get involved so there was never a boyfriend to worry about. Life was too short for commitments.
“Is that a challenge?” he asked.
“Do you want it to be?”
He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her against him. She was a lot shorter than him and he had to bend over to kiss her again.
She put her hands on his shoulders, as much to feel the strength of him as to hang on. She was in no danger of falling.
While the feel of his lips on hers was nice enough, she couldn’t seem to emotionally detach enough to enjoy the moment. She was thinking too much—about her sister and T.J., about who he was and how much or little she should trust him. His mouth moved against hers, then he nipped her bottom lip. She nipped back, biting hard enough that he drew away.
“You like it rough?” he asked, sounding a little surprised.
“Not at all. I’m making a point. I give as good as I get. You might want to remember that when you take Skye to dinner.”
“No kissing?”
“I don’t care if you kiss. Just don’t hurt her.”
He touched her cheek with the back of his knuckles. “What about you, Izzy? Do you ever get hurt?”
She smiled. Her? Getting hurt would mean giving her heart. Like that was ever going to happen. “I can take care of myself.”
“Maybe you need someone to take care of you.”
The smile turned into a chuckle. “Are you volunteering? Then you don’t know me at all. Take care of me? Right. Say that to my father and he’ll laugh you out of the building.”
She unhooked her parachute and headed to the waiting truck. Once she’d gotten out of her flight suit, she walked to her car and climbed inside.
T. J. Boone remained a mystery. Her gut told her that Skye was in danger, but the problem was Skye wasn’t in the mood to listen to well-meaning advice. Izzy knew the smart thing was to walk away. Skye was a big girl and could handle her own life. Except letting her step into danger wasn’t an option. They were sisters and Izzy loved her. That meant learning more about T.J. and very possibly pissing off Skye when she told her the truth.
“YOU’RE NEW,” Mitch said as he stared at the older man in front of him. “I don’t want anybody new.”
He also didn’t want to be in physical therapy but that wasn’t an option. He wasn’t progressing as well as he could and he knew the reason. He wasn’t doing what he was supposed to. Not only wasn’t he interested, he didn’t remember half of what the other therapist had told him.
“I’m not new,” the guy told him. “You haven’t met me before. There’s a difference. I see you still have your chip on your shoulder. I hope it’s not on the left one. The extra weight will make learning to walk a real bitch. I’m Joss.”
Joss was a fifty-something, muscle-bound bald man with piercing blue eyes and an impressive jungle tattoo running down both arms.
“Mitch.”
“Oh, I know who you are. You have an interesting file.”
“What’s interesting about it?”
Joss grinned. “Word has it you’re a pain in the ass. That’s why you’re seeing me. I’m good with hard-assed cases. You could have had a pretty girl feeling you up. But you skipped out on your appointments and you haven’t been working out at home. So now you’ve got me. Welcome.”
Mitch refused to feel uneasy. “I’m busy. I can’t come in twice a week.”
Joss led the way back to the therapy room where specialized exercise equipment lined the walls. The center of the room had open space and several areas for patients to practice walking between two rails. Mitch remembered his first shaky steps on his prosthesis in this very room. He’d felt a combination of relief to know that he would be mobile and fury that his leg had been lost in the first place.
Now a half-dozen guys and one woman worked with therapists on various pieces of equipment. They were all sweating from the effort, but each looked determined. As if they expected the therapy to make a difference.
“You come in when I say come in or you don’t get a permanent prosthesis,” Joss said easily. “You piss me off and I’ll take the one you have.”
“I used to be a SEAL. How are you going to take it?”
“Special Forces,” Joss told him. “And you’re the gimp here, kid. Not me. Let’s go in an examining room and see what you’ve done to your stump.”
Mitch hesitated. Joss narrowed his gaze.
“What?” he demanded. “Are you still bleeding? I swear to God, if you’re bleeding, I’m going to beat the shit out of you. What about ‘take it easy’ was hard for you to understand? You want to get back to normal? You want to be able to live your life without coming here all the time? You want to go more than fifteen minutes without fire shooting up your leg? Then you’ll goddamn listen to me.”
Mitch turned and walked toward the door. He didn’t need this. He didn’t need any of it. He was doing fine and if this jerk wouldn’t fit him for his permanent prosthesis, he’d find someone else who would.
“You think Pete risked his life to save yours so you could act like this?” Joss asked.
He didn’t shout the words. Mitch doubted any of the other patients had heard them. Still, they cut through him like glass, ripping into his gut and slicing his heart to shreds.
Pete was a friend. A good friend. They’d gone through BUD/S training together and had been assigned to the same SEAL team. Mitch knew about Pete’s devotion to his young wife and how excited he’d been when he’d found out he was going to be a father. Pete knew about Skye and how many nights Mitch had lain awake that first year, unable to believe she’d really left him.
Pete who had faced enemy fire to drag a wounded and possibly dying Mitch to safety. Pete who’d taken a bullet for him. Pete who was already back in Afghanistan, facing it all again because it was his job.
Joss had spoken the only possible words to make Mitch stay.
He straightened and squared his shoulders. “I’ve got blood in my sock nearly every day. It’s not the scar opening. There are a few raw spots.”
“How much are you resting your leg?” Joss asked, then sighed. “Let me put that another way? Are you too stupid to rest your leg during the day?”
“Apparently.”
“Admitting you have a problem is the first step, kid. Let’s take a look.”
Joss led him into an examining room. Mitch settled on the exam table, rolled up his jeans, then removed the prosthesis and the sock.
“You gotta massage the stump a couple of times a day,” Joss said as he sat on a stool and flipped on a light that he adjusted. “You doing that?”
“Sometimes.”
