Grace hadn’t signed up for this. She’d agreed to a professional relationship.

Kissing did not belong in a professional relationship.

She’d committed to helping him. And she had. He now knew his name. Jackson Hawke, billionaire. The truth was he didn’t need her anymore. His people could give him the support he needed. In fact, they’d be better qualified than her by far.

But she took pride in keeping her promises.

She liked helping him. Being honest, she admitted he’d helped her, too. In the beginning, the challenge of his situation gave her something to focus on at a time when she was at a loss.

The problem was he kept breaking the rules.

The kiss changed things. Her response changed everything.

His Unforgettable Fiancée

Teresa Carpenter

www.millsandboon.co.uk

TERESA CARPENTER believes that with love and family anything is possible. She writes in a Southern California coastal city surrounded by her large family. Teresa loves writing about babies and grandmas. Her books have rated Top Picks by RT Book Reviews and have been nominated Best Romance of the Year on some review sites. If she’s not at a family event, she’s reading or writing her next grand romance.

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This book is dedicated to Patty, Maria and the gang at the Grab & Go on 6th Street in downtown San Diego. Much of my books are written during lunch. Thank you for your service and your patience. And for not throwing me out when I’m the last one there.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

“G. DELANEY, YOU look beautiful tonight.” Chet Crowder slurred the compliment.

Sheriff Grace Delaney glanced down at her khaki uniform, thought of her black cap of hair slicked back for convenience and her lack of makeup beyond a swipe of mascara and a touch of lip gloss, and figured if she needed any further evidence of Chet’s intoxication she had proof of it in that comment.

“Is it midnight yet?” the eighty-year-old demanded. “I get a kiss at midnight.” The words barely left his mouth when he bent over and puked all over the slick concrete floor.

“It’s against procedures to kiss the prisoners.” Grace cited policy as she nimbly avoided the deluge, stepping around the mess to escort him to the middle cell.

“But it’s New Year’s Eve,” Chet protested with a burp. “You can make an ex-exception for New Year’s Eve.”

He didn’t have to tell her it was New Year’s Eve. Not even eleven o’clock and they already had three D and Ds—drunk and disorderly. Business as usual for the holiday. But not much longer for her. In a little over an hour she’d be handing over her gun and shield, her interim assignment as sheriff at an end.

“Rules are made for a reason,” she stated. Her father’s mantra, and thus the words she’d lived her life by. He’d been on her mind a lot tonight. “No exceptions.”

“You’re a beautiful woman, G. Delaney.” Chet lumbered across the cell to the cot chained to the wall. “But no fun. That’s why I didn’t vote for you. Too serious, girl. Need to have a drink and lighten up some.”

Grace’s shoulders went up and back in instinctive defense against the criticism. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard she needed to lighten up. She didn’t understand it any more now than she had before. Being sheriff was serious business. Laws were meant to be upheld.

“Go to sleep, Chet. I’ll release you in the morning.” Well, someone would. She’d be on her way to San Francisco. With her term over and her dad gone she had nothing to stay here for—certainly not the pity job offered by her successor.

Moving to the mop bucket she’d had maintenance leave at the ready, she rolled it over and cleaned up Chet’s mess. New Year’s was one of two big festive events that got the residents drinking in Woodpark, California, entry to the Redwoods. The other was the annual fair and rodeo at the Fourth of July. She’d been told last year had been tame because of a heavy snowfall, but they’d still had eight citizens sharing cell space.

This year a crisp, clear night promised lots of revelry. Her successor set down the rules for the night. Depending on whether property damage was involved, D and Ds were allowed to sleep it off and be released in the morning. No need to book their guests.

Relaxing her standards made the muscles between her shoulder blades ache. She glanced at the clock. Only one more hour to endure.

She’d just tucked the rolling bucket back into the corner when patrol strolled in with a large man in blue jeans and a bloodstained white T-shirt.

The man’s head hung forward, so his chestnut-brown hair covered his features. He seemed tall, as even with his head and shoulders slumped he topped Mark’s five-ten.

“What do we have here?” she asked.

“D and D. I found him walking on the road into town. He reeks of beer and has no identification on him. I brought him in to sleep it off. No hits on his prints. I ran them because he refused to give up his name. I figure we’ll get his story in the morning.”

“And the blood?”

“It was there when I picked him up. Must have been a brawl when he lost his wallet.”

“Did you have medical look at him?”

“Yeah, he has a bump on the head, a small scratch. Nothing serious.”

“Why is he in cuffs?”

“Didn’t like my questions. Did a little resisting.”

She nodded. With the man’s size she wasn’t surprised Mark had taken the precaution. She pushed the door open on the first cell so the patrol officer could walk the prisoner inside. “Right this way, sir.”

“I shouldn’t be here.” The man’s shoulders went back, his head lifted and he slowly turned to pin her with hard eyes. A dark scowl turned even features into a harsh mask. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“We frown on public intoxication in Woodpark.” Now that she saw his face he looked vaguely familiar. She’d probably met him around town somewhere.

“I didn’t have a drink.” His expression shifted from displeasure to confusion and he repeated, “I didn’t have a drink.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

Instead of answering he went to the cot and sat, letting his head fall forward once again.

“What’s his blood alcohol level?” Grace asked Mark, leading the way into the open office space.

“I didn’t run it. He was staggering and smelled of beer. It’s already busy out there with the holiday and we’re just letting the D and Ds sleep it off. I didn’t think there was a need.” He clipped his cuffs back in place. “Do you need me for anything else? I should get back in the field.”

“No.” Her shoulders tensed at the lack of procedure but it wasn’t her department anymore. “You go ahead.”

“Hey, if I don’t see you again, good luck in San Francisco. You’ll do better in the city. We’re too low-tech here.”

“Thank you.” She appreciated the good wishes—she did—but she couldn’t help noticing there were few expressions of regret that she was leaving. “Before you go, where are our mystery man’s effects?”

“Property locker.” He canted his head. “But there’s not much—a jacket, chaps, a watch and a belt. If you’re hoping to find a clue to his identity, you’ll be disappointed.”

“Probably.” She’d check it out anyway. Not much to do besides monitor patrols and babysit the inmates. The town had less than five thousand citizens. At double duty there were six men on patrol. As a petty officer in the navy she’d been responsible for directing and training three times that many.

