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She thought he might argue, but after a brief hesitation, he said, "Lead the way." She was happy he'd agreed she should drive him home, but knowing how stubborn he was, she suspected that meant he was not feeling as good as he'd said.

When he got into her car, he winced again, which made her worry that he was lying about his pain level. "I think I should take you to the hospital and run a CT scan," she said.

"I don't need a scan, and I'm sure whatever other tests the doctors would do, you could probably do when we get to my house."

"I guess. But I reserve the right to change my mind."

"Fine," he said, wincing again as she drove down the rather bumpy road.

She tried to avoid potholes and short stops, but she also wanted to get Tyler home so she could take a better look at him.

"There's a guest parking spot in my garage," he said. He rattled off the code, which she put into the box and then drove into his underground garage, which was cleaner and more brightly lit than the one at Jack's building. There were only five spots, two for each of the condos in the building and another for guests. She parked in the guest spot, then hurried around the car as he got out.

He seemed determined not to take her arm or let her help him in any way, which didn't totally surprise her. He was not only a man; he was also an ex-soldier and an FBI agent. He wasn't the kind of guy who was willing to show weakness.

He fumbled with his keys when they got to his front door, but she didn't offer to take them. She'd dealt with too many stubborn men to count, so she remained silent until they got inside. Then she made him take a seat at the kitchen counter. He bent forward, resting his head on his forearms so she could examine his injury.

The bump had grown larger and there was a little blood coming through a scratch on his scalp, but it wasn't significant enough to warrant stitches.

He lifted his head. "Well, Doc?"

"I want to put you through some tests."

"Why?"

"I want to make sure you didn't suffer a brain injury."

"I've been hit harder than that many times."

"Well, that doesn't change my mind, because numerous concussions can make you more vulnerable to the next hit."

She sat on the stool next to him and held up her phone flashlight once more. She studied his eyes, noting that his pupils were shrinking evenly with the light. After that, she grabbed a pen out of her bag and had him follow the movement several times.

"Is that it?" he asked.

"What's your name?"

"Tyler Brennan," he muttered.

"Where are you?"

"In my house."

"Where do you live?"

He rattled off his address. "Are we done?"

"Not quite." She slid off the stool. "I want you to stand up and take my hands."

"Rachel, come on."

She gave him a pointed look. He got off the stool and took her hands in his. For some reason his touch distracted her from the test, and for a moment, they just stared at each other. His palms were warm and rough, and she forgot what she was supposed to be measuring.

"Well?" he asked.

"Squeeze my hands," she said, getting her mind back to business. His grip was equal on both sides. So, she let go. "Now I want you to walk from here to the door in a straight line."

She stepped back so he could complete the exercise, happy to see he wasn't swaying or off balance. "Okay, that's good. You can sit down again. Do you have any Tylenol in the house?"