Fully Engaged (Wingmen Warriors 12)

“Right.”

She didn’t like this at all. What had she given away about herself to this apparently too perceptive man?

He opened the door and hauled himself out by holding on to the door frame, the moon casting shadows down the hard angles of his face. She couldn’t help but notice more hollows than before.

Sympathy tweaked, chasing away her own insecurities. “Can I help y—?”

“No.” Balancing with seeming ease, he opened the back door and pulled out his crutches, his shoulders blocking the moon and any further chance of reading his expression.

She opened her door and swung her legs out onto the dusty driveway. “Just because someone offers help, you don’t have to be rude.”

“Sorry.” He made his way around the hood. “You’re gonna have to overlook my grumpiness sometimes. Habit born from frustration.”

“Oh, I’m sorr—”

“Don’t apologize.” He held up a hand. “That makes the frustration worse. I appreciate that you’re a nice sympathetic babe.”

“Babe?” She snorted. “Are you trying to get me to kick that crutch out from under your arm?”

He grinned and pointed toward her with said crutch, balancing on the other. “Now that’s more like it.”

Sighing, she waved for him to follow her and charged toward the garage apartment entrance on the side of her cottage. Why hadn’t she taken more time to get to know this guy five years ago? Oh yeah, she’d only wanted him to bang her brains out.

“This is it.” Her fingers fisted around the keys. A memory of her car exploding swelled in her mind, closing her throat.

Rick rested a hand on her shoulder. “Flashbacks suck.”

“Pretty much.” She clenched the keys tighter. “Nothing to do but deal with it.”

She didn’t question how he knew and understood what she was thinking. They had that career experience in common. The trauma of the car explosion may have happened in the civilian world, but it bore a stark resemblance to the type of event that could have taken place on an Iraqi roadside. They’d all been wound tight to be on the lookout for such things for years now.

Nola fit the key in the garage apartment lock. The door swung wide to a one-room studio. She’d used it for friends to visit—more privacy that way. God, she really was a mess these days, but yeah, she had some personal space issues left to deal with.

“You can move things around if you want.”

“I’d like to buy some weights tomorrow, so I can work out.” He thumped past, proficient with the crutches. “If you don’t mind, I’ll move the dining table to the side and put mats there.”

“Sounds fine to me. You’ve still got the bar and stools for meals.”

He grunted. “Sofa and TV are fine for mealtime.”

Sounded pretty much like her mealtime. How logical it would be to eat together. How logical…enticing…habit forming.

Dangerously addictive. “Do you need help settling in or would you prefer some peace and quiet?”

“I really can manage.” He propped his crutches against the wall and walked slowly around the apartment, not running any races, but making his way by unobtrusively holding on to furniture or walls. “They held me back by babying me at that place.”

Of course he could manage. Right up until the point where his legs gave out under him. She would have to figure out pride-saving ways to offer help.

Or just quit asking.

Nola walked outside, popped the trunk, yanked his suitcase and hauled it inside before he could argue. She pitched it on the sectional sofa. The bed in the corner would have been optimal, but she figured it was better to ditch the thing fast.

“Okey doke. You’re all set.” She pivoted on her heel and was out the door lickety-split, before he could get all uptight and macho again.

“Nola,” he called from beside her, sprawled in an iron lawn chair just outside the door.

She spun around, startled to see him sitting there.