stopped answering my phone. I just..." He hesitated. "I just couldn't stand to see or hear their grief. It felt like pity to me. And I was angry about the situation with Teddy, which made things even more awkward. Because they care about both of us."

After months of piecing together tidbits of data pried from his closed mouth, part of her welcomed the flood of new information. No more mysteries. She now understood the reasons he'd fled to Maryland, as well as the lures tempting him back to California.

Unfortunately, she now understood something else too.

He was leaving. He was leaving Nice County, and he was leaving her.

"I'm sure all of you will get together soon." Very soon, if she guessed correctly.

And she was happy for him. Really. He'd regained that spark whose loss she'd grieved after watching his Blu-ray. Within months, he'd no doubt reveal himself to the world as a golden god once more, bathed in sunlight as he joyously engaged with his friends, his crew, and his work. A little battered. Not perfect, not anymore. But still glorious to behold.

A demigod, then. Humbled, but not broken.

"God help me, Mary," he said. "I don't know what I'm going to do."

She did. But he needed to come to that conclusion in his own time.

"I'll support you, no matter what you decide." She pressed a kiss to his chest. "Don't worry about me."

The truth. She wouldn't be an anchor on the man she loved. Not for the world. And certainly not for her own selfish reasons.

"Mary..." He met her gaze, his eyes troubled. His hand hot against her bare skin.

She didn't want to hear it. Not right now.

She wanted one more night before he told her good-bye.

So she raised her head and covered his mouth with hers, blocking anything else he wanted to say. And did her best not to cry at the thought of how little time they had left.
19

Miles stiffened for a moment. Then he relaxed beneath her, his movements turning fluid and assured. Before she could take a breath, he was easing her lips open with his tongue and hauling her on top of him, until she was sprawled skin-to-skin along his body.

He buried his hand in her hair and claimed her mouth, nudging between her legs with his muscled thigh. And when he bent his knee, she suddenly had pressure right where she wanted it. And when he lifted that leg higher...oh. Oh, goodness gracious.

She whimpered against his lips, and she could feel his satisfied smile.

"Ride my leg," he said. "Grind against me. Make my thigh wet."

He'd never used that kind of language with her before. Never imbued his voice with such confident command and open carnality.

It was exciting. More exciting than she'd ever dreamed. And when she rocked her hips, rubbing against his leg, her eyes shut at the pleasure of it.

"Look at me," he demanded. "Only at me."

His hand had fisted in her hair. Not hurting her, not even a little bit. But insisting on her full attention. Demonstrating with his hold just how close to the edge he was tonight.

He watched her response, studying her face as she moved against him. And then he let go of her hair and slid his hand down to the middle of her back. Dipping his head, he licked her nipple. Nibbled at it. Flicked it with his tongue and sucked until she wanted to close her eyes again. But she didn't. He'd told her to look at him, and she would. For his sake, and for her own selfish reasons too.

So she gazed at the top of his head as he made her nipples hard and wet, electricity spiking between her legs with every draw of his mouth. The pressure low in her belly began to build, and she rubbed herself against him in a fever of need.

He released her nipple just as she began to get close, lowering his hand to still her hips.

She licked her lips and regarded him through hazy eyes, confused. When he urged her to straddle him, though, and maneuvered her further and further up his body, things got clear in a hurry. Too clear. By the time her knees were planted on either side of his head, she was nearly hyperventilating.

"Miles, I'm not sure I can do this," she whispered frantically.

His response came from between her legs, and she nearly died of embarrassment. "All I want to see is you. All I want to smell is you. All I want to taste is you." He separated her folds with a single stroke of his tongue, his grip on her bottom keeping her in place. "So you can, Mary. And you will."

Her knees almost collapsed beneath her. But when she tried to wiggle away, his hot hand tightened, bringing her even closer. For heaven's sake, she could feel him _breathing_ against her.

It felt...well, amazing, actually. But still. "I'll suffocate you! And when I have to call the paramedics, I'll be too mortified to tell them what happened!"

When he laughed, the vibrations...

Oh, my.

She reached for the headboard, desperate to support herself somehow.

"I'll be dead, beautiful. Not my problem."

His answer moved his lips over her most sensitive flesh, and she shuddered at the sensation. And then shuddered again, harder, when he essentially buried his face between her legs and slowly licked from her vagina all the way to her clitoris, circling the bit of flesh with a little swirl before starting over again.

Her thighs shook, and she moaned, her tight grip on the headboard turning her knuckles pale. But he showed her no mercy, employing his tongue, his lips, his teeth, and his nose to torment her. To please her. To build her arousal until she was gasping for breath and didn't give a damn anymore about his own ability to breathe.

She let herself sink a little lower. "Harder."

He laughed again, then sucked her clit between his lips.

She went still, knowing one more movement would send her over the edge. Just a little more, and she would be there. She would come, goodness help her, on his flippin' face.

A final, firm rub of his tongue, and she couldn't hold back any longer. She cried out, her blood rushing in her ears as she convulsed and throbbed and clenched in orgasm.

He kept nudging at her oversensitive flesh, draining every last twitch of pleasure from her body, and she sagged in exhaustion.

At least until he squeezed her butt and spoke, his voice muffled. "I take it back. Please don't suffocate me."

"Oh!" She scrambled back on the bed, arms and legs flying, and almost kneed him in the groin. Which would have been a shame, because it appeared his near-death by cunnilingus hadn't hindered his desire in any appreciable way.

He was fighting a grin when he sat up, doing his best to hide it as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. But then he studied her sprawled across the bed, supporting herself with her two arms behind her, her breasts thrust forward in a thoroughly unladylike way, and his amusement promptly vanished.

"I want you on your back." His eyes were dark in the dim light of her bedroom, his features taut.

They'd made love several times with him on top, and one arm had always proven more than enough to support him. She knew, though, that he was still fighting the undertow of whatever nightmares he'd had about the position. So she certainly wasn't going to question his choice of missionary-style sex, even if he phrased that choice as an order. As far as she was concerned, his willingness to use the position—or, in this case, his _insistence_ on using it—was something to celebrate.

But she couldn't help the hitch in her breath when he gave his next directive.

"Open your legs, beautiful. Wide as they can go. I want to see every inch of you."

He produced a condom from somewhere and began to roll it down his thick penis, his eyes fixed on her tentative movements as she spread her thighs.

"Wider." He gave his cock a slow stroke, ruddy color high on his cheekbones.

She bit her lip, hesitating.

I mean, honestly, what does it matter? He's seen it all before anyway. And this is probably going to be the last time you make love. Do you really want to hold back?

She went for it. Taking a deep breath, she splayed herself as wide as she could.

He visibly tensed, and his gaze burned through her. "You're gorgeous, Mary Louise Higgs. Every bit of you." His erection somehow grew even bigger, and he slid his hand up and down his length one more time. "See what you do to me?"

Why did she find that gesture so exciting, despite its crudeness? Why did it turn her on even more?

"I love you." His breath shuddered in his chest. "And I need you so badly. You know that, right?"

_It's mutual. Oh, goodness, it's mutual_.

She nodded, watching him crawl closer, between her widespread legs. He knelt there, and then reached out to stroke her clitoris with his fingertip. She jerked at the contact.

"Too sensitive?"

"Yes," she whispered.

So he circled around it, stroking gently through her wetness, playing with her flesh until she was shifting underneath his touch again. Raising her hips to meet the intimate invasion of his fingers and moaning as he hooked those fingers and rubbed.

Then he pressed her left leg up high, near her chest, until she was more open than she'd ever been. More open than she'd ever imagined being. And his eyes holding hers, he pushed inside her with one slow, deliberate thrust. Her neck arched at the familiar stretching sensation, the slide of his body so deep within hers.

He was supporting himself with his right arm with no difficulty, thanks to all the training he'd been doing. And he watched her face as he ground up against her, circling his hips. When she gasped, he flashed her a tight smile.

"Do you love me, Mary?"

He withdrew almost completely and sank back inside, so slowly she wanted to scream with impatience. Then he ground up against her again until she wanted to scream for an entirely different reason.

"Yes." She panted out her answer. "So much."

His eyes closed, and he grimaced. "Can you take it hard? Just this once?"

He had to have felt her inner muscles spasm at the words. Maybe he even felt her get wetter around him. But he still waited for her answer.

"Please." She moved restlessly beneath him. "Oh, God, please."

"Touch yourself. Like I would."

She didn't argue or succumb to embarrassment. Instead, she simply reached between her legs and stroked herself, whimpering at the contact.

Without further ado, he abandoned his restraint. His next thrust drove her up the bed, and the impact took her breath. She choked out a cry.

He stilled immediately. "Okay?"

"Yeah. It's..." She moaned as he drew back and surged inside her again, his hips meeting her spread thighs with a distinct smack. "It's amazing."

He didn't ask her again. He didn't need to. She came after his next thrust, at the sensation of her circling fingertips and his cock spreading her wide and carving deep, came as hard as she ever had in her life. Probably because she'd never been so unguarded in her life, physically and emotionally both.

The pleasure of it made her sob, and so did the pain.

By the time she came again minutes later, on her hands and knees, her fingers once more on her clit as he throbbed inside her and groaned, she couldn't see anything through the tears that kept dripping on to her pillow.

She knew what he was doing. He was saying good-bye with his body, and she didn't know how she was going to survive it.

* * *

Miles didn't sleep much. Just held Mary close and worried.

He'd pushed her hard in bed that night. Maybe too hard. But he'd wanted to stake his claim in a way that couldn't be mistaken. He'd wanted to convince her of his ardor. And most of all, he'd wanted her to bypass her usual boundaries, push through her reticence and worries, and see what awaited her on the other side.

Love. Pleasure. Safety too, because he'd never let her get hurt. Not if he could help it.

Now he was questioning whether he'd done the right thing. Whether he'd done enough.

He supposed he'd find out in a few hours.

The darkness in her bedroom lifted slowly, until the little nightlight automatically turned off. Bars of sunlight edged around the blinds covering her window, falling across her curled form on the bed. He just lay there, memorized her features for the millionth time, and waited.

A little after eight, her eyes blinked open.

Her _bloodshot_ eyes. He winced, knowing his problems, his needs, his desires, had kept her from sleep. Had made her cry, for whatever reason.