She missed the navy—the discipline, the control. She’d given it up to assist her father when he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. No regrets. Even though she’d lost him after seven months. She’d thought she was honoring him when she accepted the town’s request to fulfill his remaining term as sheriff. Losing the recent election proved she’d failed to fill his shoes.

She’d lived with her father’s exacting demands for thirty years. She didn’t need to have him here to know he’d be disappointed.

Hopefully San Francisco would prove a better proposition for her. Or possibly Los Angeles or maybe San Diego. She knew she wanted someplace cosmopolitan. Thanks to the life insurance her father left her, she had half a million dollars to help her make her next life decision.

After hearing from her patrols and checking on her prisoners, she decided to look into the mystery man’s property to see what she could find. She located the large plastic bag marked John Doe, the official designation for an unidentified individual, and brought it to her desk.

The strong scent of leather wafted into the room when she opened the bag. She pulled out a jacket, extra large, and chaps, extra long. Both were of fine quality, hand-stitched. In a smaller bag was a watch. Grace went through the pockets in the jacket, found nothing.

She pulled the chaps over, held them up in front of her and thought of the man in her cell, trying to picture him in this gear. Not difficult at all. Gave her a little thrill actually—a truth she’d keep between her and the mop bucket.

Something didn’t measure up with John Doe. Broad-shouldered with a lean, muscular frame, his downtrodden mien didn’t fit with his physique. Or his protests of innocence, such as they were.

She ran her hands over the chaps, looking for hidden pockets, trying not to think of the leather framing JD’s package. Of course she’d looked. She was trained to observe, after all. She found a matchbook from a tavern on the edge of town.

The watch was the real surprise. The heft and materials were quality all the way; the display of mechanics and the movement of gears gave the timepiece a sophisticated appearance. She looked closer—did that say Cartier? It did. And yes, she found similar watches on their website. Her eyes popped wide at the price: seventy thousand and up. Gah. Her next search was of robbery reports.

Nothing hit.

One thing was clear. JD had resources. Whether legitimate or not was another question. No hits on his prints only proved he’d never been caught. Yeah, call her a cynic. But why else wouldn’t he want to give them his name? This guy wasn’t adding up. He appeared familiar yet Mark hadn’t known him.

The leatherwear shouted motorcycle, but where was the vehicle, his gloves and his helmet? Why was he walking along the side of the road?

The 101 ran right through the middle of town. Maybe someone ran him off the road and then robbed him? It fit the evidence. But why not tell them of the crime? Submissiveness didn’t suit him, but he could be disoriented. He had a bump on the head. People often forgot events leading up to an accident. Maybe he was hurt more than the EMT was able to determine.

Time for a conversation with JD.

* * *

Thump. Thump. Pain pounded relentlessly through his head. Keeping his eyes closed helped marginally. Plus when he opened them there were only gray walls and cell bars to look at.

Man, he’d messed up big, to be laid out in a jail cell with a throbbing head.

Thump. Thump.

Problem was he couldn’t remember what he’d done. The squat cop claimed he’d been drinking, but he had it wrong. He wouldn’t feel as if he’d tangled with a semi if he had any alcohol in his system. His right shoulder and leg throbbed in time with his head.

At least he had the cell to himself.

Thump. Thump.

He wasn’t even sure what map pin he inhabited. If only his head would clear, he was sure it would all come back. Then he’d get out of here and be on his way. Yep, as soon as his head got with the program, he’d explain things to the squat cop and then he’d be gone.

Thump. Thump.

The cell door clanked. He squeezed an eye open, spied the lady cop. He remembered her. The attitude. The uniform. The pretty blue eyes.

“How are you feeling?” she asked in a much friendlier voice than when he arrived.

“Like I was hit by a truck.”

“Is that what happened?”

Thump! Thump! Suddenly his head hurt worse. Have mercy, he didn’t think it possible. Couldn’t people just leave him alone?

“I thought I was here because I was intoxicated.”

“You denied drinking.”

He had no answer for that. He’d jump on it if he thought she’d let him go, except he wasn’t ready to move.

“You were walking when the officer came across you.”

“It’s not against the law to walk.”

“No. But it’s uncommon for tourists to arrive by foot.”

He didn’t respond. It hadn’t been a question, after all. The low, husky timbre of her voice might be soothing if not for the interrogation.

“What do you drive?”

Drive? His brows drew together. Hadn’t she just said he was walking?

“You were wearing a leather jacket and chaps. Where’s your motorcycle?”

Thump! Thump!

He lifted his arm to lay it across his forehead. He gnashed his teeth at the show of weakness, but he had the desperate need to hold his head on, like if he didn’t brace it in place it might explode.

“Are you okay?” Her voice hovered right above him and he smelled the freshness of peaches. She’d obviously moved closer.

“Can we do this another time? My head hurts.”

“I’m going to check your wound,” she warned him, the warm breath of her words blowing over his forearm. “It’s possible you’re hurt worse than we originally thought. This may hurt.”

Her body heat warmed him as she loomed close. He shivered. With the pain racking him, he hadn’t noticed how chilled he’d grown.

Thump! Thump! Sharp pain shot across his head.

“Ouch.” He flinched away from her probing, all thoughts of the cold chased away.

“I’m sorry.” She softly ran her fingers through his hair.

Yes. That felt good. He leaned toward the soothing touch.

“I need you to move your arm. I’m going to check your pupils.” She suited action to words and he suffered the agony of a flashlight scorching his retinas.

“Irregular pupils. You have a concussion. I think we need to get you to the hospital,” she declared.

“I’d be fine if you’d leave me alone.” He dismissed her claim, waved off her hand. “I just need to rest here for a while.”

“It’s not up for discussion,” she stated simply. “I’m obligated to see to your care. It’s up to you whether we go in my cruiser or I call for an ambulance.”

“I’m not riding in any cryptmobile.”

“Then we need to get you on your feet.”

“I think I’ll just lay here for a while.” Just for a bit, until he could breathe without pain and the room stopped spinning.

“I can’t allow that. You have a concussion. You’re disoriented. You need to be seen by a doctor. It’s department policy.”

“Well then.” She wanted to disrupt him, ratchet up the pain, all to meet department policy? Right. He had fifty pounds on her. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“How did you get hurt?”

Thump.

“Where’s your motorcycle? Your wallet?”

Thump, thump.

“What’s your name?”

Thump! Thump! Thump!

