Back in Service. Isabel Sharpe

into the master bedroom, still gleamingly neat because Jameson hadn’t set foot in it.

      “I didn’t want to talk to anybody.” He followed her back into the living room, feeling like a damn puppy now, more and more annoyed.

      “Hmm.” She planted herself on the black leather chair next to the sofa, looking as if she was going to stay awhile. “That’s a problem.”

      “Why?”

      “Because you have to talk to me.” She consulted her clipboard. “First tell me how you’re feeling.”

      He folded his arms across his chest. “If this is therapy crap, I’m not interested.”

      “Just checking in.” She smiled too sweetly, green eyes sparkling. It occurred to him he’d never seen her smile at him. Not that this was a real smile. But damn, it lit up the room even so. “Can I have some water, Jameson?”

      “Tell me exactly what you are doing here, what you—”

      “Oh, sorry, your knee. I forgot. I’ll get it.”

      “Get what?”

      “Water.”

      Right. He stared after her as she disappeared into his kitchen, keeping his eyes resolutely on the back of her head this time. What the hell? Was she deaf? Crazy?

      He made a sound of frustration. No, she wasn’t crazy. She was Kendra, as she’d always been, totally sure of herself and incredibly determined. She’d driven him nuts all the way from elementary school through their senior year, simply because he’d never been able to rattle her. Apparently nothing had changed.

      Moving carefully, he maneuvered himself onto the big chair she’d left—staking his claim, yeah, but it was also easier on his knee to sit there.

      “Now.” She came back with the water, stopped to peer at a picture of Mike in uniform with his arm around his wife, Pat, then plopped down onto the couch and drank. Jameson found himself staring at her rosy lips on the glass’s rim, the glimpse of white teeth, the pale column of her throat working as she swallowed. Kendra Lonergan was in his apartment, looking like temptation itself. Kendra Lonergan. His brain refused to process it.

      Finished, she put the glass down between a coffee mug from four days ago and a plastic tray from a fairly disgusting frozen dinner two nights earlier. She lifted the top page of her clipboard and peered at the sheet underneath.

      “I would imagine you’re feeling pretty horrible about all this. A big change, not part of your plan at all.” Her voice was gentle, concerned. “A threat to everything you’ve worked for your whole life—a career as an officer in the Air Force.”

      Her compassion pissed him off even more, because it was so tempting to start whining like a baby. “No, no, this is the greatest.”

      “Uh-huh.” Kendra didn’t blink. “You’re obviously still in pain.”

      “Nah.”

      “You sleeping okay?”

      “Never better.”

      “How is your appetite?”

      “Outstanding.”

      “Any weight gain or loss?”

      “Neither.”

      “Energy level?”

      “High.”

      “Sexual function?”

      “Hey.” He glared at her, wondering what she’d been scribbling on her sheet. “None of your business.”

      “Okay.” She scrawled again.

      “Are we done yet?”

      Kendra lifted the clipboard to read. “Subject is exhibiting clear signs of depression, including sleeplessness, minimal appetite, weight loss and lethargy.”

      Right on all counts. How the hell did she know?

      “He is also impotent.”

      Jameson bristled. “I am not impotent.”

      “Don’t worry.” She turned that sweet grin on him. This time she was really smiling. It made him want to smile back. Or growl at her. Or kiss her. “I won’t tell.”

      “Kendra...”

      “Teasing.” Her smile grew wider. “I didn’t really write that you were.”

      “You—” She’d gotten him. Fair game. “Is part of your treatment plan to make me want to toss you off my balcony?”

      “If necessary.” She capped her pen and tucked it back into the top of the clipboard. “How is your family reacting to your disability?”

      “Fine.”

      “How is your dad reacting to your disability?”

      He felt a rush of anger, first at his dad, then at her. She had no right to question him about any of this. “Dad supports me no matter what.”

      She held his gaze for a moment, then nodded slowly. “That’s what I thought.”

      Jameson swallowed. He felt a loss, almost a betrayal, as if he assumed she’d be able to see through that lie, too, and offer him—

      What? A widdle huggy-wuggums?

      For God’s sake, get a grip, airman.

      “How are your brothers coping with your—”

      “Disability. They are also very happy for me.” His knee was throbbing. He took hold of his thigh with both hands and swung the leg up to rest on the pile of Mike’s GQ magazines he’d arranged so he could elevate his injury. “I mean they are also supportive. At all times.”

      “I remember that about your brothers.”

      Her tone was quiet, but he sensed the steel in it. A pang of guilt lessened his anger. Kendra knew Mark and Hayden. For years he’d been their puppet, admiring their dadlike toughness and what he’d perceived then as leadership. In college ROTC and basic training he’d learned that a true leader inspired and respected his men. That’s the kind of leader Jameson wanted to be in the Air Force. A new kind of Cartwright.

      But it looked as if he bloody well wouldn’t get the chance for nearly another year. Possibly not at all.

      He shifted in frustration, causing a landslide in the pile of magazines under his foot. His leg fell, twisting, onto the table with a thud that shot pain from his knee to his hip.

      He was dimly aware of Kendra running from the room. She was back beside him so quickly he wondered if he’d blacked out.

      “Here you go. This should help.” He felt the chill of a cold pack over his knee, then through the lingering haze of pain, the blessed cool of a wet cloth across his forehead and a warm hand on his shoulder. “Should I call someone? Can I get you meds?”

      He shook his head, which was clearing rapidly at her touch. He didn’t need baby nursing. “I’m fine.”

      “Oh, yeah, I can tell. You’re in perfect shape.” Her voice was exasperated. “Here. Let me at least do this.”

      She sat on the coffee table and gently lifted his leg into her lap, somehow managing not to hurt him or disturb the cold pack.

      “What are you doing?” He was unnecessarily snappy from the pain and oddly panicky for some other reason he couldn’t identify.

      “I’m going to aim karate chops at your knee until you tell me the location of the missing computer chip.”

      What the—

      She didn’t, of course. He didn’t expect her to. But he also didn’t expect what she did do. Carefully but firmly, she began to massage his feet through his socks, which, thank God, were clean that morning.

      Her