She offered him her usual gentle smile, although it appeared strained. And she stayed cuddled close, her arm slung across his chest and her legs tangled with his.

He rubbed his nose against hers, then kissed its tip. "Good morning."

"Good morning." She cleared her throat. "Did you sleep well?"

"No." No point in lying. "I was worrying."

Sitting up, she drew the sheet over her breasts, propped her pillow behind her back, and leaned against the headboard. "About the job offer?"

"Yes and no. Not so much the work aspect of it, but..."

Was it too soon? Should he wait a day or two?

"But what?"

She gazed down at him, her brow furrowed in concern. A stray ray of sunlight caressed her smooth skin, striking golden sparks in the deep brown of her eyes. She sat only inches away from him, naked under a sheet, her hair tumbled from their lovemaking. From his fist.

Christ, she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

He couldn't wait any longer. He had to hear her answer.

The words emerged in a rush. "I know you have bad memories from your time in California, and I know your life is here in Nice County. But I love you, Mary. I want to be with you wherever I am."

She'd become a mannequin in bed beside him, so motionless he wasn't even sure she was breathing.

Still, he took the plunge. "If I decided to go back to California, would you come with me? Please?"
20

With difficulty, Mary kept her jaw from hitting the floor.

When she'd woken up and seen that look of worry on Miles's face, her heart had clenched in her chest. _He's about to do it. He's breaking up with me right now_ , she'd thought, and she'd done her darnedest to smile, even though she'd felt herself splintering to pieces.

But instead of breaking up with her, he'd...Wait. Had he _really_ said he wanted her to move with him?

She shook her head, wondering if she'd hallucinated his words. "You want me to come with you to California?"

"If I decide to go."

Oh, he was going. She was pretty sure he was the only one who didn't know it yet. Heck, cloistered hermits in New Zealand were probably speculating about his upcoming season on HATV that very second.

And his desire to have her by his side both warmed her heart and cracked it further. No man outside her family had ever loved her so much. No man had ever offered her so much of himself and his future. No man had ever broken through her reserve and brought her so much happiness.

But she was still going to reject his plea. Which he should have realized. Maybe had realized, given the way he'd framed his question.

He sat up in bed and took her hand. "What do you say?"

"I love you too, Miles. More than you know. I never..." She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying. "I never imagined meeting someone as wonderful and loving as you. And I want to stay with you, to support you and make a life together. I really do."

His fingers spasmed in hers, his grip tightening to a painful degree before loosening again. "I sense a 'but' coming."

"But I can't go to California."

"Okay." His voice had turned liquid. Coaxing. "Okay, let's talk through this. Is it an issue of not wanting to leave your family and friends? Because I promise you, we could come back here all the time. Or we could fly them out to see you whenever you'd like."

All the people she loved—with one major exception—thousands of miles away? Her parents and siblings, Sarah, Angie, and everyone else? No. No, it wasn't happening. "I'd miss them terribly. I don't think—"

"I could keep renting the cabin. Or someplace nicer, once I'm making money again. In between seasons, we could stay here. And during filming, we could Skype, make long-distance phone calls, and do weekend visits."

He was trying so hard, his face so darn hopeful she could feel her eyes burn once again.

"That's such a thoughtful plan." She raised his hand to kiss his knuckles, then let it drop. "But sweetie, I don't want to move someplace where I don't know anyone. Not again."

"If you're worried about finding work, I have connections with the local libraries through the fundraising and charity events I've done. I could put out some feelers and see if they have anything available that'd suit you."

Her work. Oh, goodness, her work. How could she leave Battlefield behind? Her patrons? Her coworkers?

"Or if you wanted to go back to school and try another line of work, I could support you until you got a steady job." He huffed out a breath. "Hell, if I accepted HATV's offer, you wouldn't even need to work, Mary. Not if you didn't want to. But I'm guessing that's not the sort of life you'd choose for yourself."

The corners of her trembling lips turned up. "You guess right."

"I would love for you to move in with me. But if you didn't feel comfortable with that, I could find you a good apartment near where I live."

She bit her lip, tremendously tempted by the prospect of spending every day and night by Miles's side, of building a life with the man she adored. How could she say no to that?

Then again, how could she say yes?

"I appreciate everything you're saying. But it's too much, Miles. Too much change. Too much risk. Even if I disregarded how much it would hurt to leave behind my family, friends, and work." She met his eyes. "I don't want to move. But I especially don't want to move to California. I lost myself there, Miles, and I won't let it happen again."

He responded immediately. "I understand what you're saying. But Mary, this would be a completely different situation. You'd have me. You'd have my friends and my brother. And hell, if you hated LA, you wouldn't have to spend much time there. Like I said, we could come back here to Maryland between seasons. And I'd be traveling a lot the rest of the time. You could come with me on location. I'd make sure that was allowed in my contract."

"If I spent all my time traveling, how in the world would I hold down a job?"

For Pete's sake, why was she arguing about work? The job issue was only one of many. And her main stumbling block, the one she couldn't seem to see past, hadn't even been addressed yet.

"Maybe I could put something in my contract about finding you work with the show." His face, so tense and troubled, brightened. "I know! You could be part of my research team!"

She shouldn't ask. There was no point in torturing herself.

But the words spilled out, self-preservation be darned. "What does your research team do?"

He smiled encouragingly. "They compile information about the places we visit. The history, the architecture, and everything else we talk about each episode. You're a pro at research. You'd be perfect for the job."

Wow. That sounded...amazing.

She hadn't realized jobs like that—full of travel and adventure and culture and learning—actually existed. Her teenage self would have done anything for an opportunity like that.

But she wasn't a kid anymore. And she knew herself too well to be swayed.

"Thank you for putting so much thought into all this. You're making me an incredible offer." Her voice turned thin and shaky. "But I can't, Miles. I can't go back to how I lived in California. I can't do that to myself again."

His mouth opened, then closed. He appeared flummoxed. And she wanted to explain, but she was swallowing back too many tears to speak.

"I don't understand," he finally said. "I know you'd miss your friends and family, but your life in California wouldn't be anything like it was before. Believe me, you wouldn't be alone or anonymous there this time. Even if you wanted to be."

There. He'd finally hit upon the heart of the matter. The main reason she was refusing him, despite her desperation to stay by his side.

"That's just it, sweetie," she whispered, fighting for control of her emotions. "I think being in the public eye would destroy me."

* * *

Oh, Jesus. How had he not understood? Why hadn't he recognized the main hurdle standing between them and a possible life together in LA?

"Is this about your, um, difficulties with eating and exercise?"

Miles didn't know how else to put it. _Disordered eating_ and _obsessive over-exercising_ sounded so damn clinical. Too cold and distant to use with the woman he loved, sitting knee-to-knee beside him, her fingers laced with his, warm and near and trembling in distress.

She inclined her head a bare inch. "Being in LA, especially as your girlfriend, might trigger all those old feelings. All my anxieties about my weight and how I look. All the terrible ways I coped with being lonely and out of place. I can't let myself go back to that life, Miles. Not even to be with you. There'd be nothing left of me."

Her breath was hitching in her chest, and the sound of it hurt him. But when he tried to pull her close, she shook her head.

"If you hold me now, I'll start crying, and I'll never get through this conversation." She sniffled once more, and then straightened her shoulders. "Let's keep going."

He wasn't a doctor or a psychologist, and he hadn't done much research about eating and exercise disorders. So what the hell could he say?

"Mary, I love you. Worship you." All he could do was tell her how he felt. How he'd protect her. "I'd never let you be lonely. I'd never let you forget how beautiful you are. And if anyone ever made you feel bad about how you looked, I swear to you, you'd never have to be in the same room with that person again."

"I've seen the magazines. The websites. The comments." Her eyes had gone glassy with anxiety. "All your exes...God, Miles, it's horrifying. If I went to California as your girlfriend, I'd be the one in the crosshairs, and I don't want to be the target of that sort of viciousness. I'm not sure I could handle it."

"We'd keep a low profile." His thoughts racing, he frantically tried to figure out what to do. What argument to make. "And if you needed to talk things through with a professional, we'd find the best person available. Someone who made you comfortable. I promise."

Shaking her head again, she gulped back a sob.

She was working so damn hard not to cry, and he couldn't stand it. Maybe he should stop talking about her fears and start reminding her of LA's many advantages instead?

"Before you give me a definite no, please think of all the reasons you might love living in a bigger city." His fingers tightened on hers. "In Nice County, the theaters almost never show those obscure tearjerkers you love. But in LA, you could weep all over a variety of exciting locations."

She hiccupped a watery laugh.

"And you said you wished Nice County had more families that looked like yours. LA definitely offers more diversity than here, beautiful."

"LA also has a long history of racial tension," she pointed out.

Well, he couldn't really argue with that.

He plowed onward, determined. "Why did you decide to move there in the first place? What drew you to California, when almost any other college would have been closer to your home and your family?"

She hesitated. "My gran owned a trucking company. She left me some money. More than enough to pay for college wherever I wanted."

"So why LA?"

"I..." She bit her lip. "I was desperate for access to more culture. Museums. Plays. Concerts. I could have found those in D.C. too, of course, but I was more adventurous back then. I wanted to test myself in a new city and explore a place I'd never seen before, not even on field trips or during family weekend getaways. And I've always loved movies. I thought I'd enjoy being close to the center of the industry." With a shrug, she conceded, "And yes, I wanted to move somewhere more diverse."

"Don't you still want those things? Wouldn't you still love living just a short car ride away from all the museums and cultural opportunities you could imagine?"

She slanted him a wry look. "I remember the traffic there, Miles. Don't 'just a short car ride away' me."

"If I went to California and you agreed to come with me, I could give you movies. I could give you museums. I could give you plays. I could give you concerts. I'd surround you with all the culture you've missed." He looked her in the eye. "And I'd surround you with my love, Mary. Isn't that worth taking a chance? Isn't that worth seeing what could happen?"

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. "I want to say yes, but...I'm not a risk-taker anymore, sweetie. Much as I wish I were."

It hurt. It hurt to hear that his love wasn't enough to blast her out of a comfortable but unsatisfying existence. Wasn't enough to induce her to take a chance, when he would give her the world if he could, and when love for her had blasted him out of his own comfortable-but-unsatisfying life in his cabin.

