Back in Service. Isabel Sharpe

laughed bitterly, throat tight, painful weight in his chest, gazing at the sky. Look out there. No clouds. No birds. No planes. A vast nothing, stretching out over the sea. Perfect metaphor for his days since the accident. Over a month of this limbo, first medical leave, now personal. November 4 today, the accident had happened in early September, then surgery, rehabilitation—felt like forever. And it would be if he was one of the unlucky few who didn’t recover post-surgery stability in his knee. The Air Force couldn’t use a man who couldn’t pass their physical test.

      He’d done everything right, everything a Cartwright was supposed to do except want to be a flier. He’d majored in computer engineering at Chicago University, a career field in good demand in the Air Force. He’d excelled in his ROTC training, breezed through basic officer training, in both cases earning the friendship and respect of his fellow officers and commanders. His father and brothers were finally looking up to him, in spite of him being the first Cartwright nonpilot. He was on top, poised to continue at Keesler. He’d ace that, too. What could go wrong?

      Everything.

      He hadn’t seen the damn cat, but he’d sure heard it and felt it. He’d gone down, twisting to one side rather than crush the little bastard, and had torn his ACL—his anterior cruciate ligament, to be precise—clean off the bone, and also damaged his cartilage. Badly. One second in time, a moment he’d take back and redo a hundred different ways if only he could. But, as Dad liked to say, life gave you no do-overs. You had to get everything very right the very first time.

      The door buzzer rang, making him jump and curse the intrusion and the surprise. He’d been in town a few days and hadn’t seen anyone. Only his family knew he was back, and he’d made it clear he wasn’t ready for visits from any of them. This must be one of Mike’s friends who didn’t know Mike was training at Keesler. Where Jameson was supposed to be. Working hard, moving forward.

      Two months of stagnation. Many, many more months to come.

      He hauled himself off the couch, thinking a shower and shave were a good idea sometime this month—maybe for Thanksgiving—adjusted his knee brace, and limped through the living room and dining area to the front door, where he pressed the intercom.

      “Yeah?”

      “Lieutenant Cartwright?” A woman’s voice.

      He stiffened instinctively. Lieutenant? Oh, man. He should not be caught by Air Force personnel looking like such a mess. Why hadn’t they called first?

      He hadn’t been answering his phone.

      Crap.

      But how had she found him? He’d given out his parents’ address here in town.

      Dad. Doggone it.

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      “This is Kendra Lonergan.”

      Jameson did a double take. Kendra Lonergan? From high school? She was in the Air Force? He couldn’t imagine it. There must be more than one Kendra Lonergan in the world. “How can I help you, ma’am?”

      “Just checking in. I’ve been sent by Major Kornish.”

      His orthopedist at Keesler had sent someone here?

      “Yes, ma’am.” He pushed the buzzer so she could enter the building and hobbled into the bathroom, where he splashed water on his face, combed his dirty hair, cringing at the coarse stubble on his face, and reapplied deodorant, ashamed of how he’d let himself go. That done, he hesitated in the doorway, wondering if he could make it into the bedroom for a clean shirt before she got to his door. He was still slow moving, slower than he thought he should be by now, and didn’t want to keep her waiting.

      Jameson glanced down. Oh, man. Food stains. Clean shirt was a good idea.

      In the bedroom, he’d barely gotten his old one off before the knock came, brisk and no-nonsense, four rapid taps.

      Hurry. He yanked the new shirt over his head, part of his physical training uniform, and made it back as fast as he could. Bad sign, this continued pain. He tried not to think about it or what it could mean about the success—or not—of the surgery. Not to mention his chances of staying in the Air Force. Maybe he’d just gone overboard on his home exercises that morning.

      “Coming.” He reached the door and opened it.

      Holy moly, Kendra Lonergan.

      No, this couldn’t be the same woman.

      “Hi, Jameson.”

      He blinked. The voice was the same. It was her. “What happened to ‘Lieutenant’?”

      “Doesn’t suit you.” She stared unapologetically with green eyes he didn’t remember being so big or so beautiful. She was also taller. Or at least thinner. And without glasses. Instead of the short ginger hair that looked as if her mother had cut it, she’d pulled back a long mass of auburn waves into a casual ponytail. In place of the drab succession of stretch pants and long shirts, she wore a short flowery skirt under layered tops in bright colors.

      Kendra Lonergan was a knockout. And definitely not in any branch of the military.

      “You look...different.” He hid a wince. Could he say anything more inane?

      “Huh.” She looked him up and down. “So do you.”

      Yeah, well, tough. It was unfamiliar and extremely unpleasant to be ambushed like this. He’d been raised to be ready for anything at any time. “What are you doing here? How did you know where I was?”

      “Dr. Kornish sent me. I told you.”

      He narrowed his eyes. “What for? What’s your connection to him?”

      “May I come in?”

      “Why?”

      “So I can look around. See how you live, how you’re doing.” With a flourish she produced a clipboard and a pen from an immense purse that seemed to be made of patches of brightly dyed leathers. “So I can report back.”

      “To my doctor...”

      “Kornish, yes,” she answered patiently, peering past him. He moved back as she stepped in, to avoid her getting too close. He was not at his best smelling.

      “Why doesn’t he ask me how I’m doing?”

      “Because he’d rather hear it from me.” She walked through the dining area to the center of the living room, turning in a slow circle, taking in the TV, the rumpled couch and the state of the coffee table, which made it clear he’d been camped out in this room for quite some time. “Nice place. You own it?”

      “I’m house-sitting for a friend. Why does he trust you?”

      “I’m a professional.” She made some notes on her clipboard and moved toward the kitchen.

      “Professional what?” He hobbled after her, trying not to stare at the way the flimsy material of her skirt clung to her very fine rear end.

      “I help people recover.” She peered into the sink at the pile of dirty dishes. Okay, he wasn’t at his best. It was none of her business.

      “If you’re not a doctor...”

      Kendra turned back toward him. “I’m not here for your physical recovery.”

      “No?” He was immediately hit with an image of her helping him with his sexual recovery, which irritated him even more. “What, then? Spiritual recovery?”

      “Something like that.” She moved past him, toward his bedroom. He followed, hoping she didn’t do more than glance at the bathroom. It was not pretty.

      “My spiritual views are private.”

      “Nothing to do with religion.” She stopped at the bedroom door, flicked him a glance and went inside. Jameson hadn’t open the blinds yet. Or made his bed. Or picked up his dirty underwear. Well, she’d