“Will you stop? Your talking hurts my head.” So a few details were missing. It would come back once the pounding stopped.

“That doesn’t really reassure me. Tell you what, if you stand up, look me in the eyes and tell me your first name, I’ll consider leaving you alone.”

“I don’t want to stand up.” Why wouldn’t she just go away?

“Don’t want to? Or can’t?”

The taunt brought renewed pain as he frowned. He put his arm back on his head. Nice as her touch was, her insistence undid any good her soothing brought. Her goal, no doubt. It would take more than pride to drag him to his feet tonight. Possibly a crane would do it.

“Look, I’m not interested, okay? You’re a beautiful woman, but I’m injured here.”

“I’m not hitting on you.” Outrage sent her voice up an octave. “I’m concerned.”

“Are you sure? I’ve never had a cop run their fingers through my hair before.”

“So you’ve been detained before?” She was quick to pick up on the inference.

He just stopped himself from shaking his head. “Just saying.”

“That’s it. I’m calling for an ambulance.”

Everything in him rejected the option of being delivered to the hospital.

“Wait.” He opened his eyes. She stood over him, hands on shapely hips, a scowl pinched between her stormy blue eyes. Clenching his teeth against the need to scream like a girl, he shifted to sit, and then pushed to his feet. Holding his shoulders back, he forced himself to meet her poppy blue eyes without flinching.

“Satisfied?”

She ran those cop eyes over him, assessing him from top to bottom. She nodded once as if satisfied by what she saw. It took all his strength not to sag in relief. But he wasn’t out of hot water yet.

She cocked a trim black eyebrow. “And your first name?”

He was tempted to lie, to toss her any old name. But that felt wrong. Too easy. The falsehood didn’t bother him—being predictable did. She expected him to blow her off. It was what he’d been doing since she’d entered the cell.

Forget that. Now he’d made the effort to get on his feet, he saw the value in getting a doctor’s opinion. And some serious meds.

He met her stare-for-stare and confessed. “I can’t remember.”

* * *

“I can’t remember.” The words seemed to echo through the cell.

Grace blinked up at him. A rare enough occurrence—at five-nine she didn’t often have to tip her head back to look a man in the face—but standing at his full height of six-three JD required her to do just that to assess his truthfulness.

Amnesia?

It seemed a stretch. Still, he had a sizable bump on his head and displayed signs of a concussion. It would explain his disorientation and his unwillingness to talk about himself.

Then again it was a tad convenient. Except why bother? He’d been told he’d be free to go in the morning.

“You don’t remember your name?” She needed to determine the extent of his missing information.

“No.”

“Do you know what year it is?”

He answered correctly.

“How about the President of the United States?”

Another correct response. He swayed on his feet, reminding her that, regardless of the state of his mind, his pain was all too real. She decided to let the doctor sort him out.

“Let’s go.” She led him to her desk, where she handed him his jacket. “I already made a call for Parker to come drive you. He should be here any minute.”

“Oh, joy.”

“At least he’s familiar to you.”

“I’m not dim-witted, you know.” He sprawled in her desk chair with his jacket in his lap. “Just memory-challenged.”

The corner of her mouth twitched at his show of humor. “All the more reason to stick with what you know until you’ve seen the doctor.”

“I know you, and you smell better.”

Now, why did that send a rush of heat to her cheeks? “I’d take you, but my duty is up in thirty minutes.”

Probably a good thing. JD had managed to shake her up more than a little over the course of a mere hour.

“Check that.” A deep voice announced. She recognized one of her other patrol officers. She stood to see him escorting a happy prisoner toward the back. “Brubaker, the new sheriff, has been monitoring the radio calls. Since I was bringing someone in, he told Parker to stay in the field. He wants you to take John Doe to see the doctor, and I’m to cover the rest of your duty here.”

“Who will replace me at the hospital?”

The officer shrugged. “I’m sure Brubaker will send someone.”

Right. She clenched her hands at having her control yanked away early. Brubaker had no authority to usurp her orders before midnight. But there was no use arguing.

“Okay,” she said to JD. “Let’s go.” She’d already put her box of personal items in her SUV, so she grabbed her backpack and slipped into her hip-length leather coat.

The effort it took JD to gain his feet showed as it had in the cell, but he managed it and donned his jacket without uttering a sound. He stayed silent on their trip to her hybrid Escape.

In the vehicle he braced his head on a raised fist. “So I’m a John Doe.”

“You’re familiar with the term?”

“An unidentified person or body. I watch TV, the movies. I guess that means you didn’t get a hit on my prints or you’d have a name for me.”

“Right on both points.” She stopped at a light on Main Street and three women in party hats, winter jackets and heels laughed and joked as they crossed in front of them. The light changed and she pulled forward.

“What happens if I don’t get my memory back right away?” He slowly turned his head to pin her with a pain filled gaze. “How do you figure out who I am?”

CHAPTER TWO

HOW WOULD THEY identify him? Good question. Woodpark was a small town with limited resources. They’d have to reach out to a larger city, or perhaps the feds. Grace didn’t have the heart to remind him it wouldn’t be up to her.

“Let’s see what the doctor has to say before we worry about that.”

A grunt was her answer.

A few minutes later she pulled into the hospital parking lot. Like the sheriff’s office, the emergency center did a brisk business on New Year’s Eve. Grace walked to the front of the line.

“Sheriff,” the clerk acknowledged her and then glanced at JD. “We’re very busy tonight.”

“So I see. You’re going to have to make room for one more. I have a prisoner with a head wound.”

“Take a seat and I’ll let the doctors know.”

“Of course. Please let them know I’m quite concerned.”

She found him a seat in the crowded waiting room. He looked about to protest at taking the last chair, but he sat instead. Whatever his background, he’d learned some manners. That he ignored them was testament to the extent of his injury.

“You sounded worried,” he drawled.

“Head wounds are dangerous.” She leaned against the wall next to him. “We already know of one complication.”

“So it wasn’t a ploy to advance our case?” He lifted his gaze to hers and arched a dark brow.

Under the bright lights she noticed his eyes were leaf green. And a hint of red played in his dark hair. She turned her attention back to the front desk. “Maybe a bit of a ploy.”

“And calling me a prisoner?”

She allowed a small smile. “Oh, yeah, that was totally a ploy.”

He laughed and then groaned and clutched his head.

She sobered. “It’s also true. You are a prisoner until morning. No dying on my watch please. You can’t imagine the paperwork involved.”

