Mean Streak

He set down the screwdriver and gave her his undivided attention. “Your dad’s friend was flying the plane.”

“He was an experienced pilot, had flown his own plane thousands of miles. The two couples—best friends forever—were on their way to Oklahoma for an LSU football game. Tigers versus Sooners.” She picked at the cuff button on his flannel shirt, which she’d put on over her running clothes for an additional layer. “They didn’t make the kickoff.”

Behind her, the fire blazed, warming her back, but not reaching the cold void caused by the reminder of the sudden loss of her parents. “For a long time, I was in a really bad place. I prayed to God and cursed him, sometimes in the same breath. I exhausted myself with weeping. In a fit of anger, I chopped off all my hair. Grief was an illness with me. Unfortunately it’s incurable. I’ve just learned to live with it.” When she realized how silent the room had become, she turned her head and pulled him into focus.

He was sitting perfectly still, watching her intently. “No other immediate family?”

“No. Just me. We were well known in Baton Rouge. I couldn’t go anywhere without running into someone who wanted to talk about Mom and Dad and extend condolences. The reminders got hard to take. It seemed that my survival depended on leaving, starting fresh somewhere else. So, after finishing my residency, I sold the family home, my shares in the company, and relocated. New city. New state.” She slapped her thighs, ran her palms up and down them. “There you have it. Did I leave out anything?”

“How you met your husband.”

“A mutual friend set us up.”

“Love at first sight?”

She came to her feet. “All you need to know about Jeff is how frantically worried he is right now.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Three years plus a few months.”

“Have they been happy years?”

“Yes.”

“Does your scalp hurt?”

“What?” Then, realizing she’d been rubbing the wound, she lowered her hand. “No. The bump has gone down. The cut itches.”

“Means it’s healing.”

“It means I need to wash my hair.”

“Why don’t you use the shower?”

“Why do you think?”

“Because you don’t want to get naked.”

His definitive answer didn’t call for elaboration.

He gave one last turn of the screwdriver, then set the toaster upright in the center of the table and tested the ejection lever several times. It was no longer sticking. He got up and carried it to the counter, replacing it in its spot. He returned the screwdriver to a drawer.

“What about you?” she asked.

“I don’t mind being naked.”

“That’s not what I was talking about.”

He braced his hands on the counter behind him and crossed his ankles wi

th more languor than she would have thought a man his size could achieve. He looked supremely at ease with himself and his surroundings, with the bizarre situation, with everything that was driving her mad, especially the mystery that was him.

“Then what were you talking about, Doc?”

“Family. Do you have a wife stashed somewhere?”

Last night his expression had practically dared her to pry. His hard gaze had warned her to proceed at her own risk. He was looking at her that same way now. “No.”