Maybe he simply loved her more than she loved him.

Or maybe she was hiding the same way he'd been doing for so long, and he'd never noticed.

"You're also not a teenager anymore. Or a woman in her early twenties. You have more information and experience than before, and you know your own triggers and warning signs. You know yourself. And we can make sure you have plenty of contact with your friends and family. We can find you work you'll love." This was it. His last and best argument, laid in front of her like a red carpet. "Are you telling me you plan to spend the rest of your life in a small town? One that doesn't have any of the opportunities and resources you want? Really?"

She gave a little sob, but he kept going.

"And you're doing it out of fear? Because you don't believe in yourself anymore? Because you're not willing to take chances, even for love and the possibility of a better life?" He shook his head. "Mary, you dragged me out of hiding. Let me do the same for you. Let me help you get what you really want."

At that, she dashed away her tears, tugged her hand free from his, and climbed out of bed. "You don't understand, Miles. You don't get how bad it was. How hard it would be."

"I've been isolated from my brother and my friends for months now. By my own choice, true, but that didn't make it any easier." He thrust his left arm toward her. "And I have some experience when it comes to body acceptance issues and fear of public scrutiny."

Her expression, so lost and hopeless, crumpled even more. "You're right. Of course you're right. And you have a much better excuse than I do for being scared. I'm sorry."

He didn't want an apology. He wanted her to change her mind.

"If I can take this chance, I know you can too. I'd support you every step of the way."

Her head gave a seemingly automatic shake, and he knew: He was losing her. He'd failed. In the most important conversation of his life, he'd failed.

"I appreciate that more than you know. But, sweetie..." She gathered her pajamas from the chair by the closet. "I'm not you. I'm not brave or strong."

He shook his head in disbelief. "That's what I don't understand. How can you say that?"

"Because it's the truth." Her hands trembled as she pulled on her clothing, reinstituting a physical barrier between them. "You have a wonderful life waiting for you in California. I understand why you'd want to leave, and I wouldn't blame you for going. But if you do go—"

"Don't say it," he told her, his voice raw and choked. "Please, Mary."

"—it'll be the end of the line for us." She couldn't control her tears anymore. They rolled down her cheeks, gleaming in the light of morning. "I'm so sorry."

Taking her hand, he brought it to his face. Pressed it against his own wet cheek. "Please reconsider. I swear, I'd never let you fall. I'd never let you suffer."

Her thumb stroked away his tears. "I love you, Miles."

"I love you too."

He was watching her face, but he couldn't make out her features. Couldn't focus on anything but the impasse they'd reached.

How much could he give up for her? How many of his dreams could he set aside?

And if he went back to California, if he decided he wasn't willing to sacrifice his future for their relationship, how could he ask her to choose any differently?

After one last, tender caress of his face, her hand dropped away from his, and he let it go.

"You should head home. Spend a little time with your brother before he leaves." Her voice was a sliver of sound, broken and thin. "Will I still see you tonight?"

He loved her too much to argue any longer, to contradict what she'd told him she wanted. Even though leaving her in that moment felt like careening through the sky once more, alone and helpless, the merciless ground waiting to greet him.

"Yeah. I'll see you tonight."

If he returned to LA, Mary wouldn't break his fall.

At least this time he wouldn't lose an arm. Just his heart.
21

When Miles skated back to the bench, sweat-soaked and panting, Sam clapped him on the shoulder. "How are you holding up?"

I don't know what to do with my life and have barely exchanged a word with the woman I love in over forty-eight hours. In other words, great. Fan-fucking-tastic.

He tried his hardest not to look at the stands, where Mary was sitting next to Constance. The sight of her, usually so welcome and comforting, only hurt him more right now.

_Shake it off_ , he ordered himself. _No more self-pity_.

"Fine." Miles took a long drink from his water bottle. "But my balance is still dicey. And my left armpit hurts like a motherf—" At the sound of toddlers shrieking as they ran up and down Iceville's concrete stands, he rethought his wording. "Like someone who loves mothers very much. In an intimate way."

Sam snickered. "Nice save, dude."

The final buzzer sounded, and to Miles's heartfelt relief, the game ended. After a few fist-bumps and final words, most of the green team headed for the locker room. Unsure whether he could actually make his legs move, Miles stayed put. Sam remained on the bench too, eyeing the frayed tape on the blade of his stick and a chip along its shaft.

And before they could flee across the ice and follow their teammates, Natasha arrived in front of the bench, her helmet hanging from her fingertips.

"Motherfucker," Sam muttered.

Miles shot him a glance, brows raised, but Sam just shrugged. "Make tender love to moms if you want, O'Connor. I'm a little more graphic."

Natasha ignored Sam, scanning Miles with narrowed eyes. "You're sweating like a pig."

"Careful." Slinging one skate-clad ankle over the other, Miles sat back and prepared to be taunted. "You'll turn my head with your compliments."

"Not bad in the face-off circle. Good forecheck too. Still skated right past you at least a dozen times, though." She smirked, clearly pleased by the ass-whipping she'd given the blue team. "You're a center, remember? You need to do some defense."

He turned to Sam. "I don't know whether to thank her or take out her knee with my stick."

"No point." Sam shook his head. "She's like the Terminator, bro. She'll just regenerate into a stronger, pissier form."

"Whatever." She tapped her stick against the concrete floor. "I talked to Zeke. He said he'd be happy to help you however he could. Here's his number."

She thrust a slip of paper into his hand. It had Zeke's name, e-mail address, and phone number scrawled in all caps.

"This is your former teammate? The guy who's part of the National Standing/Amputee Hockey Team?" Miles asked.

"Duh." The stick tapped faster. "If you plan on skating with us for much longer, it might be worth calling him. Although you're probably heading back to California soon, right?"

"Nat..." Sam sighed. "This isn't your concern. Leave the man alone."

"It's fine, Sam. I can handle it." Miles turned back to Natasha. "What makes you say that? Why would I head back there soon?"

"The Naked Carpenter has been on hiatus way too long." She stopped tapping her stick and met his gaze directly. "It's time for him to resume kicking ass. Preferably with Mary in tow."

He choked a bit. Oh, shit. She knew? Had she told anyone else?

Before he could ask, she waved her helmet dismissively. "You look like you're about to crap yourself, O'Connor. No, I haven't said anything to anyone. I'm not a snitch."

He exhaled in relief. "Thank you. For keeping my real name to yourself, I mean. Not for telling me I appear incontinent."

She pinned him with her stare. "So are you going back to Hollywood?"

He couldn't help it. He had to glance over at the stands, where Mary waited for him in her cute red winter hat. As soon as he looked her way, she smiled at him. Not a big smile, and probably not a real one, either. But she was trying. So he did his best to smile back before turning away and answering Nat's question.

"I..." _Mary. Oh, God, how can I leave Mary behind?_ "I don't know."

"It sucks that you lost your arm. But you can't let it beat you." She sounded fierce, and her golden-brown eyes were blazing with conviction. "You deserve better than a live burial here."

She didn't understand. Not about Mary. Not about the risks of public exposure. But he knew she wasn't entirely wrong, either. So what could he say?

She didn't wait for a response. "See you soon, Wolcott. Try not to lose quite as miserably next time." Her stick gave one last, decisive tap. "And give Zeke a call if you want, O'Connor. But I hope like hell I don't see your sweaty face in this rink next week."

Unexpectedly, she flashed a wide, wicked grin. "I'd rather see your sweaty, naked chest on my TV again."

She skated off without a backward glance, leaving both men temporarily speechless.

"Let's go," Sam finally said, getting to his feet. "Before she comes back and physically tows you all the way to California, like it or not."

Miles hesitated. "Are you in a hurry?"

Sam waved up at Con and Mary, pointed toward the parking lot, and sat back down. "Nope. I have all the time in the world."

The men sat quietly while the women made their way toward the lobby. When they were out of sight, Miles turned to Sam. Over the past few months, he'd come to like and respect the other man. Which was handy, since he desperately needed a sounding board.

"I'll keep it speedy." The scoreboard had gone dark, the stands had cleared out, and the Zamboni driver wouldn't hear them. Miles could speak freely. "HATV wants me back, but Mary won't come with me. So now I need to choose between her and my life in California."

"And you love her." Sam sounded sure of that.

Miles nodded. "More than I ever imagined possible."

"You can't change her mind?"

"Nope." Although God knew he'd tried. "She has good reasons for not wanting to move. I was hoping she'd take a chance and see if we could tackle her fears together, but..."

"Some things can't be changed." Sam nodded. "I understand. Believe me." His gaze flicked over Miles. "No wonder you look like someone kicked you in the gut. I thought it was just worry about your first game."

"These last two days have been pretty terrible."

A vast, vast understatement. He and Mary, while still nominally together, had hardly spoken since that emotional conversation. Hadn't laughed together a single time. Had barely touched, other than holding each other at night.

He understood why, even though the distance was gutting him.

If he left, they both wanted to make the rupture easier. Less sudden. Although he suspected they might only be dragging out the agony instead.

Sam looked thoughtful. "What would you even do if you stayed here? Do you have enough money to live on?"

"It's not a lot, but I have some savings. I earn money from reruns. And I started writing a book about my travels." His shoulders shifted in discomfort at the admission. "If the writing didn't pan out, I could see about becoming a contractor. I also wondered whether I should get a functional prosthetic, one that would give me more options for carpentry work."

"Would you enjoy that?"

Miles shrugged. "Maybe. Probably?"

"What about your show? Is that something you'd like to do again?"

Jesus, he didn't have a good answer for any of these questions. "I used to love it. And if the network is telling me the truth, they aren't going to hide my injury, but they're not going to exploit it either. They're going to help me do as much as I can on the show by modifying my tools and giving me an assistant."

Sam's brown gaze turned shrewd. "That all sounds good. So what's the catch?"

"I've always had a good relationship with the people in charge, but ratings are king. Appeasing curiosity-seekers and flogging my disability for the sake of so-called inspiration would probably bring in more viewers. Which means HATV will most likely try it at some point." He clenched and relaxed his hand in his glove, watching the motion instead of the man beside him. "And I'm afraid to find out for sure what I can and can't do anymore."

