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“I looked back once,” she answered. “A few years after I got out. I was in therapy, and my head was on straight enough to think about the fact that other kids could end up experiencing what happened to me. I went back to report the abuse, but they were dead. After that, I slammed the door on my childhood and never looked back again because I knew they could never harm another child.”

It said a lot about her character that she’d been willing to go through the scrutiny of reporting the child abuse to save other kids.

“You’re a strong woman, Jenna,” I told her.

She sighed, and my chest tightened when she finally leaned against my side, her body relaxing into mine.

“I’m tenacious,” she replied. “But I’ve never been brave, and I’m not very trusting.”

“Understandable,” I assured her. “And you’re incredibly brave. I’ve never seen a woman as calm as you were when you were rescued.”

She let out an adorable snort. “I was terrified. I’ve just learned not to give in to those emotions most of the time.”

“Courage isn’t the absence of fear,” I said, quoting Nelson Mandela.

“I think I have learned to triumph over it most of the time, but I’ve never felt brave,” she said, her words telling me that she was very familiar with that particular quote. “And why am I doing all the talking right now? I’m tired of talking about my childhood. I’m thirty-two years old. I probably have some issues from my childhood that will never go away. But I’m as over my childhood as I’m going to get. Tell me something about yourself. Tell me about Last Hope. It’s obviously important to you. How did you and your team get involved? I’m assuming you all signed up together.”

And…I’d been completely shut down, but I was good with that.

Jenna had shared her past with me. Yeah, she’d probably done that because I’d shared my foster care history with her, but it didn’t matter why she’d done it. If she wasn’t comfortable with me, it wouldn’t have happened, shared history or not.

She trusted me…a little.

I was going to have to be happy with that.

For now.

“Wyatt brought us in,” I answered. “He got out of Delta before we did. He was already heavily involved in Last Hope when we got out. We trusted him, and we wanted to do something that would make a difference.”

“How did you end up being an author?” she asked in a curious voice.

“I got lucky,” I told her with a chuckle. “I was writing those stories while I was still in Delta. Once I got out, I cleaned them up and submitted them to a publisher. I got turned down by several publishers before I found one that was willing to give the series a chance. It took two books before I got to a tipping point and hit my first bestseller list. It’s been pretty smooth sailing since then. I feel pretty lucky that I can write for a living.”

She swatted my arm lightly. “That’s not luck. It’s skill and persistence. You’re incredibly talented. Your genre isn’t something I’d normally read, but you sucked me in. One of my male colleagues finished your first book and handed it to me. I didn’t want to be rude, so I took it. I opened it for something to do while I was eating lunch when I worked at the observatory. I was hooked after the first chapter. I stayed up late that night finishing the entire book.”

I chuckled. “I guess that answers my question about how you ended up reading one of my books. I saw the other two books you brought with you. They’re definitely not my genre.”

“I usually like contemporary fiction or science nonfiction,” she admitted.

“Then I guess I’m flattered that you read my books,” I teased.

“I think you’re the only postapocalyptic, special forces author I follow,” she teased right back.

“There’s nothing wrong with a little variety,” I said as I reached up and fondled a lock of her hair.

I couldn’t help myself.

I needed to know if it was as soft as it looked.

Unfortunately for me, it was.

“What do you want for dinner?” she asked.

I barely contained myself from telling her that what I really wanted was her.

Hell, I couldn’t even think about anything else when she was this damn close to me.

She smelled like sunshine and vanilla, and what should have been a fairly innocuous scent was making my dick harder than a pike.