So, try to look worried, distressed. And proud.
I’m going to have to act my ass off, Mila had moaned. He’s, like…repulsive.
Jesus, Mila, he’s your son, Greg had said, sounding, to his credit, horrified.
I like pretty and I like perfect. He’s never been perfect but before he went off to play at war, he was at least pretty, Mila had retorted. Thank God he has that girlfriend because I’m certainly not prepared to be his nurse.
Wow. Her words laid down just another hot layer of pain.
With her words bouncing off his brain, Clint had slipped into sleep and a six-month depression. Carla and his mother were the reasons he’d worked his butt off to become, as much as possible, the person he was before the surgery. He never wanted to be dependent on anyone ever again, not for help, sex or even company. Carla had wanted to help him too much, his mother not at all, but Clint was happy to be shot of them both.
All he wanted was for the few people he chose to interact with to see past his injury to the man he was. And he couldn’t do that if he flaunted his prosthetic so he never, ever allowed anyone to see his bionic leg.
And if giving up sex was the price he paid for his independence then he’d happily live with the lack of below-the-belt action. Nothing was more important to him than his independence. And his pride.
But some days, like today, a woman came along who made him wonder, who made him burn. But he was nothing if not single-minded, and like the others he’d felt a fleeting attraction to, he wouldn’t act on it.
No woman was ever worth the hassle.
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