"Understandably." Sam didn't sound either judgmental or surprised.

"But it's the thought of leaving Mary behind that really kills me. What do I do?"

At this point, Miles would take direction from anyone. Follow any sign indicating the right path. Consult a Ouija board or Magic 8 Ball, as necessary.

"No idea. I'm sorry, dude." Sam gave him a consoling thump on the back. "Maybe this is one of those times when there isn't a right or wrong answer. Just different, equally good options."

Not to be self-pitying, but..."Or equally terrible."

"Fair enough."

Miles waited, hoping Sam might offer other words of wisdom, but his teammate remained silent.

"Thanks for listening," Miles finally said. "I guess we should get going. They've been waiting on us for a while."

"No problem." Sam stood. "If you need to talk, just give me a call. How soon do you have to make a decision?"

This time, Miles rose too. "Soon. Too soon."

"Want to grab dinner with us tonight?"

"Why not?"

After all, it wasn't as if he and Mary had better plans. Just a long evening ahead of them, full of grief, worry, and love. Love that might not be enough to save their future together.

* * *

When Miles and Mary got home late that night, neither one of them seemed to know what to say. Desperate to fill the silence, he reached for the TV remote. Mary didn't protest.

They both settled on the loveseat, close to each other but not touching. And while flipping through the channels, he noticed that HATV was running another marathon of _The Naked Carpenter_. God help him.

Unlike all the other times he'd seen the show on his channel guide, he didn't keep flipping. Instead, he selected the program and allowed it to fill his screen. After all, if he couldn't stand to be reminded of the way it—and he—used to be, how could he consider going back?

Beside him on the couch, Mary turned tense. "Are you okay with this, sweetie?"

"Yeah." There was no point in avoidance. Not now.

And then, as soon as the commercial ended, there he was. There _it_ was. His arm. Real. Tangible. Made of flesh and blood, not simply memory and stymied nerve endings.

Before the accident, he'd considered watching his own program to be the height of narcissism. So he hadn't done it, not unless someone else insisted. But now it was like watching a documentary, historical footage from a time long past. Evidence of a previous, more innocent civilization.

Christ, that guy on the screen looked happy.

Pre-Accident Miles swung around the job site like a damn monkey, every gesture easy and assured as he sweated in the heat of a Virginia summer. His arms moved in tandem, working together to hammer nails, saw boards, and climb the building-in-progress. His legs provided power and stability. And his abs...damn. Post-Accident Miles—AKA Post-Pizza Miles—envied that washboard stomach.

The man on TV did everything with gusto, not a trace of fear on his features. And he seemed to love chatting with everyone on set, even dragging some of his crew into the shot on occasion.

No, he hadn't just _seemed_ to love it. He _had_ loved it. Full stop.

The memories came flooding back, as clear as day. He'd helped in the reconstruction of a colonial coffeehouse that episode, and he'd pranced around the set wearing breeches almost the entire week. Partly because he'd lost a bet with the sound guy, and partly because he'd thought it would be funny. And it was. Especially when the costumed locals had informed him he needed to go commando for complete historical accuracy, since the long tails of a shirt served as eighteenth-century male underwear.

The faux colonists had tittered amongst themselves, certain they'd embarrassed him. But he'd merely raised an eyebrow and said, "I'm the Naked Carpenter, ladies and gentlemen. Your wish is my command." And then, when he'd begun unbuttoning his breeches, they'd turned red and run off.

His camerawoman had laughed so hard, the shot wasn't steady. But they'd kept the scene, convinced that viewers would respond to it. And they had. Oh, they had. He couldn't even count the number of memes people had created of him shirtless and unbuttoning his breeches. His favorite, posted by the historic site's Twitter account: "I don't always wear breeches. But when I do, my hammer goes full colonial."

He snickered at the memory. And then paused the program, stunned by his reaction.

It wasn't painful.

Watching his show didn't hurt him. It inspired him.

Mary laid a hand on his arm. "Miles?"

"I'm fine. Just thinking."

Worry creasing her forehead, she kept her hand in place. He welcomed the warm weight, but for once, her touch didn't derail his thoughts. Instead, he kept considering what he'd seen moments ago.

His ease of movement and facility with tools had constituted an important part of the show. After all, the network had put the word "carpenter" in the title for a reason. But his ability to use a hammer or a lathe...that wasn't the true appeal of _The Naked Carpenter_. Not at all.

At its heart, the show was really about his interaction with locals, his exploration of the regions he visited, his relationship with his crew, and his ability to explain building techniques and architectural choices. His humor. His enthusiasm. His love for his job.

The show was about him. Not just his arm. _Him_.

So whatever he could still accomplish with his remaining arm would be enough. And he certainly planned to get a prosthesis to help him maximize his capabilities, as well as a series of appointments with a good occupational therapist.

Who knew what he could do if he actually tried?

When had he become the sort of man who shied away from a challenge?

"Excuse me for a minute." He kissed Mary's cheek and rose from the couch.

She looked up at him, her face drawn in concern.

Within a half dozen strides, he arrived at the hall closet. He opened the door, bent down, and dragged a familiar box out of its dusty hiding place. And then, for the first time in months, he voluntarily opened that box and picked up one of his tools. His favorite hammer, the one that swung light and true and nestled perfectly in his grip.

It still did. It hadn't changed.

Neither had he. Not where it counted. He simply hadn't been able to see that truth through all of his anger and grief. And yes, he'd need a body-powered prosthesis to grip a nail. Or he'd need to invest in a magnetic hammer.

But he wasn't losing his kingdom for want of a nail. No fucking way.

He'd destroyed his arm, not himself. And it was time to stop hiding and reclaim the man who'd charged through life with optimism and self-confidence. Sure, that man could use a heftier dose of common sense, but Miles figured he had a pretty obvious reminder of the consequences of foolish decisions close at hand.

He snorted. One hand. Literally.

God, he missed making his crew groan with his stupid puns. And now he had a whole new arena of them to explore, which was very handy. Ha ha.

He needed to go back to work. As soon as possible.

Still, he hesitated before reaching for his cell phone and calling Teddy. Leaving for California would mean leaving Mary behind. And he wanted her by his side so, so badly. Wanted her gentle warmth and sweet smile, her soft skin and electric response to his touch. Wanted her love. Lord above, he wanted her love. Even the minor estrangement between them the last two days had left him empty and exhausted, lonely in a way he hadn't experienced for months.

How would it feel if he moved across the country? Could he even survive it?

Maybe. Maybe not.

But if he remained in Nice County, he'd only be offering her part of a man. The scared part, the part that didn't take chances or have faith in himself and the world.

She deserved better. He deserved better.

When he glanced back into the living room, Mary was still sitting there. Still watching him. But her face had changed. She didn't appear worried anymore.

Maybe her eyes were wet, but she was trying to smile. And she looked...proud. Of him?

"Go on." Her voice was choked. "Go on, make the call. It's okay."

She knew he was leaving. Soon.

"I love you. More than you know." What else could he say?

She nodded and dabbed at her eyes. "I love you too, Miles."

He could only hope she changed her mind before he got on a plane. Because after months of hiding, he was going to bask in the sunshine again. He was going home. And he wanted to do it with Mary by his side.

"Take your time," she whispered. "I'll give you some privacy."

She walked to the kitchen, her shoulders stiff. And he ached to go after her, ached to hold her and tease her until she smiled again. But with his decision, he'd effectively ended their relationship. Unless she reconsidered a move to California, they were over.

She wouldn't welcome his comfort. Not anymore.

A few taps of his shaking finger, and Teddy was on the other end of the line.

"Hey, man." Miles stared at the kitchen doorway, where Mary had disappeared moments ago. Desperate for the sight of her, even though he hadn't even left yet. "You can tell HATV to count me in. I'll be there by their deadline. But I have a few demands of my own."
22

According to an airline app that tracked flights, Miles was halfway across the country by now, his plane no doubt at cruising altitude as he winged toward LA.

It was for the best. She'd known it already, but seeing his expression as he watched his show—seeing the optimism, the self-confidence, the _fight_ almost visibly pour back into him—had made his only possible choice abundantly clear. When he'd hefted that hammer and swung it through the air, it had become part of his arm. A natural extension of his power and skill and energy.

He'd looked complete and content. At peace, for the first time since she'd met him.

Despite her dislike of confrontation, she'd have battled to keep him by her side. Argued and yelled and maybe even played dirty—if she'd thought his best chances of happiness rested with her. That a life with her would allow him to shine his brightest.

But they didn't. It wouldn't. So she hadn't fought for him to stay. She'd let him go.

She admired him for leaving despite his doubts and fears. She was proud of him for trusting his abilities. And she was a little proud of herself, too. His strength was his own, but maybe she'd helped him find it a little sooner than he would have alone.

HATV was airing another rerun marathon of _The Naked Carpenter_. Someone in charge obviously wanted to celebrate his return—still a secret for now—in a subtle way. She'd kept it on her TV all day, using the sight of Miles, the sound of his voice, to comfort herself, even though she also found it torturous.

In the current episode, he'd traveled to Switzerland. The Alps, to be exact. On her screen, he was walking way too close to the edge of a cliff and talking about the architecture of Swiss chalets, his arms swooping and his hands punching the air as he made various points. His face beaming. His every gesture relaying total ease.

Had she ever been like that? Had she ever tromped through her world with such confidence, heedless of any risks and convinced of her own capabilities?

On impulse, without letting herself think too hard about what she was doing, she called her mother. Who better, after all, to talk to her about the girl she'd been?

They spoke on the phone several times each day, so she didn't bother with formulaic greetings. "Hey, Mom. Listen, I was wondering something."

"Okay," Tricia said, completely unfazed. "What's up?"

"Was I..." Mary hesitated, trying to find the right words. "Was I always like this?"

Her mom sounded confused. "Like what?"

Oh, jeez. Describing her personality didn't come easily. Usually she tried her best to think about others, rather than herself. "Quiet. Um, not so fond of taking risks."

To her shock, her mother answered without hesitation. Almost as if she'd been waiting for that question for a long, long time.

"No." The word was clear. Spoken with conviction. "No, baby. You weren't."

A twinge of defensiveness drew Mary's brows together. "I was a shy kid. It took me days to raise my hand in class each new school year."

