A Stranger She Can Trust. Regan Black

promise.” She wrinkled her nose as she leaned closer. “Please?”

      “We’ll see.” He wasn’t sure making promises to her was the wise thing to do.

      “When my memory returns, ask me the most personal, embarrassing questions you can think of. I mean it,” she added when he laughed. “I deserve every single one of them.”

      “What’s your favorite color?” he asked instead.

      “Purple,” she replied instantly. “Wait. How did you know to try that?”

      “It’s one of the questions I asked you last night, just to see if the answer stayed the same.”

      “Did it? I was so exhausted, I barely remember you coming in.”

      He grinned at her. “Yes.”

      “I’ll take that as a good sign and the first piece of me coming back.” She bounced a little in her seat.

      “We’ll find out soon enough, I think.”

      “You’re a good man, Carson. However I wound up at the Escape Club last night, I’m glad you were there to help me out.”

      “Any of the staff would have done the same,” he said, ducking the praise. “Grant trains all of us to be aware and help discreetly.” With every hour she seemed more at ease, despite her lack of personal history. Her ability to roll with her circumstances baffled him and, to his shame, stirred up a little resentment. He felt constantly battered by his memories of the night Sarah died.

      His knee was an achy distraction by the time they finished their circuit and returned to the main gate, but he was glad they’d come. She was moving better and seemed refreshed overall. He offered to buy her a shirt from the gift shop, to add to the few possessions she could call her own, but she turned it down, claiming she owed him enough.

      “Do you want to go by your place for clothing or anything else you might need?” he asked as they returned to his truck.

      “We probably should. Do you know my address? Good grief, that sounds so weird to ask.”

      “I’ll get it from Grant.” Carson sent the text and had a reply before they left the parking lot. She lived only a few blocks away from the museum, and when he told her, she eagerly gazed out the windows.

      “Something pulls me to that building,” she said, twisting around in her seat when they passed the museum again.

      “It’s designed to pull attention,” he agreed.

      “More than that. I’m going to take it as a good sign that maybe this version of me isn’t too far off from the real me.”

      “I’ve never believed anyone could stray too far from their basic nature.” He felt the curiosity in her gaze and focused on the driving.

      “You don’t believe people can change?”

      “Habits? Sure. People can and should grow through life,” he said. “I just think some people are inherently nice or awkward or have a built-in mean streak. They can mask those traits, learn to use them, but they can’t alter what’s ingrained.”

      She made a little humming sound and started drumming her fingertips on her thigh. “What traits define you?”

      Cowardice, he thought, immediately aggravated by the first word that popped into his head. “I’d define myself as helpful and compassionate.” And, gee, didn’t that sound exciting?

      “Based on our short acquaintance, I’d agree.” She whistled. “This is so weird, knowing concepts and stuff without knowing who I am or where I come from.”

      Carson was inordinately relieved to shift the subject into the safer territory of her. “You’ll get there, Melissa.” He’d decided to use her name. It wasn’t as if they could put that genie back in the bottle, anyway. While pushing her could be counterproductive, the sooner she recovered, the sooner he could resume his routine. He’d been smart to stick with being a paramedic, a job in which he could treat and transport and hand off the patient for long-term care. Spending these hours with Melissa—a patient—through her recovery was messing with his head and tempering his resolve to avoid connections. Talking with her exposed that raw, gaping hole where his best friend had been and left him vulnerable to every emotional assault.

      He parked at the curb and studied the corner lot and the three-story home that had been converted into separate apartments. “Do you want to go inside and get some things? According to the address, your apartment is on the third floor.”

      “I don’t even know how to get inside,” she pointed out, shying away from the window.

      “We can ask a neighbor or look for where you hid your spare key. Most people do that.”

      “A key, right,” she whispered, stuffing her hands into her pockets. “Why don’t I have my key? I don’t remember if I trust my neighbors. I must. I live here, right?” Her teeth caught her lip, and she hissed at the pain. “This is a bad idea.” Her gaze raked the street, her house and back again. “I can’t do this.” Her breath came in shallow sips. “Nothing here feels right. This isn’t home. It’s wrong.” She closed her eyes tight, curling in on herself, and wrapped her hands around her head. “Not home. My head hurts, Carson.”

      Her sudden reversal scared the crap out of him. He understood memory lapses from trauma, understood some people never recovered all the pieces relating to a violent event or accident. Several of the first responders he counted as friends had blank spaces and never remembered all the details of severe injuries that had occurred. Still, he’d never seen any of them experience the stark fear stamped all over Melissa right now.

      He released her seat belt and dragged her to his side of the truck cab. Her body shook like a leaf in a hard wind. Out of better ideas, he wrapped his arms around her, silently willing her to calm down as he searched for the right thing to say or do.

      “Easy. Just breathe.” He muttered more nonsensical suggestions, most of them probably useless, until eventually her body gave in and relaxed. “It will be fine. It’s all going to be fine.” A lie if ever he told one, since he had zero idea how any of this would work out for her.

      At last she pushed back from him, blotting her face with the cuff of her denim jacket. “This isn’t home, Carson.”

      “Okay.” Maybe she’d moved and hadn’t updated her information yet. Although it wasn’t a definitive reason to take her to a hospital, he’d have to let Grant know about her panic attack at the sight of her house. “Can you tell me what home looks like?”

      “No,” she murmured. She scooted back to the passenger seat and snapped her seat belt. “I’m trying. Can I please abuse your hospitality a little longer? And borrow more clothes from your sisters?”

      “Sure thing.” He was thinking he should probably call his sisters in to give her someone else to lean on. It was only a matter of time before he made a mistake and let her down.

      She pulled the matchbook from her pocket, then the business card. “I didn’t have a purse. Today every woman I’ve seen has been carrying some kind of purse or tote. What happened to mine?”

      He wished he had an answer. Carson pulled away from the converted house and decided to take the long route to his place. Whether it was the scenery, lack of a formal destination or some other reason, being on the move seemed to soothe her. “After an accident or an emergency, a lot of female patients ask that question,” he said after they’d left her neighborhood. “About the purse, I mean. It’s a kind of lifeline. Grant and Werner will already have people on alert for action on your credit cards or identification. You may feel alone and disconnected, but there are people in your corner.”

      “People who have no way of knowing if I’m worth their effort,” she said.

      He reached over and covered her hand with his. “You’re worth it.”

      She just shook her