style="font-size:15px;"> “Oh, I believe you,” Ethan said, his tone resigned as he dumped the remains of the mug into the trash can. “Meddling works most effectively when neither of the affected parties has a clue what’s going on.”
“In my experience it doesn’t matter if they know,” she said wryly. “In this family, we seem helpless to stop it.” She gave him an apologetic look. “I’m really sorry, Ethan, especially if you’ve gone out of your way. As you can see, I’m nowhere near ready to go anywhere.”
“I see,” he said, his gaze raking over her in a thorough survey that heated her blood by several degrees. “Mind my asking how you wound up with my old high school football jersey?” He looked into her eyes. “It is mine, isn’t it?”
She feigned surprise. “Is it? I picked it up at a yard sale down here years ago. I thought it would make a great nightshirt.”
“It definitely makes a fashion statement of some kind,” he confirmed, his gaze now frankly traveling up and down her very long, very bare legs. “So, are we going to do this or what?”
Samantha blinked and swallowed hard at the question. “Do this?” she asked, imagining every one of her teenage fantasies finally coming true.
An unexpected grin transformed his face. “Not that,” he scolded, “though I might be open to negotiations down the road. I meant get you over to wherever your sister wants me to deposit you.”
“A dress fitting,” Samantha said, trying to hide her disappointment. She also saw the sense in taking him up on his offer. “Can you give me ten minutes?”
“Ten? Seriously?”
She laughed. “Trust me. In my world ten minutes for a wardrobe change is an eternity. Help yourself to coffee. I’ll be right back.”
Of course, changing into something more presentable was only half the battle. She also had to catch her breath. That was going to be a whole lot trickier.
* * *
So this was what Boone had warned him about, Ethan thought as he watched Samantha practically race from the kitchen. Just the first tiny step in some campaign to hook him up with the maid of honor. Right this second he was having a little too much trouble seeing the downside of that. It had been a lot easier to rail indignantly when there had been no face—or body—to go with the name.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it definitely hadn’t been the sight that greeted him in Cora Jane’s kitchen. Samantha Castle was a delectable handful. Even caught off guard with no makeup, tousled hair and wearing his shapeless football jersey, she’d been take-his-breath-away stunning.
Suddenly he’d been assailed by tantalizing visions of her crawling from his bed looking just like that after a night of passion. It was a rude awakening to realize any woman could still get to him like that, especially after he’d dismissed this one so thoroughly as not his type. Shallow, he reminded himself staunchly. She was bound to be shallow. Egotistical, too. Wasn’t that a trait of all actors? They had to have monumental egos to survive.
He glanced at the clock, noted that ten minutes had elapsed and was about to smirk when Samantha sailed into the room, dressed as if she’d just stepped out of some fashion magazine ad for wildly expensive resort wear. Her highlighted blond hair had been swept back and caught in a clip at the nape of her neck, her makeup had been so skillfully applied it was almost impossible to tell she was wearing any, and her eyes were hidden by a pair of chic designer sunglasses that probably cost more than he’d taken in at the clinic last week. He had a feeling if he could have seen those eyes of hers, they’d be filled with mirth at winning her bet with him.
“I’m impressed,” he admitted. “That’s quite a transformation, and it was accomplished in record time.”
“Theater training,” she explained. “You get used to quick wardrobe changes. They really hate to stop the play while the actors jump into a new outfit.”
Ethan chuckled as he led the way to his car, Samantha keeping up easily with her long-legged stride. Only as he was about to close her door did he hear her soft gasp. It was enough to tell him she’d seen the prosthetic, or guessed. It was impossible to tell which. He also had the distinct impression no one had warned her.
His friends said his movements looked a hundred percent normal to them, but they would say that. They were all so darned careful not to offend.
He got into the car, put the key in the ignition and glanced her way, waiting to see if she’d bring it up or sit there in embarrassed silence.
“Iraq?” she asked simply.
“Afghanistan,” he responded.
“You manage very well.”
“Not well enough to keep you from noticing,” he commented wryly.
“I just caught a glimpse of the prosthetic,” she said. “Otherwise I’d never have figured it out.”
“And your sister and Boone neglected to mention it?”
“Not a word,” she confirmed.
He wondered, as always, if it changed anything, but he wasn’t about to ask. He’d figure that out soon enough. His radar was finely tuned these days. There’d be a pitying look or a faint expression of distaste, quickly hidden, but detectable since he’d learned to watch for the signs.
Worse, sometimes, there was the curiosity, the undue fascination that seemed to stem from a desire to figure out just what else might have been affected by the explosion that took his lower leg. Lisa’s most crushing impact had been to make him so self-conscious that the prospect of intimacy was far less appealing than it had once been to someone with his healthy libido.
“Did it take a long time to adjust?” Samantha asked.
“Physically? Sure, but I was highly motivated. I worked at it,” he said with a shrug, minimizing the months of painful rehab that had threatened to shatter his normal optimism more than once.
“And emotionally?”
He was surprised that she’d dared to ask that. Most people didn’t risk going there.
“Still a work in progress,” he admitted. “I don’t want anyone pitying me.”
She smiled at that. “I wouldn’t think they’d dare. Not in this town, which still has a memorial wall dedicated to your extraordinary feats on the football field.”
“It’s not a wall,” he said, flushing. “It’s a couple of pictures outside the gym.”
“Have you been back to the high school recently? It’s a wall,” she insisted, then grinned as she acknowledged, “Which is not to say you don’t deserve it. Leading the team to two state championships is nothing to sneeze at. A record number of touchdown passes both years. Not too shabby, Cole.”
Ethan regarded her with surprise. It wasn’t just her up-to-date awareness of his football achievements and the school’s embarrassing tribute, but her cut-to-the-chase insights. “You’re not at all what I expected,” he told her.
“Oh?” She gave him an