"You were a little shy, yes. But you weren't quiet. As soon as you got comfortable, you talked everyone's ears off." Her mom laughed. "Don't you remember all those report cards? Your teachers kept complaining that once you started speaking in class, you wouldn't stop."

Oh. Oh, yeah. She'd forgotten about that.

"And you had plans. Oh, my goodness, you had such big plans. You'd read a book about the Sydney Opera House, and next thing we knew, you'd be researching a trip to Australia. Plotting out your dream itinerary and listing all the sights you wanted to see."

The memory was coming back to her. "You always told me we'd have to save a few years for that kind of trip."

"And you said not to worry. You'd get there yourself, when you were older." Tricia laughed. "The next week, you'd be planning a trip to New York City, to see all your favorite Broadway shows. San Francisco, to see the Golden Gate Bridge. Or Paris, to see the Louvre."

Deep in her heart, those places still called to her. But she'd thought she had a realistic view of her future. A quiet existence in a small town. A life spent reading and watching movies about other people's adventures—and their inevitable, tear-soaked conclusions—rather than having her own.

Her mom's voice turned solemn. "And nothing was going to stop you from going to LA after graduation. God help anyone who got in your way, because you were determined, girl."

The ache in Tricia's voice stung Mary, and she had to ask. Had to know.

"Are you..." She swallowed hard. "Are you disappointed in me, Mom?"

"Because you haven't gone to all those places?" Her mom made a scoffing sound. "Of course not. You were a sweet, smart girl who grew up to be a warm, kind, responsible adult. You contribute to our community, just like your father and I taught you, and you try your best to do the right thing. I've always been proud of you. I'll always _be_ proud of you."

"Thank you," Mary whispered, and dabbed at her eyes.

"But sometimes I wonder if you've hobbled yourself, baby. Clipped your feathers when you should be flying." The love, the honesty, in her mother's words slayed her. "I worry you might be happier somewhere else, much as I love having you here. And I pray every night that you'll find the right path forward. Your father does too."

Mary couldn't hold back the tears any longer. "M-Miles left this morning. He wanted me to come with him, and I said I couldn't."

"He went back to LA?"

To her humiliation, a muffled sob escaped her.

Tricia shushed her. "No, baby. Please don't cry."

"I m-miss him so much already." Through her tears, she let out a miserable little laugh. "And he's only been gone six hours."

"Oh, Mary." Her mother sighed. "Why don't you come over this afternoon? We'll bake brownies, watch something really depressing, and cry together."

"All right." She blew her nose. "Give me an hour or so, and I'll be there."

"Love you, baby. Drive carefully, okay?"

"I will. Love you too."

Mary hung up and stared at her apartment through bleary eyes. She'd need a shower before going to see her parents. Maybe a quick snack. And she should probably clean up the piles of soggy tissues that had accumulated everywhere she'd sat.

Just as she was dumping the last handful of used tissues into the trash can near her computer, she heard the ding of a new e-mail. But it wouldn't be from Miles, so who cared?

Then she noticed the sender. Why in the world had her mother sent her a message, instead of calling or waiting to talk to her in person?

If you don't remember how you used to be, here's a reminder. See you soon, baby.

Love, Mommy

There was a link to the local news station's website. She clicked on it, and the video started playing.

Mary immediately knew when and where the interview had taken place. There was no mistaking that shiny yellow graduation gown or the local theater where the ceremony had been held. And she kind of recalled the bored reporter, although it felt like the whole event had happened a million years ago.

But she didn't remember much more than that. Certainly not what she'd said or done during the interview.

"So you're the valedictorian of the Battlefield High School graduating class," the reporter said, as the chyron at the bottom of the screen flashed Mary's name. "Congratulations. What do you consider the keys to your success?"

He was holding the microphone too low, so Mary ducked her head to answer.

"Um..." She hesitated, nibbling at her lower lip. "Hard work, I guess. And I had great teachers."

"What are your post-graduation plans?"

At that question, her shyness seemed to vanish. In a flash, she stopped biting her lip and nudged the reporter's arm upward, so she could stand straight and tall.

"I'm going to UCLA, and I'm so excited." Mary watched her own, younger face light up. "I can't wait to see Hollywood. And all the museums!"

"Uh-huh." The reporter's eyelids drooped. "Fascinating."

"Have you ever seen the Hollywood Walk of Fame? Or Grauman's Chinese Theater?"

"Nope."

The man's distinct lack of enthusiasm didn't stop her. "And the Los Angeles County Museum of Art is the largest art museum in the western United States!"

"Great. Congratulations again." The man withdrew the microphone and looked back at the camera. "Well, that's youthful energy for you, folks. For WNIC news, this is Arthur Saster."

Right before the video ended, it focused one last time on the young woman in the yellow graduation gown. She was beaming at the camera with her head high, the bridge of her nose crinkled with happiness, and her eyes bright with hope.

No fear in their dark depths. Just joy and excitement.

Oh, God, Mary had forgotten that girl. Dismissed her when the reality of life in LA had become too painful, too full of self-hatred and loneliness. Back then, any reminder of her former naïveté—the hopes she'd once cherished—had felt unbearable.

But what about now?

The website skipped to the next video, and Mary absently closed the window. But she didn't move from her computer, just stared at the monitor without seeing a thing.

For years, she'd thought her experiences in California had given her a realistic understanding of her own personality, had revealed her essential nature and the limits of what she could handle without breaking.

She'd told herself she was naturally cautious. Quiet. Controlled. Fragile. But maybe that wasn't true at all. Maybe she'd just needed a few years to recover from a hard time in her life.

_Look at Miles_ , she thought. His accident had scarred him and driven him into hiding, and he'd cloistered himself in his cabin with every intention of staying there forever. But that didn't mean he wasn't strong. That didn't mean the timid, bitter recluse she'd first seen and loved was somehow all of him. That didn't mean he wasn't capable of shedding his brittle shell and reemerging into the light.

She'd spent years mired in routine and familiarity. Avoiding risks and nursing her wounds. But maybe, like Miles, she was capable of more. Maybe she was capable of doing whatever the hell she wanted to do.

So before she got in the shower and headed to her parents' house, she had a call to make.

Her best friend answered the phone after one ring.

"Sarah?" Mary glanced at her calendar. "Are you up for a trip to D.C. tomorrow? Or Wednesday?"

Sarah didn't even hesitate. "It's going to be a million degrees tomorrow. With two thousand percent humidity, so we probably won't survive the visit. But sure. Let's die next to each other, surrounded by free museums and an astoundingly phallic monument to our nation's first true leader."

Mary smiled. "I'll tell Chris where to find your melted remains."

"Sounds good. Let's work out the details later today." Right before Sarah hung up, Mary heard her call out to her boyfriend, "Baby, I'm dying tomorrow! So if you want a piece of me, now's the time! Come and get it!"

Mary turned for the shower, still grinning.

At the very least, their trip to D.C. should prove entertaining. And if she was right, it should also prove enlightening. About her past. About what she wanted right now. And most importantly, about her future. A future she desperately hoped she could spend by the side of the man she loved.

She hadn't traveled to a big city in years. But she was willing to take the chance now.

Out of love for Miles, yes. But also out of love for herself.

* * *

Late the next afternoon, Mary stood beside Sarah in the cool of the Smithsonian American Art Museum and studied a photograph by Martha Olson. Taken in 1970, it showed a young black girl in a cardigan, plaid skirt, and loafers. Pale bandages marked her hand and her bruised knee. She held a pencil in her injured hand and a notebook in her lap.

She was looking directly into the camera lens, damaged but calm. Steadfast in the face of her wounds.

She might as well have been Mary's niece. Or heck, Mary herself as a child.

The caption read: _Norma Pearl Sartin covered with Band-Aids after first try at riding bicycle_.

"I know exactly how that poor kid feels." Sarah scowled. "Bikes are just death machines disguised as transportation."

The photograph somehow nourished a part of Mary that had been starving for years. The part that craved culture. The part that wanted to see faces like hers in both art and everyday life. The part that welcomed new experiences and new knowledge.

The part she'd ignored so steadfastly for so long.

"I love Nice County." Mary turned to Sarah. "But it can't offer me anything like this picture."

A sweet, sad smile crossed her best friend's face. "You're thinking about moving, huh?"

Mary nodded. "The idea of public scrutiny still scares me. But living in LA would have lots of advantages. Amazing museums. Travel. Movies. Different types of restaurants. Cultural events and people of all colors surrounding me. Everything I dreamed about when I was"—she gestured toward the photo—"her age."

"And you'd have Miles."

"And I'd have Miles." Mary huffed out a laugh. "I miss him. Horribly."

Sarah hooked an arm around Mary's waist. "I know, babe."

"But it's not just about him. It's about me, too. About how I fell down but never really got back up. Not like he did."

Not like Norma Pearl Sartin did, either. She's just sitting there, looking at the camera, completely unintimidated. Unafraid, even though she's bruised and bandaged. The next time she has a chance, she's obviously climbing right back on that bike and kicking its butt.

"Miles came to Nice County because he didn't want to face his injury. So he buried himself in his cabin." She licked her lips. "And I've been hiding too, because I didn't have faith in myself anymore. So I haven't taken a genuine risk in years. Not even for something I really wanted."

Sarah gave her a little squeeze. "And you're ready to take a risk now?"

Mary thought about it. To her relief, she'd found that big cities weren't quite as intimidating when you had someone you loved by your side. The sight of so many people who looked like her, who looked like Norma Pearl, had lifted an invisible burden from her shoulders. And the museums...oh, goodness. She couldn't get enough of the art, the history, and the architecture.

Everything she'd seen today had ripped a hole in her cocoon, exposing her to the chaos and beauty of the outside world once again. And as it turned out, her curiosity hadn't disappeared over the years. Neither had her hunger for more knowledge and more culture. It was long past time to appease both.

If she ran into trouble, if she began losing herself, she knew the signs now. She could gather her friends and family for support. She could get professional help. Heck, she could move back home a second time if she needed to.

But in the meantime, she wanted more. From herself and for herself.

