Page 78 of Handcuffed to the Bear

“Let me out here,” she told the cab driver.

But then she lost her nerve. After a long while of staring up at the building, she crutched down to the rocky strip of what passed for beach here, and ended up on a park bench because she’d run out of energy to walk on the crutches anymore. And there she sat, staring out at the rolling waves. In dull contrast to yesterday’s vibrant blue sky, today there was a matte wall of gray clouds, not quite raining, but flattening the light and leeching the color out of everything.

“Screw this,” she said aloud, garnering her a disapproving look from a woman with a stroller and a small dog on a leash. She got out her phone and pulled up Avery’s text to get Jack’s number.

But he didn’t answer. She left a message that trailed off into nervous babbling, and hung up before she could embarrass herself further, wishing she could go back in time and erase the last minute or two from existence.

Maybe he’s asleep.

Maybe he saw it was you and didn’t want to answer.

Her phone rang, making her jump. She looked down.

JACK ROSS.

Swallowing, she put the phone to her ear. “Jack?”

“Hey.” His voice was deep and rich, even robbed by the phone connection of some of its real-life vibrancy. And at the sound of it, something deep inside her, a tight knot she hadn’t even been aware of, let go and relaxed. “It’s good to hear from you.”

“You too,” she said, and realized she was grinning—grinning like a fool, sitting on this park bench with no one around to notice or care. “I hope this isn’t a bad time to call.”

“This is agreattime to call. Did you say you were in the neighborhood?”

“Yeah, I’m kind of ... right down the street, actually.” Then it hit her that she shouldn’t have any way of knowing where he lived. Now she probably did sound like a stalker. “I got your address from Avery. I mean, he gave it to me. I didn’t ask. And your phone number too.”

Jack laughed. The warm sound did pleasant things to her insides. “Avery doesn’t usually wingman me quitethisbadly, but I gotta say, I’m glad he did.” His voice went serious. “I should have called to see how you were doing, Casey. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“It’s all right,” she said, curled around that warm glow of pleasure in her chest. “How areyoudoing?”

“Healing up okay. You?”

“Me too.” Right now, she wasn’t feeling any pain at all. Right now, she felt like she could fly.

Jack hesitated, as if he was screwing up his courage, and then he said, “You want to come up? There’s food.”

“Ooh. You had me at ‘food’.”

“Let me know when you’re downstairs. I’ll buzz you in.”

* * *

By the time she crutched to his building, she was sweaty and out of breath.Way to make the best possible impression, McClaren.She didn’t even have a hairbrush with her.

She tried to smooth her hair down with her hands, then gave up. He’d seen her under much worse circumstances than this. Feeling like a kid on her first date, she pushed the buzzer for Jack’s condo.

The door popped open and she crutched in before she could loose her nerve.

The building had a rather nice lobby that made her nervous—This isn’t going to be someplace terribly upscale, is it?Because Jack really didn’t seem like that kind of guy. But away from the lobby it was more like any apartment building, with narrow carpeted corridors and rows of doors with numbers on them. She tapped on the appropriate one.

Jack opened the door. She’d completely forgotten that he wore glasses. They were trim wire frames that complimented the faint dusting of gray just starting to show at his temples. On the island she’d thought him in his mid-30s; now she revised that upward to age forty or so.

A very well-kept forty.

She’d had ample time, on the island, to appreciate his muscular and broad-shouldered physique, but she’d been too busy trying not to die to actually notice it, most of the time.

Now she was noticing. Boy, was she noticing. He was wearing a T-shirt and sweat pants, and the shirt in particular showed off his shoulders and chest very nicely. A little of his grizzly tattoo showed beneath the right sleeve; the tat was now marred with a fresh gash through it where Derek had torn him up, healing to a twisted purple line.

There was also a pleasant masculine smell, a little spicy. It was another thing she seemed to have registered subconsciously on the island without quite sorting it into her conscious brain, because it was familiar and nice. Something about it excited her in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

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