“Smack in the middle. What was it like growing up like that?”

The term hell came to mind, but she swallowed that back. The growing up part, that wasn’t true. “Loud, crazy, sometimes painful. They weren’t always very nice and protective to their sweet princess of a sister.” She batted her eyelashes up at him. “Gonna beat them up for me?”

“Oh, yeah. Just point the way.” He paused. “Which way is that, exactly?”

She grinned. “Wisconsin. Just head toward nothing and keep on going, turn left at nada, and stop when you reach nowhere.”

“Population: Your family, huh?”

“Give or take eight hundred.” She could dance around it, but he seemed so intent on getting to know her. And she wanted to know him. Time to be a mature woman and step forward. “You know that term dirt poor?”

“Sure.” He sifted his fingers through her hair again, and she nearly went comatose with the pleasure. But then he tugged—still felt good—and made her look at him. “Don’t stop now, or I’ll stop, too.”

“No, don’t.” When he resumed his scratching and tracing of her upper arms and shoulders, she wriggled with pleasure. “That was us, literally dirt poor. As in, the floorboards of our ancient farm house were warped and had so many splinters my mom and oldest brother decided to rip them up, only to discover the ancient house we lived in didn’t have a sub floor. Built straight on dirt. And since my mom didn’t have the cash to fix it . . .” She shrugged. “It stayed, for about two years. Laid down tarps, some cardboard, switched that out every so often. For a few months, we had carpet . . . sort of.” She smiled. “Another family had done their house in carpet, had a lot of leftover remnants, gave them to us for free. They weren’t even nailed down. But they were warmer than tarp.”

“That sounds rough.” He stared at the TV, which he’d muted. “But with the right family, you can get through it.”

“We got through it. What choice do you have?”

“Was it rough?”

Now he was starting to sound like a reporter. “What’s with the third degree?” She playfully tugged at a few of his chest hairs, but he flattened her hand over his chest.

“I want to know you, all of you. It’s not such an odd request, is it? Knowing the woman I’m involved with.”

When he put it like that . . . “No.”

“Was it hard, moving away from them?”

“No. Maybe that sounds bad, but it just wasn’t. They were content with that life, all of them. Staying in that town was admitting to yourself you were fine being below the poverty line for the rest of your life. Nobody stayed there thinking they’d have anything more than government assistance, or barely above it.” That sounded ugly, but it was just the truth. “So I left. They didn’t.”

“And you ended up here.”

“When it takes you as long as it took me to graduate from college . . . you take the first job offered.” She tried to smile, but it went a little sideways. “I was so scared about not making it, I leapt at the first job offer. I wasn’t even really qualified for this. I lied through my teeth about liking sports and all that.” She blew a raspberry. “Sports. We didn’t even have a football team at my high school. Too small. We could barely field a basketball team with guys on the bench. I was a cheerleader during basketball season, because it was better than 4H. So, no, sports were not really my thing. But I feel almost no guilt, which probably sounds horrible now that I say it out loud.”

“You make the choices you have to make in order to survive.” His voice was so calm, so serious, she knew he wasn’t talking about just her. But this was a man who had seen the ugly side of war. His idea of ‘choices’ were likely very much a matter of survival. She wouldn’t push on that front. Smoothing a hand down his torso, she brushed lightly over his bruising.

“‘Survive’ is probably a little intense where I’m concerned. But I made choices I felt like I had to in order to make steps toward the life I wanted. So I took this job, moved here, live in the world’s crappiest apartment so that I can actually afford to live without a roommate, and wonder every day how I got myself into this mess.”

“‘World’s crappiest apartment,’ huh?”

She bit back a groan. Apparently, the skeletons were just dancing out of the closet tonight. “Yeah, I, uh, don’t live in a great place. Which is why . . .”

“Which is why you’ve yet to let me pick you up at your place.”

“Maybe,” she whispered, her cheeks heating from the embarrassment. She nuzzled into his shoulder, not wanting to look him in the eyes.

“Reagan, look at me.”

She shook her head. No, thank you.

“Reagan,” he said again, his voice commanding. “Look.” He guided her chin up with one finger. “I don’t give a shit where you live. I don’t care if you live in your car.” He thought about that for a second. “Well, I might care about that because it’s not the safest thing in the world. But what I’m saying is, where you live doesn’t matter to me. I respect that you’re keeping your expenses down to keep your privacy. It’s a personal choice, and one I can understand. Trust me, there are times I’m ready to crawl the walls having a roommate again, even though he’s not there half the time.”

She closed her eyes, feeling the relief roll down her body in waves. “So, yeah. There it is, I guess. My life story.”

“Hardly that, but it’s a nice outline. We can fill in more details later.” He kissed her once, twice, then a third time, deeper still, until she was gripping his shoulders.

Then she let go with a shriek. “Oh my God, I’m sorry!”

“Huh?” He pulled back, confused. “What?”

“Your shoulder! I squeezed and—”

He burst out laughing, kissing her nose when she wrinkled it in confusion. “Reagan, sweetheart, you’re not gonna hurt me. I promise.” One more kiss to the forehead this time, which felt mildly patronizing and mocking. “But thanks for thinking of me.”

“Starting to regret that,” she muttered, pushing at him so he lay flat again.

“I have one question, though.”

“Maybe I have one answer.” She waited, but he twisted and got out of bed, stalking across the room and picking up one of her discarded heels. “Those won’t fit you, you know. You’d probably need a wide.”

“Smart-ass.” He said it fondly, throwing her an arch look. “If you’re broke as a joke—”

“Classy.”

“Thanks. If you’re so broke you’re living in a crap apartment . . . what’s with all these?” He held up the shoe by the heel, waving it as if it were evidence in a court case. Your Honor, I present Exhibit B to the jury.

“I really would rather live in my car than give up my shoes.” When he gaped at her, she laughed. “No, silly. I buy them on auction sites for pennies on the dollar or at thrift stores or swap sites. Everything I have, I searched for hard-core and bought at a fraction of the retail price.” She glanced at her now-wrinkled, discarded suit on the floor of her hotel room. “You wouldn’t know it, but I usually take very good care of my things so they last.”

He surprised her by picking up her suit and folding it neatly, laying it across her suitcase. Then he made his way back to the bed, stretched out beside her, and curled them up under the comforter.

“Thanks,” he said quietly after a moment, then turned the TV off. His hand drifted up and down her back, lifting her tank a little to scratch at her lower back. It felt heavenly.

Just as she drifted off, she realized she’d done all the talking, and he’d done all the listening.

*   *   *

GREG awoke to a pounding at his door. He cracked one eye open, glanced at the clock, and groaned. It wasn’t even six yet, and they weren’t supposed to muster until half past seven. What dumbass would take his life into his own hands and knock so early?

He grumbled, pulled the pillow over his ear, and prayed the asshole away.