"I'm ready to take a risk." She leaned into Sarah, already aching at the thought of living across the country from her best friend. Together, they stared one last time up at the bandaged, self-contained girl in the chair. "And if I fall again, I plan to get right back up."
23

Mary squinted in the California sun, trying to read the nondescript sign for the sushi restaurant. Her tired eyes were protesting after several long days of driving cross-country by herself. And goodness knew, battling the LA traffic hadn't given them much of a respite.

Adding to her stress levels: She'd left her car—packed full of all her remaining worldly belongings—parked in a random lot, where anyone could study its contents. But there'd been no choice. She'd had to jump on this opportunity.

After over two weeks of preparation and thousands of miles traveled, the man she loved was finally within shouting distance again. Maybe. And she refused to leave until she saw him. She didn't care if the paparazzi snapped a million photos of her or a thief made off with everything she owned. She wanted Miles. Now.

She took a deep breath and swung open the restaurant door.

Once her eyes adjusted, she could see that the place looked fancier inside than outside, all gleaming dark wood and clean lines and impeccably dressed diners. She could also see the host at the front watching her, suspicion clear in every line of his face.

She supposed she did look a little rumpled. But no matter.

"I'm here to see Miles O'Connor," she announced.

The man's bushy brows rose. "Miles O'Connor? Who's that?"

She got it. She even appreciated it. The man was trying to protect Miles's privacy—which must have been a tall order, given the media frenzy over his recent return to LA.

Even though she would have welcomed some privacy for her reunion with him, she had to admit that the hubbub over his arrival—not to mention his missing arm—had proven handy. When Mary had despaired of finding Miles without calling him first, Angie had pointed out the utility of social media in tracking celebrity whereabouts.

"Just search for his name on Twitter and Instagram. People who see Miles out in public will take pictures and post them, and then you'll know exactly where he is," Angie had said. "Also, check out the hashtags #polishmywoodMiles and #inspectmyladyhutMiles. His male and female fans tend to prefer different labels. And HATV is using #stillnaked. You have lots of options."

All his recent sightings had occurred near a specific neighborhood in LA. So as soon as Mary had reached that area, she'd pulled off the road and gone hunting on the internet. And lo and behold, fifteen minutes ago, @LAstarwhore had tweeted out a blurry cell phone photo and written: _Naked Carpenter at Sushi Generis. #inspectmyladyhutMiles Want to order HIM naked on a pillow of rice!_ She'd ended the message with a little smiley face emoji, one that had its tongue sticking out.

Mary could sympathize with @LAstarwhore's excitement.

She hoped to goodness that Miles hadn't finished his meal and left before her arrival. That he hadn't found someone else, someone more daring, in the past couple of weeks. That he still loved her.

She hadn't called him to confirm any of it. Not his presence at Sushi Generis. Not even his continued desire to have her by his side.

All she'd done was send a brief message sixteen days ago, one that echoed an e-mail he'd written months before. She'd texted him from that museum in D.C. with Sarah peering over her shoulder: _If my pity party ever ended_ , _would you still want me with you in California?_

His response had arrived within moments: _Of course._

And after reading those two words, she'd thrown caution to the wind and followed her heart. She hadn't written him again. She hadn't called. She'd simply taken action, knowing what she'd chosen to do would speak more loudly than any text, any e-mail, any declaration of intent she could make.

If she wanted to demonstrate her rediscovered willingness to take chances, what better way to do it than by giving her notice at the library, subletting her apartment, getting rid of most of her possessions, and moving across the country for a man she hadn't seen or spoken to in over two weeks? All in blind faith that he'd still want her and she'd be able to cope with the unknown?

Oh, heavens. It sounded much, much worse when she thought about it that way.

"He was just here." She took out her cell to show the host @LAstarwhore's tweet. "See?"

The man glanced toward the back room, the one with tall booths and views of the ocean, and then drew himself straight. "I can neither confirm nor deny his presence. Now, young lady, do you have a reservation?"

No wonder Miles liked to eat here, if the host protected him that fiercely.

Again, she saluted the man's efforts. But Miles was sitting in one of those tall booths, only a few dozen feet away from her. She knew it. And she wasn't giving up without one heck of a fight.

A decade ago—or a month ago—she'd have hunched and hid, trying to make herself smaller. She'd have agonized over the contrast between all those slender, expensively clad, impeccably highlighted diners and herself. She'd have mumbled an apology and fled, defeated.

Not this time.

"I don't have a reservation," she told the man, her cheeks only a little hot. "And if you don't want me to, I won't go back to his booth. But could you tell him I'm here? My name is Mary Higgs. I'm his girlfriend."

At least, she hoped she was his girlfriend. Even though they'd broken up.

Oh, jeez. Was all this a terrible mistake?

The man stared at her like an errant speck of dirt on a plate. "If you're his girlfriend, I imagine you could contact him some other way. For instance, by using that cell phone in your hand."

She couldn't fault his logic, even though he clearly thought he'd outsmarted a liar. So she had two choices, as far as she could tell. She could either shout Miles's name and hope he heard her, or take some good advice and give him a call.

Sure, she wouldn't get to surprise him by arriving at his table unannounced. But contacting him from an adjoining room would still prove her willingness to take risks, right?

"Thank you for the suggestion," she said, and stepped to the side to let a couple exit the restaurant.

As the host regarded her through narrowed eyes, she found her list of contacts. And after a deep, fortifying breath, she tapped Miles's name, hoping he had his cell on and with him.

No one answered her call.

_Oh, no. Oh, no no no._ Had he turned his phone off while he ate? Or changed his cell number entirely? Oh, heavens, had he rejected her call?

The host held the door open for her. "Good afternoon."

Her shoulders slumped in defeat. Swallowing her disappointment, she turned to leave.

Then her phone rang. Both she and the host jumped, and his eyes widened when he saw the name on the display screen.

She tapped the screen to accept the call.

"Hi, Miles," she said, relishing each syllable. Not because the man by her side had snapped to attention, regarding her with a newly ingratiating smile, but because she was going to speak to the man she loved. And see him too, hopefully within seconds.

If he still wanted her. Please, let him still want her.

"Mary?" His voice, so beloved, was sharp. Almost frantic. "Are you okay?"

Of course. _Of course_ he was concerned. Given the finality with which she'd said good-bye, he probably figured she'd only call in an emergency.

She rushed to reassure him. "I'm absolutely fine. Please don't worry."

His slow exhalation whispered in her ear. "I'm so sorry I didn't pick up right away. I didn't realize my phone was vibrating until you'd gone to voice mail."

"Not a problem." She licked her lips and closed her eyes, wishing. Hoping. Gambling. "Listen, could you come to the front of the restaurant?"

A few seconds of silence followed. She opened her tired eyes and noticed one of the other diners glaring at her. She didn't blame him. Usually she wouldn't dream of talking on the phone in a restaurant, but right now, good manners were the least of her concerns.

"How did you know I was in a restaurant? Or which restaurant I was in? And why do I need to come to the front? Did you deliver something?"

Poor lamb. He was clearly confused. "I'll explain later. Just trust me."

"I do, Mary." Sadness freighted his voice, lowering it to a near-murmur.

The back of a man's head appeared over the top of a booth. Thick brown hair, streaked with gold and russet. A little unkempt, just the way she liked it.

He turned around and saw her. His jaw literally dropped.

She waved and spoke into the phone, in lieu of shouting across the restaurant. "Hi, honey. I'm home." Then she winced. "Sorry. That was a cliché. I can do better."

"Nothing and no one is better than you, Mary Louise Higgs," he said.

Then the call was disconnected, and he was rushing toward her. Before she could say another word, Miles had his hand on her bottom, boosting her high, until her arms clasped his neck and her legs wrapped around his waist.

His mouth was on hers, and she could see flashes of light even with her eyes closed. Those elegant, irritated diners were whipping out their cell phones to get a good shot of the action. And honestly, she didn't care. She might in the future. But right now, having the man she adored back in her arms was worth every bit of the notoriety she'd just earned.

"I can't believe you're here." He was breathing hard, and a rapid pulse thrummed at the base of his neck. "Does this mean—"

She cut him off with another kiss. "I'm moving to LA. I want to live with you and work on your crew. And I plan to stay as long as you want me."

He didn't hesitate. "Forever. That's how long I'll want you, Mary. That's how long I'll love you." The vow emerged in a rush, certain and heartfelt. "But are you sure this is what _you_ want?"

"I'm sure." She tightened her legs, allowing him to support her full weight. He could handle it. And together, they could handle anything. "I love you too, sweetie."

"I'm supposed to be on location in less than forty-eight hours. Do you have a passport?" His hazel eyes burned into hers, bright with joy. "Because I'm taking you with me, if that's okay."

She rubbed her nose against his. "My passport is current, and my bags are already packed. Let's go."

He backed out of the restaurant, into the dazzling sun and ocean breeze, kissing her again. Holding on to her with every ounce of his strength, as she clutched him with equal desperation. With equal adoration.

The world was dizzy and bright and full of possibilities. Full of Miles.

Oh, goodness. She'd been right the first time.

Cliché or not, it was the truth. After so many years, she was finally home.
If you enjoyed _Hidden Hearts_ , be sure not miss Olivia Dade's

Driven to Distraction

IF THE BOOKMOBILE'S ROCKING . . .

Constance Chen is not the demure kind of librarian. Sure, her high-horsepower ride is Big Bertha the Bookmobile, but Con swears a blue streak, does her own home improvement, and wears steel-toed boots. She has a tight circle of friends, a demanding, beloved sprawl of a Chinese-American family, and a strict hookups-only policy when it comes to men. Her life is just how she wants it. Except for one maddeningly sexy footnote.

Sam Wolcott, her friend's baby brother and the library's IT star, has been throwing sparks with Con since he moved to town. To everybody else, he's a thoughtful, sensitive sweetheart. To Con, he's a cantankerous pedant, because if they don't fight nonstop their clothes will spontaneously combust. Sam needs a commitment Con won't—can't—give. And neither of them will chance their hard-won bonds for pure lust.

Too bad Con and Sam have a whole week in a very tiny, very private space to sustain their dumb arguments. Alone. What happens in the Bookmobile might take their resistance right out of circulation . . .

Keep reading for a special look!

A Lyrical e-book on sale now.
1

Trouble came in a variety of forms, as Constance well knew.

