She shook her head. “Your poor mother.”
“You have no idea.”
He twisted to face her and took her by the wrist, guiding her hand lower. She sucked in a breath of anticipation that he was going to settle her palm over his hardening cock, but he guided it to his hip.
“This was my BMX phase.”
“Your what now?”
“My bike trick phase. Ramps, jumps. Lots of poor judgment. I was gonna be a famous stunt biker.”
She laughed. “So how did you get this scar?”
“I cleared half a picnic table.”
“Half?”
“There was a landing issue.” He let out a deep, rumbling laugh.
She touched the scar, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt. Every story peeled back another layer of the man she’d first seen as all hard edges and harsh silence. Now she pictured Archer with brothers. Archer as a reckless boy.
Archer laughing.
She loved that more than she should.
Beneath the scars and the command in his voice, he was so clearly a family man. The kind who would carry groceries without being asked, would remember birthdays…
And terrify anyone who hurt the people he loved.
The realization slid into her chest and nested there before she could stop it.
“What?” he asked.
She hadn’t realized she was staring. “Nothing.”
“Jolie.”
To distract him, she smoothed soap over his chest. “I was deciding whether to believe any of these stories.”
“Ask my mother.”
“I’d like to.”
The words came out before she thought them through.
His expression changed—not withdrawal exactly. More like caution.
She moved on, tracing the line of soap bubbles lower, following the hard line of his calf to a scar wrapped around one ankle.
“What about this one?”
His body went rigid under her hand, and there was only the sound of the shower for several heartbeats.
She looked up at him. “Archer?”
His gaze was fixed on the tile but he had a faraway stare that said he wasn’t seeing it. When he spoke, his voice was flat in a way she’d never heard before.
“That’s where I was tied to a chair during captivity.”
