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The Medic's Homecoming
Lynne Marshall



Jocelyn deserved to know how she wasted her adoration. He was broken and finally admitted it to her out loud.
Maybe saying it aloud—I have PTSD—would help make the condition go away.
If only it were that easy.
“You sure you want me to help with that fundraiser? A balloon may pop and I might freak out on you or something.”
From nowhere her cool hands caressed his cheeks. Jocelyn went up on her toes to buss his lips, catching him by surprise.
“Yes,” she said, gazing into his face. “I still want you to help me with the fundraiser.” There was a playful glint in her coffee-bean-colored eyes. “I also hope you’ll reconsider about re-enlisting.” With her hands still framing his face, her lashes fluttered downward then back up.
Their gazes met and held in an I-refuse-to-be-the-first-to-look-away contest. He could hear her breathe, and there was that sweet flower bloom and vanilla shampoo scent again …

About the Author
LYNNE MARSHALL used to worry that she had a serious problem with daydreaming—then she discovered she was supposed to write those stories! A late bloomer, Lynne came to fiction writing after her children were nearly grown. Now she battles the empty nest by writing stories that always include a romance, sometimes medicine, a dose of mirth, or both, but always stories from her heart. She is a Southern California native, a dog lover, a cat admirer, a power walker and avid reader.

The Medic’s
Homecoming
Lynne Marshall


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to the men and women who must deal with PTSD every day.
Also, special thanks to my son, JP, for loaning me his tattoos for this book. Love you.