“I might be touched if it didn’t just pass midnight. You’re officially off duty.”

A glance at her watch confirmed his claim.

“Sheriff.” The clerk had returned. “Dr. Honer will see you now.”

Grace checked the door but no sign of her replacement magically appeared. JD walked past her and then stopped.

“Are you coming?” he asked. “I can handle this on my own if you prefer.”

“You’re in city custody. I’m coming.”

She followed him to the back and stood in the hall while he changed into the paper hospital gown the nurse provided. It was a small room. She took heart in the fact he would look silly sitting there, decked out in the flimsy robe. Too bad he didn’t use it. When she entered the room, she found he’d stripped down to gray knit boxer briefs.

OMG.

Cough. Cough. Good gracious, she nearly choked on her own tongue as drool flooded her mouth. Swallowing hard she made her way to the corner, trying hard not to stare at all the hard lines and muscular definition on full display.

“You were supposed to put on the gown.”

“It tore. Don’t worry about it. Turns out I’m not modest.”

Of course not. Turned out she had a bit of a voyeur in her.

Confronted with the sight of all that flesh and muscle—toned, and tanned, and tantalizing—she missed at first glance that a wound marred his nice six-pack. Still pink and edged with staple marks, the slash ran about six inches long under his right rib cage.

“You’ve been stabbed.”

He glanced down at himself. The action made him sway, so he quickly lifted his head. “Where?”

She moved closer to point. “It looks pretty ragged, which tells me it wasn’t a switchblade. Maybe a serrated blade. Or a piece of glass, possibly a metal fragment. Any of that spark any memories?” If shock value had any power to activate his memory, learning he’d been stabbed should do the job.

Leaving her question unanswered, he used long fingers to explore the wound. He flinched a little, indicating the cut was still tender. Or perhaps it was just the thought of being stabbed.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, hoping to get him talking. He revealed so little she had a hard time reading him. Part of it had to do with his missing memories, but she had the sense his reticence went deeper than that, was actually a part of his personality.

“Sore, not painful.” Emerald eyes met hers. “It’s not from this accident?”

“No.” She shook her head as she examined the wound from a safe distance. “I’d say it’s a few weeks old. The doctor might be able to tell you more.”

As if on cue, Dr. Honer, short and balding, opened the door. He addressed his patient first. “I’ll be with you in a minute.” Then he gestured to Grace. “Can I see you, Sheriff?”

She stepped into the hall and he pulled the door closed behind him.

“Sheriff Brubaker called.” He informed her. “He’s not authorizing any care for the prisoner. He’s been released instead. An officer is going to drop off his property.”

Just dandy. Brubaker, the mayor’s brother-in-law—who until today had worked for his wife’s insurance agency—obviously didn’t care about the liability involved in releasing an injured prisoner. Or worse, didn’t know.

One of Brubaker’s campaign issues had been her overspending, because she’d insisted the town bring the department’s technical capabilities up to the twenty-first century. It didn’t surprise her that he refused to spend any funds on a D and D set to walk out the door in the morning. Much simpler and cheaper to cut the guy loose. Even if he was injured.

“Doctor, this man has a head injury, a concussion at the very least. And possible amnesia. He says he doesn’t remember who he is. We haven’t been able to identify him, as he was missing his wallet when he was picked up walking into town.”

“Sounds like he’s had a rough night. I’ll examine him, of course, but if he has no means of payment and the sheriff’s office refuses to pay, I’m limited in what I can do.”

“Whatever you can do, Doctor, will be appreciated.”

He nodded and pushed the door open. “That’s why I voted for you, Grace. You may draw a hard line between black-and-white, but people matter to you. It’s not all about the bottom line.”

JD sat on the doctor’s stool. At five-seven it was the only way Dr. Honer could see his patient. If JD laid on the exam gurney his head would be up against the wall, and if he sat up he’d be out of the doctor’s reach unless he bent in half—something his equilibrium wouldn’t allow for in his present condition.

After a thorough exam, Dr. Honer announced, “The good news is there doesn’t appear to be any neck or spinal injuries. As for the head wound, I’m going to need an MRI.”

Concerned by the need for a scan of his brain, she stayed with JD, following him down the hall and sitting with him while he waited to take the test. He sat staring at the wall.

* * *

“Are you okay?” the pretty cop asked, her voice low, careful.

“Apparently not, if the doctor wants to do tests.”

“The tests could reveal good news,” she suggested.

“Doubtful. It’s never good news,” he declared with a depth of feeling that belied his lack of memory.

What a fool, sitting here in the hall dressed in a freaking hospital gown—the nurse had found a cloth one big enough to fit—while the whole world paraded by. He glanced at his bare wrist and bit back a curse. Everything had been stripped from him. He couldn’t even mark the time, except to note it was moving at a slug’s pace.

“I hate hospitals. And you know the worst part?” He sent her a sidelong glance. “I don’t even know why.”

“It must be difficult.”

“Frustrating, debilitating, terrifying. The not knowing goes on and on no matter how hard I try to remember.”

“Maybe you should stop trying, give your brain a chance to heal.”

“Easier said than done. There’s just pain and a whole lot of nothingness.” He leaned his head back against the wall, amazed at what he’d revealed to her. Who knew? Maybe he was a Chatty Cathy, but somehow he doubted it. More likely her soothing presence lulled him on a subliminal level. “Talk to me.”

“Okay.” A beat of silence follow as he watched her struggle to find a topic. “About what?” Right, exactly what did you discuss with a stranger who had no memory?

“Why are you still here? According to what I’ve heard, not only are you off duty, you’re out of a job.”

“That’s right.” She chirped cheerfully, the first false note he’d heard from her. “My term as sheriff is up. I’m footloose and fancy-free as of midnight.”

“So answer the question. Why are you still here? I really can handle this alone, you know. I’m not stupid, I’m just—”

“Memory-challenged,” she finished for him. “I know. But you shouldn’t have to go through this alone, JD. You are the victim of an accident and possibly—probably—a crime in our town. It’s the least I can do to help you until you can stand steady on your own two feet.”

“Why?” She called him JD. He supposed it was better than John Doe, which reminded him of dead bodies.

She blinked at him, black brows drawn together. “Why what?”

“Why is it the least you can do? You don’t owe me anything.” And with a certainty he felt to his core he knew the generosity she offered wasn’t as common as she made it sound. Not in his life. It made him itchy—both grateful and suspicious at the same time.

