your junior prom date loved that.”
“She knew it was part of the deal in advance,” he said. “But you stayed on the floor until they kicked us out of the gym.”
“I’m not up for dancing tonight. Too much Mexican food,” she said, glancing at the window again. “Mind if I hold on to your arm?”
His brow furrowed. “Sure.”
She stepped closer, looping her arm through his, leaning into him. Shock waves pulsed through him as if her body touching his set off a chain reaction heading south. And he sure as shit was going to stop it before that happened.
Mark told himself it was a matter of getting readjusted to living in a world that wasn’t peopled with his teammates and injured soldiers, where touch was more than a dying man’s hand in his and a fellow PJ slapping him on the back. His reaction had nothing to do with Amy’s slim legs or soft curves.
“If I tell them I twisted my ankle I won’t have to dance,” she said. “You know, if anyone asks. And they always do when I come here.”
Mark frowned. “You’re serious about not dating.”
“That, too.”
He stared at the Tall Pines’s wooden door. “It’s been more than a year, Amy.”
“I know, but...”
She started to move away, and he refused to let her go. Placing his hand on her arm, he kept her close. “But what?” he demanded. “What’s holding you back?”
“When I start dating again,” she said softly, “I need to find someone who sees me.”
“Okay, I get that,” he said, glancing down at her. Was he like the others? When he looked at Amy, what did he see?
A slim blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty with long legs—shit, a man would have to be half-dead not to fantasize about running his hands up her limbs. But looking down at her, Mark couldn’t set aside the fact that Amy was so much more than a beautiful blonde. He saw a woman who was working her tail off to establish her new business breeding dogs to help soldiers and law enforcement in the field.
“It’s a big step,” he said. “You deserve someone who respects you. You should take as much time as you need.”
“Thanks.” She let out a sigh. “But on the flip side, I miss dating. I miss sex. After all, I am a ‘passionate woman.’”
“Not going to live that one down for a while, am I?” he said, doing his best to separate the words Amy and sex in his head.
“Nope. Not for a while.” Her smile faded as she glanced through the window at the crowded dance floor. “So, are you willing to play along and pretend I stumbled getting down from the truck?”
“As long as I get to keep you company in the non-dancing section,” he said.
“Deal.”
Mark opened the door and stepped inside. The smell of stale beer hit him, bringing back memories. There had been a time in his teens when walking into this place and inhaling that scent had seemed like a dream. He’d sneaked in once with some of the guys from the football team, but they’d been kicked to the curb the minute they’d tried to order a drink. The bartender had threatened to call their mamas if they came back before their twenty-first birthdays.
Looking at the place now, not much had changed. A wooden bar ran down one side of the restaurant, lined with stools. The cramped stage stood on the opposite side. A live country band, probably local, played fast and furious, strumming guitars and fiddles, pounding away at the drum kit, while the crowd danced. Wooden tables and mismatched chairs filled the space between the bar and the dance floor.
He spotted the Benton brothers standing by a table, holding court. Some of the men and women were familiar, old friends from school, and some were new. T.J. saw them first and waved. Mark headed over, taking it slow as Amy leaned against him.
Her hand held tight to his forearm, and even through the fabric of his clothes, her touch bordered on intimate. Mark’s jaw tightened as he mentally swept that thought away alongside Amy and sex. But with Amy’s slim figure aligned with his, from where her shoulder pressed up against his biceps down to where her hip touched his thigh, it was easy to buy into her little white lie. To pretend that she needed him, holding her, supporting her, and... Shit, what he needed was a drink.
“Oh, Eloise,” Amy murmured. Mark followed her gaze. Amy’s cousin was standing close to Gabe’s side. And the eldest Benton brother wasn’t fighting her off. Just the opposite. He had his hand on her lower back, holding her close. Mark doubted Eloise had sprained her ankle, too.
Mark and Amy reached the table as Luke raised his glass. “About time you joined us. We’ve been toasting your homecoming without you.”
Completing the semicircle of brothers, T.J. stood beside Luke, studying the nonexistent space between Mark’s body and Amy. “Something wrong, Ames?”
She tensed at the nickname, her fingers digging into his arm. “Twisted my ankle in the parking lot.”
T.J. stepped forward. “Want me to take a look at it?”
“You’re a vet, not a medic,” Mark said, leading a limping Amy to one of the two empty chairs.
“I didn’t realize they were calling the PJs out for twisted ankles,” T.J. shot back.
“I’ve got her.” Mark lowered Amy down, his hands on her arms and his face close to hers.
“You don’t have to put on a show,” she whispered.
“I don’t mind.” It beat handing her off to one of the cowboys hovering nearby ready and willing to swing her onto the dance floor. He’d counted three men looking her way as they’d hobbled toward the Benton brothers. Despite what Amy might believe, those men hadn’t seen her long, jean-clad legs or her wide blue eyes and thought widow. He’d bet money there wasn’t an ounce of pity in any one of them.
Mark lower himself onto one knee beside Amy’s feet and lifted her calf up, resting it across his thigh. “Let’s have a look.”
He slipped her shoe off, running his hands up to her ankle. He’d spent the past few months treating strangers, but touching them had never felt personal. With Amy, it was. Her skin was soft and smooth. The ruby-red nail polish on her toes caught the bar’s dim lighting, pulling his focus from his job.
Mark held Amy’s foot in one hand, turning it left and right, while his other hand rested on her calf, drifting higher than necessary. “Does this hurt?”
Amy nodded. “It does. When you turn it to the side. But just a bit.”
His fingers traced the curve of her ankle, his touch bordering on teasing. If anyone looked too closely, they’d realize Mark had stretched the definition of “ankle exam.” He looked up at her, hoping like hell she couldn’t see the heat he felt pulsing through his body in his gaze.
“Good news,” he said.
“I’ll live?” Her eyes