A sobbing phone call from her younger sister, Pru? Obvious trouble.

Diminishing tread on the Bookmobile's tires? Subtle trouble.

The grave illness of a homebound patron? Trouble that worried her.

An infuriatingly hot IT geek with an attitude problem? Trouble that pissed her off.

The one constant: Trouble came. Always.

And right now, it was— _he_ was—lounging against the doorway connecting the library's large garage to the main building. As if she'd summoned him with her thoughts, like the devil or that Justin Bieber song she kept hearing on the damn radio.

When she bent down to inspect a new scratch in Bertha's paint, the familiar, taunting voice drifted to her ears. "Good morning, Ms. Chen. Kicked any sensitive pieces of library equipment so far today?"

She refused to react to that voice, no matter how provoking she found it. No matter how much she wanted to stand up, get right in Sam Wolcott's face, and yell at him. Then grab his fine ass and—

Shit. She didn't have time for another sparring match with him. And even if she did, close contact of any sort only strengthened the reaction he always evoked from her.

Constance peered beneath the Bookmobile. No puddles to indicate a

leak. No branches stuck anywhere. And Big Bertha's back tires appeared fully inflated, as did her front tires.

Rising to her feet, Con continued the daily inspection. No new cracks, dents, or bends, not even on the side mirrors. The awning remained neatly furled against the vehicle. So as far as Bertha's exterior, a good

wash and a new paint job would take care of the obvious problems. The more troubling signs of age would have to wait for a larger Bookmobile Department budget.

Con walked over to the laptop resting on a nearby concrete barrier and tapped out a note to Maintenance:

Bertha's looking rough from the salt and sand on the roads. Can you wash her today? And buff out and repaint a few scratches before she starts to rust?

Within seconds, she had a response: _No problem. After you bring her back this afternoon, we'll get on it._

_Thanks_ , she wrote.

Only then did she turn to face Sam. "Did you want something?" His expression inscrutable, he hooked his thumbs through the belt loops on his olive-green cargos and met her stare. "No. You do." And after a closer look at Sam, she had to agree. She did want something. Him.

No use denying that he pushed all her buttons. He was a hair over six feet tall, strong and fit without any unnecessary bulk. He was leaning against the doorframe, at ease in his body in a way she'd rarely seen with other IT guys. The only telltale sign of his job was his pale skin. So pale she couldn't help but wonder whether it'd taste like cream if she licked it.

Since she'd last seen him, some of that skin had disappeared from view. He'd grown a beard. Reddish-brown, just a shade lighter than the overlong hair he kept sweeping back from his face, only to have it flop forward again every time he inclined his head. Sometimes that hair swung over his deep-set brown eyes and nearly reached his jutting blade of a nose.

The beard suited him, counterbalancing the boyishness of that floppy hair and adding a certain lumberjack-y flair to his usual uniform of cargo pants and superhero T-shirts. Especially with that faded denim shirt he'd thrown on over top of the tee and the loosely tied boots on his feet.

She chose not to address his statement directly. "You stick way too close to me, Wolcott. Like a tick covered in Velcro."

"Like a..." He looked to the side, and she could have sworn his lips twitched for some reason. But by the time he turned back to her, all traces of amusement had vanished. "Never mind. I'm here because you filed a report about your equipment. We have an IT department meeting later this morning, and I wanted to get up to speed before then."

"I thought you said you weren't handling my complaints anymore."

She hit the button to raise the garage door, and it rattled upward. Climbing the steps into Bertha, she started the engine. The gauges all looked fine, including the fuel level. The air brakes got up to the right pressure quickly too. She should check the oil, but she could do that later. Right now, she had to finish the most pressing morning tasks before heading to her first stop of the day.

When she glanced down at Sam, who'd come to stand outside Bertha's door, she noticed that his face—so expressive and relaxed around everyone but her—had somehow grown even more unreadable.

He shifted his weight. "We don't have enough staff for me to shunt your complaints to someone else."

"Whatever." She needed to get moving. "Can you check to make sure all the lights are working?"

After a quick circle around the Bookmobile, he returned. "Everything looks good."

"Move aside."

As soon as he obeyed, she put the steps up and pulled out of the garage. Once outside, she parked and pushed the button for the generator that supplied their electricity inside the vehicle. If it wasn't working, she and the other Bookmobile Bitches were pretty much screwed. On a cold day like today, they'd freeze. In the summer, they'd broil. Without the generator's boost of power, the onboard lights remained dim and drained the battery. And the pair of laptops the staff used to check in and out books, place holds, and do everything else would run out of juice within an hour or two.

The laptops should stay charged for at least an entire four-hour shift. Which was just one of the many reasons she'd filed yet another complaint with the IT department.

Sam was standing outside the door again, his fists braced on his hips as he shuddered a bit in the frigid wind. Reluctantly, she lowered the steps to let him inside, and he climbed on board immediately. The generator was working fine, and welcome heat had begun to flow through the vents. Too much heat, in fact, given Sam's proximity.

Too close. He was coming too close.

She leaned back in her seat, as far away from him as she could get. "I don't know why your department can't seem to find me laptop batteries that stay charged more than a couple hours. And why the hell does my Wi-Fi keep cutting out? I'm not driving around all day for the fun of it, Wolcott. I need access to our catalog and circulation functions. And if a patron has a quick reference question, I should be able to answer it."

He gritted his teeth. "We know about those problems. You've alerted us to them before. Many, many times."

"So why aren't they fixed?" She raised her brows. "I thought fixing technical issues was your job. Or was I mistaken?"

"We've tried. But we can't seem to pinpoint what's causing them."

"I'm getting tired of having to hand-write information and barcodes like I'm some sort of cavewoman librarian. And in some spots, we can never get service."

He shoved his hair back from his high forehead, and her eyes followed the movement. That hair...It burned in the sun, turning almost copper. Even on a cloudy day like today, though, its warmth drew her.

Unfortunately, it matched another head of hair almost exactly. A reminder, precisely when she needed one.

He counterattacked, as he always did. "Maybe if you and your staff took better care of your damn equipment, it would function better."

"Maybe you should take my laptops and shove them where the sun doesn't shine. Like a cave or a well."

She had no idea why, but he veered from their usual script at that point. He didn't fire back an insult. Instead, his look of stern aggravation cracked, and he suddenly started laughing.

"You—" He snorted. "You have the worst grasp on figurative language of anyone I've ever met."

Her eyes narrowed. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"Nothing." For once, his eyes had turned warm when they looked at her. "You're simply very...creative with your metaphors and similes."

The Bookmobile had become warm too. Stifling, really. She shrugged off her parka and pushed up the sleeves of her thick sweater.

Still way too fucking hot. Lifting her hair from her neck, she coiled it into a loose bun and shoved a couple of nearby pencils through the slippery mass to hold it in place. "Who gives a shit about metaphors?"

"Not you, clearly." He must have been getting overheated as well, because he unbuttoned his denim shirt. The thin material of the Iron Man tee beneath revealed way too much about the breadth of his chest and the flatness of his belly. "And I salute you for it. I'll make sure to include your suggestion for the laptops when I report back to the department."

Her eyes caught on the nimble way he handled each button. No fumbling. Just a sure touch, able to please—

Oh, fuck. No looking at his hands.

But when she met his stare, the close confines of the Bookmobile only became more suffocating. Because those brown eyes, so familiar in such an unwelcome way, had fastened on her with the sort of heat and desire she craved. The sort of heat and desire she was attempting to contain every time she saw him.

Then he blinked and spoke hurriedly. "We should be able to get you new laptops when we win the Department of the Year award."

Oh, good. He'd taken the initiative this time in dredging up a contentious subject. They'd never discussed it, but they both knew the drill. Sublimate, sublimate, sublimate.

If they were fighting, they weren't fucking. They weren't risking their connections with his sister or her best friend. They weren't making their already-contentious work relationship even more awkward.

But some days, she wondered whether their arguments would continue to do the trick for much longer.

"If you think the IT boys are going to snag the Department of the Year award, think again, Wolcott. The Bookmobile Bitches are taking it." She snapped her fingers. "Easy as taking a bottle from a baby."

He stepped closer, right into her space. Until she couldn't help but breathe in the scent of his body wash, or whatever the fuck he used that made him smell better than chicken wings, beer, and potato chips put together. She couldn't identify it, but she could identify him _by_ it. No one else smelled like Sam Wolcott. No one else smelled so goddamn delicious.

And it pissed her off for so many reasons.

"I think you mean candy, Ms. Chen." His eyes heavy-lidded, he crossed his arms across his chest. "Easy as taking candy from a baby."

Her brow furrowed. "That's not how my mom always said it. And what kind of shitty parent would feed a baby candy? They could choke on it. That's not safe at all."

His lips quirked. "I don't know much about babies, but I imagine you're right."

"I'm the fourth of nine children. My child-rearing days may be over, but trust me. I'm right." She made the mistake of meeting his gaze again, and this time she didn't see anyone but him in those brown depths. If she tilted her head up just a smidge...

"Nine?" He blinked down at her, and she had trouble reading his expression. Something combining interest and...sadness? "I had no idea. What was that like? I always wanted lots of brothers and sisters."

"Well, all you get is one. Me. Sorry about that, Sam."

Penny's voice came from the bottom of the Bookmobile steps Constance had never closed the door, which confused her for a moment. How had the interior gotten so warm with an opening to the frigid winter morning only feet away?

But when she turned her head to look at Penny, the haze of confusion cleared in an instant. Small and slim and shivering in the cold, Con's friend—one of her closest friends—had wrapped her arms around herself. Her short brown hair ruffled in the wind, the pixie cut only becoming more adorable as it grew disheveled.

Penny quickly bounded up the steps. "I didn't expect to find you here, Sam. But I'm glad, since I need to talk with both of you. I wasn't sure I'd have time to track you down before my meeting with Tina."

Constance looked from one to the other, taking in the family resemblance as she'd done so many times before. Pale skin: check. Gorgeous brown eyes: check. Wide smiles: check.

But other than that, Penny and Sam didn't look too similar. Maybe because of their different fathers. In fact, if Con hadn't known better, she'd have bet that Sam was related to her redheaded BFF, Helen, rather than Penny.