“For me law enforcement isn’t a job, it’s a calling.” The simplicity of the statement did nothing to detract from her sincerity. “My instincts to protect and serve don’t click on and off with the punch of a time card.”

“Was that your campaign slogan? If so, I can’t believe you lost.”

“I didn’t really run a campaign. I felt my work should stand for itself.”

“So you’re an idealist.”

“No, I’m a realist.”

“Wrong. In the real world a candidate’s work should speak to whether they can do the job, but in reality the voters like to be courted. They want to think you care about their opinion, their vote.”

“So you’re a cynic.”

“No, I’m a geek.”

She sat up straight, her breasts pushing against her khaki uniform shirt. “That’s a clue.”

“What?” He dragged his gaze to her face, flushed with excitement.

“You said you were a geek. That’s pretty specific. Your brain let that slip, it has to mean something.”

“Like what? I belonged to the chess club?”

“I don’t know. But no one would look at you and think geek.”

“And we’re back to me.”

“Yes, but we have a clue. Actually we have several. The chaps and leather jacket tell me you were riding a motorcycle. The quality and the expensive watch tell me you have access to money. And now we know you’re a geek. A picture is forming.”

“Of a motorcycle-riding geek with a fetish for expensive watches? Maybe I don’t want my memory back.”

“Don’t say that. So the clues don’t appear to fit together. That’s only because we don’t have all the pieces yet. It’s all part of a bigger picture.”

He found himself staring at his bare wrist again. He rubbed his hand across it. “I wish I had my watch now. I hate waiting.”

“I’d say we’ve found another clue, but I don’t know anyone who likes to wait. Hang in there.” She patted his knee. “The doctor said it wouldn’t be long.”

Oh, no, she didn’t just treat him like a child to be pacified. Even half-dead he couldn’t allow that to slide. There were consequences when a beautiful woman touched him, and she was about to learn what they were.

Shifting toward her, he reached for the hand that committed the offense and slowly drew it to his mouth. He turned her hand palm-up and pressed a kiss to the sensitive center, gazing into her eyes the whole time.

She looked a little shell-shocked, leading him to believe the men of this tiny burg were idiots.

Her eyes narrowed and she tugged at her hand, seeking freedom. He held on for another moment. “Thank you,” he said, keeping his voice soft, intimate. Finally he released her.

Sparks flashed in her eyes and he braced to be read the riot act. “You could be married, you know.”

Not exactly what he expected. And it made him stop and wonder if he had a woman in his life, and the wondering made his head hurt. He realized he was rubbing his hand over the wound below his rib cage.

“I’m not.”

“You can’t know that for certain.”

“No,” he agreed. Because she was right. No memories existed to support his claim. “Yet somehow I do.”

He wished he knew where the certainty came from. Maybe then he could plumb the source for actual memories, for real recollections. But the more he fought for it, the worse his brain hurt.

Luckily a male tech strolled up. “We’re ready for you. Please follow me.”

“Wish me luck.” He stood, hospital gown flapping around his knees, strangely reluctant to leave her.

“Good luck.” She stood, too, tucked her thumbs in her back pockets. “You’ve got this. After all, you’re a smart guy, just memory-challenged.”

A smile tugged up the corner of his mouth. “Can you hang for a while longer?”

She nodded. “I’ll be here.”

* * *

More than a little flustered, Grace spent the next long, worry-fraught hour gathering her composure around herself. Memory failed her as to when a man last affected her so strongly. She had no reason to care, but she did.

When JD appeared, she hopped to her feet. He looked so drawn. Exhaustion and pain weighed heavily on him. Without a word she followed him back to the doctor’s office and took up her position in the corner.

“Who is the President of the United States?” The doctor started in on the questions needed to determine the extent of JD’s memory loss.

JD answered with a scowl, adding, “What is it with you two and your obsession with the president?”

“General questions are used to create a baseline,” Dr. Honer said. “It helps to determine if you’ve forgotten learned elements, a chunk of time or personal memories.”

“Well, I should know the president’s name. I’ve met him three times.”

Silence fell over the room.

“How do you know that?” she demanded.

JD carefully turned his head around to her. Confusion briefly flashed through his eyes before he blinked it away. “I don’t know.”

“Do you remember under what circumstances you met him?”

“No.”

“Because we might be able to identify you from news reports if we can pinpoint the event.”

“I can’t recall. But I know I’ve met him, just as I know I didn’t have a drink last night.” He turned to the doctor. “How is that possible? To know something but not have the memory to support it?”

“The brain is a marvelous and complex thing,” Dr. Honer responded. “We’re still learning many of its capabilities. The results of injuries are as varied and unpredictable as the number of people who sustain them. Do you remember anything about your childhood? Where you grew up? Your parents’ names?”

“No.” JD pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly in pain, clearly exhausted.

“What is the prognosis, doctor?” Grace asked softly.

“As you suspected, Sheriff, he has a severe concussion and a less serious laceration. Though they are in the same general area I don’t believe they are connected. Is it possible you were in a motorcycle accident?”

“I can’t say, Doc.”

“It’s probable.” Grace spoke up. “He was wearing leather chaps when Porter brought him in.”

Dr. Honer nodded his balding head. “The surface bump and laceration aren’t significant enough to cause the level of swelling revealed by the MRI or the symptoms you’ve described. They certainly shouldn’t have caused a memory lapse. But if you were in a motorcycle accident, it would explain the additional trauma.”

“How so?” JD wanted to know.

“The helmet protected your head, which probably saved your life, but you still connected with the ground with enough impact to shake your head up inside the helmet, causing the brain to ricochet against the skull. Probably knocked you out for a few seconds. An accident would account for the bruising on your hip, as well.”

“And the laceration?” Grace asked.

“It had gravel in it, which tells me it most likely happened after he removed the helmet. He may have fallen on his walk into town. Or more likely someone knocked him down.”

“More likely?” Grace mused in full sheriff mode. “What makes you say that?”

“There’s faint bruising on his lower jaw and on the knuckles of his right hand inconsistent with his other injuries. Since you mentioned he didn’t have a wallet on him, my guess is someone ran him off the road and attempted to rob him. He probably came to in the middle of it, fought back and took a right to the jaw. In his condition that’s all it would take to put him on the ground, causing the bump and the cut. Double head trauma more than accounts for the possibility of memory loss.”

