“Do we ever not?” Leo echoes.
“I wouldn’t mind a few months off, Tiger.” I give him a wink, hoping his old childhood nickname tames the huge beast of a man.
I hardly feel the pain in my thigh right now, at least. My mind’s on too many other things.
Like how I need Peace Rabe more than ever, if we’ve got trouble blowing into town. Just to keep me in top fighting shape. I can’t have my leg crapping out if we’re gonna have another run at the same kind of drama we’ve dealt with before.
“No worries, man. We’ll handle it,” I say. “Like we always do.”
Like we always will.
Maybe I’ve never been comfortable with the Heroes of Heart’s Edge thing, but I damn sure feel the camaraderie with my friends. They’re better brothers to me than Holt will ever be.
Slowly, Leo nods, and I mirror his movement.
We’re up.
Before whoever’s gunning for Leo gets a chance to try to handle us.
* * *
Gramps.
I can’t believe that little hippie brat called me Gramps.
Forty-something ain’t that much like having one foot in the grave.
Hell if I know.
Maybe it is to her?
And maybe I shouldn’t be thinking about why it bothers me, thinking that sweet-faced girl with her wild shock of ruby-violet hair thinks I’m past my prime.
Thinks I’m old.
Maybe that’s why I almost don’t show come morning.
Or maybe it’s ’cause I don’t want Haley or Warren noticing me creeping up in my Jeep out here, asking questions and flinging shit bound to turn my face beet red.
Hell, maybe it’s that my mind’s already where they’re gonna lead it, and I don’t want it to be.
I. Can’t. Do. This.
I got a daughter to think about, and Peace is far too—
Yeah. Okay. Fuck.
I’m old.
Funny thing is, she doesn’t look at me like I’m ancient.
She stares at me like she wants to kiss away every hard knot of pain in my body. Just like she thinks I haven’t been with a woman in so long I don’t know what it means when she’s watching real intently from under her long eyelashes with her skin all flushed and pale and pretty, and no, it’s not the cold air.
And the way she’d said my name yesterday…
Christ.
No.
Nope.
I’m here for therapy. Trying to do something about this fucking bum leg of mine, and nothing else.
Leo had to practically carry me home last night. Andrea tried her best to help me get into a hot soaking bath to loosen my thigh up enough so I could get around without a crutch.
My rabid leg fought back every time I tried bending it. The pull from my hip to my knee sent searing pain ripping through me, just as bad as one hot, unlucky Afghan day too many years ago.
So I frog-marched myself around till I could toss a double dose of Vicodin and fall into bed.
The Vicodin at least held through morning. I’m worried about getting hooked on that shit the longer this goes on. Another reason I need Little Miss Broccoli to work on my meat—innuendo be damned.
Right now, my leg feels like dead weight as I let myself out of the parked Jeep and drag myself through the gate to Peace’s cabin. I can already see her inside, through the glass, this whirlwind of vibrant color.
I’m starting to think the girl’s color-blind. She always looks like she just stepped out of an explosion at a paint factory.
Today’s no different.
She’s got on big old bell-bottom jeans like the seventies never ended, only they’re the modern throwback style, the denim covered in Magic Marker graffiti. Even loose, they’re so far down her rocket hips they might fall off.
Oh, and of course she’s got a navel piercing, nestled in the rounded, sweet-pale slope of her toned belly.
Just a wicked little glimmer of diamond, drawing my eye in and up over the dip of a waist that’s almost too tiny for the swell of her hips, the arch of her rib cage. Smooth pale skin vanishes into the tie-dyed button-down shirt she’s wearing completely unbuttoned and knotted between her tits. They spill down against the open V of cloth in the front and fuck my life am I really standing on this woman’s porch, staring at her knockout melons and the tick of her pulse against her throat?
Blake, get your shit together, man.
I groan, dragging a hand over my face, then lift a hand and knock. I brace my other hand against the porch railing so I don’t have to be obvious about taking my weight off my leg.
Guess she must’ve been preoccupied.
Don’t know how she didn’t see me coming when the cabins are more glass than wood—but she jumps, hands fumbling on the bottles of oil in her hands. She blinks at me, her green eyes so wide. With a flustered sound I see in the movements of her lips but don’t hear, she grips the bottles tighter and bends to set them on the coffee table.