in and out of a button-down shirt easier than a T-shirt like he’d been wearing last night. And no doubt Justice hadn’t brought any shirts of his own, or he’d be wearing them and not this tropical number. He hadn’t done up all the buttons, leaving a sexy amount of his chest bare.
Time to change the subject, she decided. “So what’s for breakfast?”
“Toasted physical therapists,” he drawled.
Kelly cracked up. “I don’t believe it. The brooding Justice Wilder actually made a joke. This has got to be a first.”
“Who said it was a joke?”
“I’m tougher than I look. You don’t want to dine on me, believe me.” She opened the fridge and pulled out the fresh eggs in the box of provisions she’d brought with her yesterday. “How do scrambled eggs sound?”
His growling stomach was answer enough. Hers quickly followed suit. “Okay.” She reached for a frying pan. “A big rasher of scrambled eggs coming right up.”
Justice surreptitiously watched her as she moved around the kitchen with a speedy efficiency. She was into multitasking—beating the eggs with a fork in one hand while she popped pieces of bread into the toaster with the other. She seemed to have recovered from her earlier grouchiness.
Today she was wearing a pair of khaki walking shorts and a plain pink T-shirt. The sandals she wore displayed her feet and the neon pink nail polish on her toenails. Her question mark earrings once again dangled in her ears. Her damp hair was gathered up in one of those plastic clip things to keep it out of her way. She didn’t look particularly gorgeous but he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off her.
Maybe it was her can-do attitude, or her off-key humming of a Faith Hill country song. She wasn’t her sister. She hadn’t spent a lot of time in the bathroom messing with makeup. In fact, he doubted she was wearing any. But as she passed by his seat at the small dining table, he noted that she smelled really good. Not all perfumy, but fresh and sexy.
Sexy? Dismiss that thought. This was his ex-wife’s baby sister here. Okay, so she was only five years younger than Barbie, which also made her five years younger than he was. Not a big deal. Age wasn’t the issue here. Family connections were.
She was here for one purpose, or so she said. To increase his chances of recovering the full use of his right arm. His shooting arm. He’d been one of the best sharpshooters Force Recon had ever seen. And now he sat here barely able to pick up a damn cup of coffee.
“What makes you think you can do anything to help me recover the mobility in my arm?” he abruptly demanded.
“The fact that I’m good at what I do. But I need to review your medical records before I can tell you anything definite, read the doctor’s orders for your treatment.”
“It’s all right here.” He impatiently shoved the file across the table, wanting those incriminating papers away from him. He already knew what they said by heart. Prognosis: unknown. Critical ligament damage…full recovery of mobility unlikely.
Well, Justice had dealt with “unlikely” and “unknown” before. More times than he could count, in fact. It had been unlikely that he would survive that last mission in a certain Middle Eastern country rumored to harbor terrorists.
But he had survived. Only to come back to the States to get injured.
“I forgot to ask you last night, how does it feel to be hailed a hero for rescuing that little boy from that burning car?” She placed a plate of fluffy scrambled eggs in front of him.
“It stinks.”
“Hey, I’m not that bad a cook,” she protested. “So I overcooked the eggs a little.”
“I meant that stupid hero thing. It’s not true.”
“It’s not true that you rescued a toddler from the back seat of a burning car after you witnessed a car accident near Camp Lejeune?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Justice growled.
“Fine.” She shrugged and sat down across from him, digging into her own breakfast. “We can discuss something else. Like how much you love my gourmet cooking.”
“The eggs are good,” he grudgingly admitted.
“Oh, my! I do declare that such flowery praise will surely go to my head.” She dramatically placed the back of her hand across her forehead in the manner of a swooning Southern miss.
Instead of acknowledging her mocking comment, he said, “How long will it take you to review my medical records?”
“Not long. I’m a fast reader.”
“Good. Because I want to get started on this op as soon as possible.”
“Op?”
“This operation, this mission.”
“I see. So you’re considering your recovery as you would any mission assigned to you? That’s a good thing, I suppose.”
“A Marine never fails.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
“If you’re referring to my failed marriage to your sister—”
“I wasn’t,” she quickly interrupted him. “I meant that no one can guarantee a 100 percent success rate at anything.”
“No excuses, no exceptions.”
“Seems like a pretty tough philosophy to maintain.”
“The Marine Corps is supposed to be tough. It’s not a place for wimps.”
“Yeah, physical therapy is like that. Not a place for wimps. Oh, I almost forgot…” She returned to the counter to hand him the special concoction she’d mixed up in the blender. It did not escape his notice that she’d only poured one glass, not two. One glass, just for him. “Here, drink this.”
He grabbed her wrist. “What did you put in here?”
Startled, she tried to pull away.
“Answer me. What did you put in here?”
“Wheat germ, a banana, some strawberries, orange juice, a little vitamin B.”
“And what else?”
“Nothing else.”
“Do you swear on my mother’s life?”
His expression made her shiver. “Yes.”
He abruptly released her wrist.
“Why?” Her voice was husky with emotion. “What did you think I’d put in there?”
“My pain medication.”
She stared at him in amazement. “You thought I was trying to drug you against your will?”
“That