“Does that mean I’ll get my memories back once the bump goes away?”

The doctor scratched his cheek. “I’m more concerned with the swelling of the brain. It could be fatal if it reaches the point of critical mass.”

“And what are the chances of that?” JD’s calmness amazed Grace.

“I’m cautiously optimistic considering the time lapse since you were picked up. You need to remain under observation and have another MRI after a bit, to see if the swelling is increasing or diminishing. It’s possible once the swelling goes down that you could regain some, if not all, of your memories.”

“What are my options if the swelling reaches critical mass?”

“Some people respond to medication. Worst-case scenario—a hole may need to be drilled into your skull to relieve the pressure.”

She shuddered. That sounded scary.

Dr. Honer directed his next comments to her. “I highly recommend he be moved to the city. We don’t have the necessary equipment to handle a delicate procedure of that nature.”

Great. No way Brubaker would authorize the cost of ambulance service to the city. He’d already released the prisoner. JD was on his own. And her duty ended over an hour and half ago.

She could have left at any time, but she kind of felt invested. She could only imagine what JD must be going through: in pain, dealing with strangers, unable to remember anything of his life, not even his own name. It must be frightening. Yet he handled it with stone-faced grace.

“Sheriff, if I can have another moment?”

“There’s no need to leave, Doc.” JD halted them, a grim note in his voice. “If it’s about me, I have a right to hear it.”

“You need another MRI and to be monitored throughout the night, if not the next few days. I’ve expended all the resources I can at this point.”

“I’ll drive him.” The words were out before she fully considered them, but what the heck, she was leaving town anyway. This just moved her agenda up by a few hours. Her sense of duty didn’t end with the removal of her title and paycheck. And it went against every instinct to leave an injured man to take care of himself.

Looking at JD, no one would doubt his ability to handle himself. Though injured, he radiated a quiet intelligence, his stoic endurance testament to an inner core of strength. Which said a lot. Between Dr. Honer’s prognosis and JD’s memory loss, his whole world was one big uncertainty.

“You can drive him. Good, that’s good.” Dr. Honer sighed in relief. “Take him to the free clinic on Main. I’ll send a referral over, let them know to expect you.”

“I can pay.” JD stated with certainty.

She and Dr. Honer stared at him, neither wanting to question how he’d pay as it was clear this was one of those things he knew without knowing how he knew. Remembering the seventy-thousand-dollar watch, she tended to believe him. However, a hospital would be much less trusting.

A knock came at the door and the receptionist stuck her head into the room. “Sheriff’s department dropped off this property bag for Sheriff Delaney.”

“Thanks.” Grace took the large, clear plastic bag, checked to make sure it still held all its contents and handed it to JD. “You’ve officially been released from custody.”

CHAPTER THREE

JD ACCEPTED THE sealed bag. He’d been released. He supposed that was a good thing. But where did it leave him?

“Does that mean you won’t be driving me to the hospital?” No big deal. He didn’t really care for all this medical mumbo jumbo anyway. Especially the whole bit about drilling into his head. He’d take his chances on the swelling going down.

Once that happened, the doc said, his memories might come back. He could feel them out there, as if they were hidden behind a dark curtain in his head and all he had to do was find the lever that worked the curtain.

He’d miss Grace, though. She was the only constant he knew in this new world.

“I said I’d take you, and I will.” She assured him. Her gruff tone made him wonder if she was insulted to have her word questioned or if she regretted making the offer in the first place.

She was an odd mixture of duty and concern, with a whole lot of pretty thrown in.

Funny thing, his bruised brain only managed to stay focused on two things: pulling back that curtain and the complex G. Delaney, ex-sheriff, misguided realist, delectable morsel. When he couldn’t take the blankness for another second, he shifted his attention to the left and admired the fit of G. Delaney’s uniform to her trim body and soft curves.

Her question about his marital status served as no deterrent. He wasn’t married. The lack of guilt only supported his irrational certainty.

“I have to stop by my house first,” she went on completely unaware of his imaginings. “To pick up the rest of my things.”

“Keep an eye on him.” Dr. Honer directed her. “You know what to watch for with a concussion. Wake him every few hours to check for nausea, pupil variation, incoherency.”

“I will.”

“I heard you were moving to San Francisco.” The doctor went on. “Best of luck to you. And to you, young man. I hope you get your memory back real soon.”

What if I don’t, he wanted to ask, but he bit the words back. The doctor had done all he could. So JD simply said, “Thank you.” He accepted the prescription for pain medicine and followed Grace’s curvy butt from the room.

* * *

Grace made a last sweep through her small apartment, making sure she hadn’t left anything behind. The one-bedroom apartment sat atop the garage of her father’s house. She’d already packed her things, which didn’t amount to much—a duffel bag and two boxes. She wouldn’t be back unless it was to drive through on her way to somewhere else.

After she lost the election, she sold the house and rented back the apartment. Her lease ended tonight.

Her father had brought her here. With him gone she had no reason to stay. The citizens made that clear, casting an overwhelming vote. She got the message. She’d been too hard-core. They wanted someone who would let boys be boys on occasion. Someone connected, like Brubaker.

It baffled her why the town council even asked her to finish out her father’s term if they didn’t want her to carry on the regimen he’d put in place. He’d trained her, after all. Probably thought she’d have a softer touch, being a woman. But she couldn’t be less than she was.

Disappointing, though. She’d thought she’d found the place she wanted to put down roots. Everyone had been so friendly, welcoming her into town when she came to help Dad. She’d mistakenly felt accepted when they asked her to finish his term. The experience made her wonder if she even wanted to continue in active law enforcement.

Finding nothing left behind, she locked up and skipped down the stairs one last time before sliding behind the wheel of her SUV. JD slept in the passenger seat. He’d dozed off on the way to her place and she hadn’t bothered to wake him for this stop. He would have insisted on helping but was in no shape for it. Why put them both through that argument?

She believed rules were there for a reason and exceptions created chaos. In the case of the law, it also put people at risk. And if you gave one person an exception, everyone expected to get the same special treatment. Then why have laws?

Her father had been a stickler for discipline and order when she was growing up. Especially after her mother died when Grace was eight. Tightening the reins had been his way of coping. She understood that now. But to a grieving little girl, all the fun in life seemed to have died with her mother.