At the thought, all the warmth in the Bookmobile seemed to dissipate. Constance edged around her two visitors to close the door and shut out the chill, then settled back in the driver's seat.

Penny tugged on her brother's beard. "I like this. Makes you appear wise beyond your years. Maybe even professorial, if you wore a corduroy blazer with elbow patches."

It did make him look older, which Con most definitely did not appreciate. She needed more reminders of Sam's status as Penny's kid brother, not fewer.

"But with boots and a faded shirt, I believe Angie would use the term 'lumbersexual' when it comes to you," Penny added.

He tilted his head. "Is that a good thing?"

"Well, it's apparently a new and growing subsection of her erotica collection, so..." Penny shrugged. "I guess so. The most recent addition was an anthology. _Lusty Lumberjacks: Handling Wood for Your Pleasure_ , if I remember correctly."

So much for that brief chill. Constance squeezed her eyes shut, blindly shoving another pencil into her sliding bun to halt its descent.

Her belly clenched at Sam's low chuckle. And even without seeing him, she knew exactly where he stood in relation to her. She could somehow _feel_ him, which sounded dumb and impossible, but what the hell could she say? It was true.

"Are you okay?"

Con had a feeling Penny's question was directed at her, so she reluctantly opened her eyes. _Don't look his way_ , she ordered himself.

_And don't imagine him as a lusty lumberjack handling his wood. Just focus on Penny_.

Her friend was frowning, and she reached out a slim hand to feel Con's forehead. "Does your head hurt? Are you feverish?"

"I'm fine." Con smiled at her, despite her aggravation at the entire situation. "Just thinking about my schedule today."

Sam's eyes pinned her to the driver's seat, assessing her much too closely. "You were thinking about your schedule. That's why you're all flushed?"

His voice dripped with skepticism, and she glared at him.

"I'm already running late because of your brother," Con said, turning back to Penny. "So I need to leave soon. What's up?"

Her friend, usually so calm and measured, actually started bouncing up and down. "We got the site!"

"Huh?" Con and Sam spoke in unison.

"For the wedding!" Apparently spying their blank expressions, Penny elaborated further. "Have both of you forgotten that I'm getting married in less than a week?"

"Of course not," Con said. "But I don't understand. I thought you were getting hitched at the courthouse."

Penny nodded. "Yes. Unless we somehow scored the only location that really appealed to us, even though it was fully booked for the next year."

This time, Sam closed _his_ eyes. "Oh, Jesus. I know where this is going. Penny, I've told you before that while I fully support cosplay, I don't need a reminder of what you and your fiancé do in the privacy of your—"

"Thornfield Hall!" Penny shouted, in an explosion of joy Con had never witnessed from her before. "They had a last-minute cancellation, and we got Thornfield Hall!"

Con grinned at Sam, relishing his discomfort. "Ah, Thornfield Hall. The stone manse built by our Nice County founders after their travels in Europe. What possible objection could you have to such an illustrious structure, Wolcott?"

His lips pulled into a sullen line, and his cheeks turned pink. "You know what."

"Who cares if your sister and her fiancé like to role-play in bed a little? Penny makes a fetching Jane Eyre, don't you agree?"

His eyes seemed to close even tighter, and if Con wasn't mistaken, he was humming to himself.

Penny shook her head at Con. "Stop tormenting him. And Sam, the mere mention of Thornfield Hall shouldn't embarrass you. It's not as if Jack and I are going to strip down and consummate our marriage in the

middle of the mansion's library."

"You're my sister," he muttered. "It's gotten to the point where I don't want to hear about _Jane Eyre_ ever again. It's creepy and gross."

In that moment, he sounded just like one of Con's kid brothers, and she couldn't help smiling. Especially since thinking about him like a brother was infinitely safer than thinking about him like a lover.

"You'll need to move past your distaste for the wedding venue." Penny winked at Con. "Unless you're so traumatized you've decided not to attend the ceremony?"

"No!" Sam's eyes flew open, his expression turning stricken. "I want to be there. You're my family, Pen."

Penny's faux innocence melted away, replaced by warmth and an odd tinge of something that looked like regret. Or guilt.

Con didn't understand it. Regret? For such gentle teasing?

Penny tugged her brother into a hug, holding him tight. "I'm just kidding, Sam. I wouldn't get married without you. Even if we had to refuse Thornfield Hall and go back to the courthouse."

He ducked his head, resting it on her shoulder. "You can count on me to be there. Wherever you choose. Thornfield Hall, the courthouse, Siberia...anywhere. I wouldn't miss your wedding for any reason."

"I know." Penny squeezed him one last time before letting him go. "Listen, I see Iman coming this way. Con needs to get going, and I have a few more wedding details I need to discuss with you. Let's debark from Big Bertha and talk inside the library."

"Remember to bring up my concerns in that meeting, Wolcott." Relief poured through Con as she opened the door for them. Soon, Sam would be leaving the tight confines of the Bookmobile. And once he did, she could concentrate on something other than him and the attraction she couldn't seem to shake. "You IT boys need to fix my problems once and for all."

"How could I forget?" Sam aimed his normal grumpy look her way before descending the steps. "You send us complaints at least once a day."

Con willed him to leave faster. "Because they never get resolved."

With each centimeter separating her from Sam, her breath came more easily and her heart rate slowed. Even Penny's assessing gaze, sweeping from her brother to her friend, didn't bother Con.

"I put you two at the same table for the reception." Penny huddled close to Sam, attempting to avoid the wintry wind. "Is that going to be a problem?"

"Nope." Con fastened her seat belt.

"We'll behave," Sam added.

"Hmm." Penny stared at Con for another moment. "I suppose we'll see."

Then, with a final wave, she turned and dragged her brother back toward the shelter of the garage.

Iman climbed inside Bertha, closed the door behind her, and flopped on to the passenger seat. "I'm so sorry, Con," she said, sounding breathless. "I got waylaid by a woman who needed directions to the local history collection. Please tell me I didn't make us late for our first stop."

"We're fine." Despite her distraction, Con made sure to smile at her employee. Poor Iman worried way too much. Con was trying to break her of the habit, but with only limited success.

"Are you sure?" Iman buckled her belt.

"I'm sure. We'll get there on time, no problem." Con flipped off the lights, pulled up the steps, and finally got the Bookmobile on the road.

She didn't look back. But if she were a woman prone to fancy—which she wasn't—she'd have sworn the smothering weight of Sam's gaze rested on her until she turned the corner and the library receded out of view. The same airless sensation seemed to descend on her every time he looked her way, lasting until his attention turned elsewhere.

One of these days, she'd stop missing it when it disappeared.

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Photo by C.S. Smith Photography

**Olivia Dade** grew up an undeniable—and proud—nerd, prone to ignoring the world around her as she read any book she could find. Her favorite stories, though, were always romances. As an adult, she earned an M.A. in American history and worked in a variety of jobs that required her to hide her bawdy interior under a demure exterior: Colonial Williamsburg interpreter, high school teacher, academic tutor, and (of course) librarian. Finally, though, she realized the call of the hussy could no longer be denied. So now she writes contemporary romantic comedy with plenty of sex, banter, and nerdery. When not writing, she cooks alongside her husband, dabbles in photography, and tries to hide her collection of throbbing-intensive romances from her curious daughter. Visit her on the web at oliviadade.com and sign up for her newsletter at http://eepurl.com/bDS6Z5.

LOVE BETWEEN THE LINES

Romance has never had a happy ending for librarian Penny Callahan, who could write the book on cheating, heartbreaking liars. So she's made a resolution: no men for the next twelve months. If she can just get through the library's New Year's Eve singles night, she can return home to her pajamas and a good book. But when she finds herself checking out a hot hunk with an irresistible smile, an evening in the stacks becomes a lot more tempting...

Reclusive author Jack Williamson never should have trusted his mother. Even though he's trying to avoid being recognized, she guilts him into attending a dating meet-and-greet—where an adorable librarian makes him question his lonely lifestyle. Is this just a fleeting, flirty scene? Or could love be the next chapter for them both?

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TEMPTATION FROM A TO Z

Library manager Angie Burrowes is in trouble again. Her superiors have never approved of her unconventional methods, but the latest warning is serious—another complaint from the administration or a patron, and she's fired. With a steamy Valentine's Day contest to conceal and her career on the line, the last thing Angie needs is a near-accident while driving home. At least, until she meets the tall, dark, and sexy stranger responsible for her very own spicy plot twist...

Straight-laced Grant Peterson has only one thing on his mind: making a good impression as the new Director of Branch Services at the Nice County Public Library. On the eve of his first day, however, a lusty encounter with Angie unleashes a desire unlike any he's ever known. Their tryst may be one for the record books, but when he learns he's Angie's new boss, will Grant need to check out on love?

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PASSION BETWEEN THE STACKS

Helen Murphy loves her supportive family, her close-knit circle of friends, and her part-time job at the library. What she doesn't love: the fact that she's a thirty-six-year-old near-virgin who lives in her parents' house. Eager to move out and reclaim her independence at long last, she's determined to get the library's new Community Outreach Coordinator position. Even if that means working side-by-side with the one man she desperately wants to avoid— Niceville's ambitious mayor Wes Ramirez, who happens to be her only previous lover, and the source of her greatest humiliation...

Wes needs to make up for his disastrous one-night—actually, make that one-hour—stand with deliciously nerdy librarian Helen. As they plan the city's upcoming May Day celebrations together, he'll try to prove he can do better, in bed _and_ out. It may take every bit of his creativity and determination, but their budding romance has already gone down in flames once . . . and he'll be damned if he'll let Helen go a second time.

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Elementary school teacher and part-time librarian Sarah Mayhew has the perfect plan: show off her cycling skills at her school's bike retreat and attract her oblivious coworker in the process. Her end game? Fall in love. Only one problem: she needs to find someone to teach her how to ride a bike pronto. But when she catches sight of Chris Dean's gorgeous physique, her best laid plans are about to go off track . . .

Chris is not looking for a girlfriend. He's getting over his last one by focusing on his bike repair business. So when a feisty, sexy schoolteacher urges him to help improve her cycling skills, he does it strictly for the money. He vows he won't repeat history, even for a blonde bombshell like Sarah. But when the two find themselves alone on the road, they can't help taking a detour straight into each other's arms . . .

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