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She looked him over—six feet of muscled, gorgeous male, acting as if he had all the time in the world. For her.
A man who cared for his grandmother when a more logical choice would have been to put her in an assisted-living facility.
“I don’t know your last name.”
“It’s Heber.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty.”
“I’m thirty-one.”
He shrugged and watched her as though waiting for more.
“Do have them often?”
“What?”
“The nightmares.”
“No,” she assured him quickly, in case he was worried that hearing her “crying out” as he’d put it, would be a regular occurrence. “Not since I was a kid.”
“A young kid or a teenage kid?”
The question was innocuous. His presence oddly calming. “Teenage.”
“Something happened?”
“Yeah.”
She didn’t offer more. He didn’t ask.
He’d pulled a man out of an explosion. He knew about the heat...
“I was in a fire.”
His expression intensified, as if she’d hit a nerve. As if he knew...
“I was five,” she said, because it was the easiest part to tell.
“Were you burned?” He glanced from her face to her bare legs and arms.
“Some.” The final skin grafts she’d received when she was in high school had taken care of the worst of the scarring, smoothed all the edges. What was left, no one saw—not even her. “The worst damage was internal. Smoke inhalation.”
And psychological, if she wanted to believe the things the counselors had told her. Gran had insisted she talk to them, but she’d never felt the need.
Still didn’t.
She was like her mother. Strong. Determined. Positive.
Gran had hated Ann Keller—because she wasn’t of the faith she’d raised her son to be, and her son had left the church to marry Ann.
Gran had refused to attend the wedding and disowned them both. They’d died before she had the chance to make things right.
It was Gran’s biggest regret. And the reason she’d spent every second of the remainder of her days dedicated to Addy’s life and happiness.
“Was anyone else hurt?”