And that didn’t change for a very long time. Still hadn’t, if you talked to the townspeople. Grace Delaney didn’t know how to have fun.

They were wrong. She liked to have fun as much as the next person. She just chose to do so in less gregarious ways. Hey, when you came off extended hours patrolling shore leave, a little peace and quiet was all the fun you could handle. And a good book or a fast video game was all the company you craved.

The activity of carrying her things down to the car served to revitalize her for the coming drive. Still, in order to help keep her alert, she pulled into the all-night diner and purchased a coffee to go. Though truthfully, JD’s presence kept her on a low-level buzz.

He made her usually roomy SUV seem small. His broad shoulders and long limbs took up more than their share of space. The smell of man and antiseptic filled the air. And his heat warmed the car better than her heater.

Thinking of JD, she added a second cup to her order in case he woke up.

Grace carried the coffees to the SUV and headed the vehicle toward Santa Rosa. The clear night and full moon made the drive go fast.

JD stirred every once in a while but didn’t wake up. She couldn’t imagine what he must be going through. Bad enough to be robbed and left injured and abandoned on the outskirts of a strange town. How much more unnerving it must be to lose his memories, to lose all sense of self.

Except for that one moment of vulnerability before going in for the MRI, he took it in stride. She supposed it was all he could do to handle the pain of his physical ailments.

Not least of which was a stab wound. The doctor concurred with her time frame for the stabbing at less than a month. JD stated he had no memory of the incident. He’d sounded frustrated, an emotion she shared.

He had to be wondering about his life—the circumstances of the stabbing for one, the accident for another. He’d been alone when he met up with Porter, but he could well have a family out there wondering about him. A wife praying for his safe return.

A wife. Her shoulders twitched at the notion. Something deep inside rebelled at the thought of him with another woman. Which was totally insane. There was nothing between the two of them.

For sugar’s sake, they’d spent half their time together on separate sides of the law.

Not that it was an issue. He had no wife. Or so he said in that way of his that was so definite. How could he be so sure of some things, yet have no memory to support his conclusion?

Perhaps the amnesia was a hoax. One big fib to cover a crime.

So his prints didn’t hit. There were plenty of criminals that never got caught.

He could have had a falling-out with his cohorts who ditched him and took his ride. Then he could have stumbled into town and unfortunately drawn the attention of a sheriff’s deputy. Who would believe a motorcycle thug with a stab wound owned a seventy-thousand-dollar Cartier watch? No one. So he ditched his wallet and claimed to have lost his memory. All he had to do was sweat it out in the drunk tank for a few hours and he was home free.

Except for the do-good ex-sheriff who insisted on taking him to the hospital.

That version made more sense than the motorcycle-riding geek with an expensive taste in watches and a penchant for knowing things he couldn’t back up with facts.

And yet she believed him.

The concussion was real. The pain was real. The frustration was real. The occasional flash of fear he tried to hide was very real. She’d been in law enforcement too long not to recognize those elements when she saw them. And there were medical tests to back it all up.

Not to mention the fact if he was a thug, she’d probably be lying on the side of the road back near Woodpark.

Well, he would have tried, anyway. She didn’t go down so easy.

The lights of Santa Rosa came into view. She stole a sip of JD’s coffee, wrinkling her nose at the lack of sugar. Surprisingly it still held a good heat. And the punch of caffeine she longed for.

No question about it, he was a puzzle, but a legit one.

Still, she’d be smart to take the things he was so sure of with a grain of salt. There was no sense, none at all, in fostering an attraction when neither of them was sure of their future. When neither of them was sure of themselves.

Because, yeah, losing the campaign had really shaken her. Not that she’d ever admit it out loud. She thought she’d been doing a good job, that the community liked her. But the votes hadn’t been there. It had left her reeling. And feeling a little lost. She put her heart and soul into protecting and serving the citizens of Woodpark, and they chose a stuffed shirt who was more hot air than action.

Their loss, right? Except the experience threw her off stride, made her question her decisions and her vocation. Which was so not her. She always knew exactly what she wanted, and she went after it with a zealousness that earned her what she sought.

Not this time.

So, yeah, she had more empathy for JD than she might have had otherwise.

In a moment of connection and sympathy, she reached across the middle console and gripped his hand where it lay on his muscular thigh. His fingers immediately wrapped around hers, and her gaze shot to his face.

There was no change in his expression or posture, leaving her to wonder how long he’d been awake.

She pulled her hand free.

“We’re about twenty minutes from Santa Rosa,” she told him. “I bought you a coffee. It has a little heat left if you want it. There is cream and sweeteners.”

He straightened in his seat and scrubbed his hands over his face.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I was in a cage fight with a motorcycle and lost.”

“You need to choose your sparring partners more carefully.”

He barked a laugh. “Yes, I do.” He picked up the to-go cup and took a sip. “Black is fine.” He stared over at her. “How are you doing?”

Wow. Tears burned at the back of her eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time someone asked how she was doing. She blinked, clearing her vision, shoving aside the maudlin reaction to a simple question.

“Fine. The coffee has kept my body alert.”

“Ah. And what’s your mind been busy with?”

“Nothing. Everything.”

“Well that narrows it down. Was wondering if I’m lying mixed in there somewhere?”

“Yes. I discounted it.”

Silence met her response. And then in a hoarse voice, he asked, “Why?”

“The evidence supports your claim.” She told him truthfully, and more hesitatingly, “And I trust my gut.”

“I’m glad.” He turned to stare out his window. “Because I’m trusting it, too.”

She eyed his profile before focusing on the road again. “Then for both our sakes I hope it holds true.”

“Do you have a job lined up in San Francisco?” Now she felt the weight of his gaze on her. “Is that why you’re headed there?”

“I prefer the city.” Amenity was easier in the city.

“Me, too.”

“Another clue?”

“Yeah, let’s call it that.” He sipped his coffee, then dropped the empty cup into the holder. “Losing the election causing you to question your career choice?”

“My ego took a hit.” She lifted one shoulder, let it drop. “I’ll shake it off.”

She hoped.

“Good. You’re better than the lot of them.”

“Really.” His endorsement tickled her, bringing out a rusty smile. “And you base your accolades on what exactly?”

“On my observations. Everyone we talked to liked and respected you. It was a busy night, a holiday they were working, yet they thought enough of you to remember it was your last day and to wish you well in future endeavors. You would have won the election if you put a little effort into it. They’ll be missing you soon enough.”

