“Meaning?”
“‘Karma’s a bitch.’”
She laughed, which just seemed to set off the nerves in her stomach. What was she nervous about—their predicament, his wound or being in the back seat with a shirtless Jamie?
“Samira... I hope you don’t have regrets about that day we...?” He spoke in a rush, as if he’d been holding the words back awhile.
Her stomach hollowed but she at least owed him the respect of an explanation. “Maybe I wasn’t ready, mentally. At the time I thought I was, but afterward... It was...overwhelming, in a way I hadn’t expected.”
Was she ready now? How would she know? Not that he was asking.
“I hope...” he said, his eyes narrowing. “I hope you didn’t feel pressured, by me. You were grieving. I shouldn’t have started it, that day by the river.”
Started it.By taking her hand, drawing her to him, cupping her cheeks...
“Oh, it started for me well before that,” she said.
He smiled. A genuinely unguarded moment that made her want to melt into the seat. She knew exactly the moment it started—when she’d first seen him hiding out in the alleyway outside her grandmother’s guesthouse. She didn’t believe in love at first sight, but...
Love.Why hadthatword come to mind? It wasn’t that, not then. Not now. It was...intrigueat first sight, a curiosity that kept growing. Was still growing. She’d grabbed his elbow, pulled him inside, hid him and Flynn as their enemy searched.ThatJamie had been the dead serious one. The soldier. The protector. Within thirty minutes she’d met the joker, the medic, the loyal friend...
She was still meeting new Jamies. Which one had she first fallen for, and when?
She swallowed. “I’m a grown woman, Jamie. I was just as eager as...”
“You certainly were.”
Her nerves bubbled into an abrupt laugh. “Well...it’s history, so...”
“Aye,” he said, with a swift nod. “History.”
He grabbed the packet of alcohol wipes. She folded her legs underneath her, on the seat beside him. It was a relief to have at least broached the subject, but it felt less a resolution than a cease-fire. Like in France, he’d taken the out a little too easily, a little too quickly.
So maybe he hadn’t been ready, either, for reasons that prowled the darker alcoves of his mind—and his past, as she was learning. Still wasn’t ready.
While he concentrated on cleaning the wound, she let her gaze stray. What was that American term—“eye candy”? He was definitely eye candy. All muscle, no fat—but not puffed up like a bodybuilder. The shapely shoulders of a sprinter or swimmer, his smooth light skin interrupted by scars and freckles and hair and tan lines. She remembered running a finger from the side of his neck down to his knuckles—coarse on his throat where it bordered his stubble, smooth through the collarbone and in the dip below, a little rougher over the peeling skin of his shoulder, gliding down the swell of his bicep to the hair of his veined forearms. She’d bumped over the watch at his wrist and he’d captured her hand in his, warm and rough and dry and reassuring.
And that reassuring hand had just unwrapped a syringe.
“Jamie, you’re not expecting me to inject you...?”
“I can manage it. A little local, because I’m a wimp.”
Hewas a wimp? She turned back to theotherscenery, trying to zone out the rustling noises. The windows were steaming up.
“Safe to look,” he said, after a few minutes. “But I am going to need your help. Ever done any sewing?”
“What?” She swiveled. “I couldn’t!”
“I can’t stitch myself up.”
“No, honestly, you don’t want me anywhere near you with a needle.”
“You’ll be surprised what you can do. Easy as sewing on a button.”
“Do that often, do you?”
“Buttons, hems, patches... My tailoring skills are in big demand in my team. You’d be surprised what price you can name for clothing repairs in the middle of the desert.”
