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She righted a fallen chair for him and pushed him down to sit into it. Then she leaned over, cupping her palms on either side of his face. His slight beard felt gloriously scratchy against her skin, and he smelled like pine and the warm scent that was deliciously Ryker. His eyes were the color of soft, faded denim, and his lashes were thick and almost girlishly long, the tips a little golden in the light. His mouth curved in the tiniest smile, as if he were imagining the naughty things they could be doing, just like she was…
She banished her lustful thoughts and focused. He looked okay. But how could she tell?
“Are you really okay?”
He rolled his eyes but didn’t pull away. “I’m embarrassed. Worried I scarred your nieces for life. Other than that, I’m fine.”
She released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Then she leaned in and kissed his forehead, then his lips, in the briefest of kisses. When that wasn’t enough—not even close to enough—she groaned and leaned in to slide her tongue into his mouth.
“Got the first-aid kit.” June charged into the dining room, skidding to a halt when she’d interrupted them kissing. Bryce had straightened, looking at June guiltily as her niece made a face. “Ew, gawd! I guess he’s okay if you two are getting all physical.”
“Phys-cle? What’s that mean?” Addison came skittering into the dining area, a dirty, wrinkled dish towel in her hands.
Cecily came in behind her, trailing ice cubes as she ran, her palms full of chopped ice.
“Oh, I know. Fizz-kill is when your Sprite loses all its bubbles.” Cecily gave Ryker a stern look. She grabbed the food-stained dish towel from her sister, poured the ice into it, wadded it all closed, and plopped the thing on the top of Ryker’s head. “You can worry about your Fizz-kill later, Mr. Ryker. Right now, we need to see if you’re hurt.”
Then the ice poured out of the bottom of the dish towel, cubes raining down on Ryker’s shoulders like massive hailstones, piling onto the floor beneath the chair.
Addison shook her head. “Only I think you were ’posed to hold that on your boo-boo.”
Ryker threw his head back and laughed.
The deep baritone sound made something within Bryce light up. God, what would it be like to make this man laugh like this every day?
She shook off the impossible thought. “Let me get the broom and sweep this up.”
As she went toward the utility closet, she heard Ryker reassure the girls.
“I’m fine. I just stepped out of my foot and tripped.”
Bryce swept up the ice into the pan and tossed it into the garbage. As soon as the field was clear of debris, Cecily and Addison crowded around Ryker, their faces curious. They stared at the empty end of his jeans on the left side.
“Can we see you put on your special foot, Mr. Ryker?” Addison asked. “We help Grandpa Weatherford with his stand-up-tall leg all the time.”
Ryker gave her a questioning look.
“My dad has a leg-length discrepancy, and he has special orthotics and custom shoes to correct his gait. Girls, this is different from Grandpa Weatherford’s shoe. Maybe Mr. Ryker doesn’t want—” Bryce began, but Ryker interrupted, his voice soft.
“It won’t bother me. As long as it’s okay with your aunt.” He waited for Bryce’s nod before continuing. “See, I think there shouldn’t be a stigma about amputees, which is why I don’t wear a prosthetic with a fleshy cover. I let the metal show, like I’m a robot, because I sort of am. A bunch of smart men and women designed this thing, and I think it’s a shame to hide it.”
He pointed to the black plastic-looking cup above the rod that acted like the shinbone, connecting the foot to the apparatus above.
“This is the socket that snaps my new foot onto the rest of my leg below the knee, like a LEGO.”
“Hey, that’s the same as your tattoo.” Cecily pointed to the eagle, globe, and anchor etched on the black plastic cup of the prosthetic. “So your leg goes in there?”
Ryker nodded and slid up the jeans on his left leg, revealing a gray, sock-like sleeve covering his leg from mid-thigh to the four inches remaining beneath the knee. He pointed to the tip of the gray sleeve, where a blunt silver bolt extended about three inches farther from where his limb ended.
“See this pin? It goes into the socket and locks in at the bottom, keeping my foot on.”
“Can’t you ever change shoes?” Addison asked. “Or do you keep a bunch of different legs in your closet?”
Ryker chuckled. “Nope. I can change shoes whenever I want, just like you, as long as the heel is three-eighths of an inch—Chuck Taylors aren’t normally suited for amputees, but I have a lift inside to level them out.”
He slipped the sneaker and sock off the prosthetic, revealing a peachy, flesh-toned foot. Then, to Bryce’s surprise, he peeled back some of the foot to reveal a glint of black and metal beneath.
“This is a Kevlar sock, which covers my metal foot to make sure the sharp edges don’t poke through and ruin my cosmesis—that’s this part here.” Ryker tapped on the realistic flesh-like prosthetic foot.