Hmm. What he said made sense. And she liked it better than her version where they were all thinking good riddance. People did like to know their opinion mattered. Maybe she should have campaigned a little.

Too late now.

“Yes, well, on to the next adventure.”

“And what will that be? Do you have a job offer?”

“I have options.” Her future loomed ominously ahead of her like the fog creeping up on the west side as she took the off-ramp in Santa Rosa. “A town in the next county over offered me an undersheriff position.” The city was bigger than Woodpark, but not by much. “And there are always patrol positions in San Francisco.”

“You don’t sound too excited by those options.”

“The undersheriff is a higher rank, but San Francisco holds more appeal. It’s a dilemma.”

The truth? Neither of them appealed to her.

“The undersheriff position holds some appeal, except for the location. I’ve seen too much of the world to be happy in a small town.”

“Then why run for sheriff?”

Because she thought she’d found acceptance.

She explained how she got the job. “The people were decent for the most part and seemed to like me. For a while I felt like I belonged. But the election results don’t lie. I wasn’t one of them. The mayor’s brother-in-law was one of them.”

It was an old lesson, well learned. And yet she’d fallen for it again. The need to belong. As a child she’d suffered with every base change until she learned to Bubble Wrap her emotions. And as an adult she’d stayed in more than one relationship longer than she should have.

Her last boyfriend let her catch him cheating so she’d finally get the hint. Not one of her more stellar moments. Rather than fall into the pattern again, she’d stayed single for the past two years.

“A position in San Francisco holds a lot of appeal locationwise. It’s a beautiful place with so much history and culture. The problem is it’s an expensive city to live in and a beat cop doesn’t make much.”

“It would be a step backward for you.”

There was that. “I don’t mind working my way up, but I really wanted something more, something to challenge my mind.”

And she wanted a home. Someplace permanent. She appreciated what she’d seen of the world, and had more countries she longed to visit. But more than anything she wanted a place to come back to, a place to call home.

“I’ll figure it out.” She pulled into the clinic parking lot. “We’re here.”

* * *

While JD had another MRI she found the cafeteria and got a cold soda. The idea of caffeine didn’t bother her. When her head finally found a pillow, nothing would keep her awake.

Figuring she had a few minutes, she took a seat at a table, leaned her head against the wall and fell asleep.

It seemed only an instant later she opened her eyes. She yawned and blinked her watch into focus. An hour had elapsed.

Wondering when this night would end, she did a few stretches—oh, yeah, that felt good— gathered her soda and headed back to emergency. Clear down the hall she heard a ruckus going on and hurried toward the sound.

“You can’t keep me here against my will,” JD declared. He sat on the side of the gurney facing the doctor, a plump woman in a white lab coat with lovely mocha-colored skin and beaded black braids clipped atop her head.

He was refusing to be admitted at the doctor’s request. Stubborn man.

“It’s just for observation.” The doctor spoke with resigned patience.

“You said there was no additional swelling,” JD pointed out.

“No. But you’ve sustained a severe concussion.” The woman responded. “I highly recommend you be admitted for tonight and possibly tomorrow. Head wounds are unpredictable. It’s for your own safety.”

JD pushed to his feet. “I’m fine. I have the pain medicine the last doctor gave me. I can take care of myself.”

“Sir, I really advise against leaving.” She shifted her bulk to block his exit. “You need bed rest. Trauma of this magnitude requires time to heal. At this stage just being on your feet walking around could result in more damage.”

The mulish look on JD’s face revealed what he thought of her suggestion.

“JD,” Grace interjected softly, “the night is almost over. Why don’t you rest for a few hours and I’ll come get you in the morning?” The stars knew it was what she longed to do. He could lie down and be out in a heartbeat. She still needed to find a hotel and check in before her head found a pillow.

His shoulders went back and he gave one slow shake of his head. “I hate hospitals. I’ve spent too much time in them already tonight. I’ll rest better somewhere else. Anywhere else.”

She sighed. He meant it. The tension in those wide shoulders, the clenched jaw, the faint flicker of panic in his emerald eyes told her his dislike went deeper than memories. He really intended to leave.

“You’ve done enough,” he told her. “Thank you for all your help. I can take it from here.”

It was the wrong thing to say. He tried sliding past the doctor, but she had her moves on, keeping him pinned while signaling to a nurse.

“Sir, we really can’t release you without adult supervision. This level of traumatic brain injury results in disorientation and confusion. You represent a danger to yourself and others.”

JD did not back down. “I need you to get out of my way.”

“Get security.” The doctor instructed the nurse.

Time to defuse the situation. “Doctor, we understand your concern. Of course he won’t be alone. He’s been lucid all night. You’ve confirmed the swelling hasn’t gotten any worse. He’s clearly determined to go. Won’t causing him mental duress be worse than allowing him to leave?”

Faced with his stubborn determination, the doctor saw the sense in Grace’s calm argument. “You’ll be with him?”

JD opened his mouth. She shot him a don’t-you-dare glare.

“Yes.”

“And you’ll bring him back in the morning?” The doctor pressed.

Green eyes narrowed. Grace agreed the physician was pushing it.

“I’ll see he gets the care he needs.”

The woman reluctantly agreed. She noted her concerns on the release form and reiterated her instructions and the symptoms to be concerned over.

“Mismatched pupils, vomiting, excessive sleepiness.” Grace rattled off the last of the list. “Doctor, you’ve been very helpful. I think I should get him somewhere to lie down. Good night.”

Taking JD’s arm she led him away, not releasing him until they were out the door. “Don’t look back.” She warned him. “She might change her mind.”

“They couldn’t keep me against my will.” He bit out.

“She’s not wrong. With the concussion you’re not thinking clearly.”

“You told her I’ve been lucid all night.”

“And you have. That doesn’t mean you’re making good decisions. You should have been admitted. At least for the rest of tonight.”

Halfway across the driveway to the parking lot, Grace realized JD wasn’t keeping pace with her. She swung around to find him hovering near the exit. She started toward him.

“Do you want me to pick you up?” Dang, she should have thought of that. She’d just been extolling his injuries but she kept forgetting how extensive they really were.

“No.” He closed the gap between them. Surprised her when he bent to kiss her cheek. “Thanks for all you’ve done. I wouldn’t have made it through the night without you.” He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. “But I can’t take advantage of you any longer. It’s time to say goodbye.”

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