Chapter One
Lucas couldn’t sleep. What else was new? He thought maybe things would be different once he got home, but no.
He threw back the covers and slid into the leather flip-flops he’d picked up at the base PX, then headed out back to the garage and his 1965 Mustang. The classic car he’d saved up for with part-time jobs—bought long before he was old enough to drive and mostly rebuilt before he’d left home at eighteen—seemed to call out to him.
As the cool night wind pushed him along, he glanced next door, finding a light on in the upstairs bedroom. The same room he’d tossed pebbles at the night before he left for boot camp. Jocelyn hadn’t opened the window then, so he’d never gotten to say goodbye. Damn, had that been ten years ago?
He flipped on the light at the garage side entrance, but nothing happened. Fumbling around in the dark he bumped into his car and reached above, swinging his hand back and forth until he found the dangling chain then yanked. A single bulb dimly lit the garage. Rolling back the thick plastic car-cover, he took a deep inhale. Grease and oil perked up his senses. This was home. The garage and the peace it had always offered. His classic car.
How could his father call him a slacker when he’d never worked harder on anything in his life?
Glancing around the countertops, he found a rag and walked the perimeter of the Mustang, wiping away the dust on the chipped and flaking paint, the smoother areas covered in sprayed-on primer. He took his time, reacquainting himself with the sleek body and chrome.
He’d flown into LAX from North Carolina earlier that evening, greeted by his sister, Anne, and her boyfriend, Jack. They delivered him home to the Grady idea of a hero’s welcome—Mom’s famous yellow cake with buttercream chocolate frosting. Still one of the best desserts he’d ever had.
Lucas looked at the beat-up Harley in the corner of the garage. Though in their mid-fifties, Mom and Dad still enjoyed their weekend rides. Well, they used to, anyway—before the accident.
It had been a little shocking to find his father in a wheelchair, his right leg and opposite arm in casts. Still an imposing figure at six feet four inches—though you couldn’t tell in that wheelchair—Kieran Grady hadn’t changed much. His sandy blond hair had been invaded by silver, mostly around the temples, and he looked craggier than Lucas remembered. Probably from all the years of coaching in the California sun catching up with him. His steel-blue stare, though, was unchanged, and he’d used those inquiring eyes to thoroughly check out Lucas tonight. Did Dad have a clue what Lucas had been through in the desert?
No one could, unless they’d witnessed it themselves.
Mom, other than going the bottle-brown route with her hair, had looked basically the same. She wore her signature casual jeans, though now they’d been traded in for designer jeans with shiny studs along the pockets and stitched flowers at the flared legs. Still preferring flashy patterned tops, her bright pink cast competed with the loud colors. Her welcoming smile and the tears welling in her eyes told him all he needed to know—she was happy to have him home, no matter the circumstances.
As Lucas thought about that night, the tugging in his chest let him know it was good to see his parents again. Both of them.
While he tinkered with the car, Lucas geared up for the next couple of weeks being his father’s medical attendant. It would be tough but a damn sight easier than performing medic duties in the desert.
He stood back and stared at his Mustang, then scanned the family garage, littered with boxes stored in the rafters. So many memories.
Was it good to be home?
“Hey,” his sister Anne said from the door.
He controlled his surprise, trained his eyes on her and kept rubbing the car. “I can’t believe Dad kept this around.”
“I think he knew you’d come after him if he ever tried to sell it.”
Man, the tension between him and his dad had made the welcome-home yellow cake with chocolate buttercream frosting go down like cardboard. Would Dad ever forgive him for enlisting? It was Dad’s dream to send him to college, just like Anne and Lark, but Lucas hadn’t wanted to go to college. He wasn’t one for hitting the books like his sisters. No, he preferred the basics: getting his hands dirty and fixing things. Come to think of it, being a medic in the field had a lot to do with fixing things, like gaping body injuries, burned skin and gunshot wounds. Books and papers, well, he didn’t have the patience for that stuff.
When he’d tested out for medic over engineer on the military aptitude battery, he’d almost demanded a retest. That was Anne’s dream, to be a doctor—though she’d become a nurse—and these days baby sister Lark was the one back east in medical school.
“What are you doing up?” she asked.
“Can’t sleep.”
“Too much excitement?”
His smile felt more like a grimace. “Yeah, maybe that’s it.”
The worst part of his post-traumatic stress disorder was dealing with insomnia. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept more than a couple hours. When he did manage to fall asleep, he’d wake with a start, heart pounding up his throat, every muscle tensed, prepared to fight for his life. Or his sleep would be restless with fits and jerks like he was still fighting the war. He’d wake up more exhausted than when he’d gone to bed.
What he’d give for one good night’s sleep.…
Because he was exhausted most of the time, he snapped at people, which wouldn’t go over well with his dad. Only his buddies in the field understood. How would he adjust to being back to civilian life, where no one else did?
“Can I bring you anything from the kitchen?” Of the three siblings, Anne looked the most like their mother, and she’d barely changed since the last time he’d seen her—Christmas three years ago. Her light brown hair was different, cut just above her shoulders now instead of halfway down her back. She’d borne the brunt of caring for Mom and Dad the past few weeks, and it showed in dark inverted arcs under her eyes. Or maybe it was just the dingy garage lighting. She probably thought he looked like hell, too.
Something else was going on with her, but he didn’t have a clue. He’d picked up on that “something” between her and Jack on the drive home from the airport tonight, but he couldn’t get a handle on what it might be.
“I’m fine, Anne, thanks.” Hell, she’d always been able to read his moods, and his go-away-and-leave-me-alone approach wouldn’t keep her off his scent for long. She’d probably noticed him flinch when he dove into the backseat of the car at the airport at the same time a car backfired. “What are you doing up?” he said.
“I saw the light and just wanted to check and make sure everything was okay.”
“Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Nah, I was awake, anyway. I’m going back inside now,” she said.
“I’m okay, Anne.” He glanced to make sure she wasn’t worried about him. He couldn’t read her sleepy-looking brown eyes. “See you in the morning.”
She hesitated, looking more alert and glancing a bit longer than necessary, probably using her uncanny, sister fib-o-meter to size him up, then she nodded. “Night.”
To her, when they were growing up, he’d always been the goofball kid brother. He’d given her plenty of reasons for that, with all his shenanigans and poorly thought-out schemes. How many times had he gotten caught and in trouble for his less-than-bright ideas? Anne had often come to his aid and stuck up for him. He fought a smile, glimpsing a portion of his face in the car’s cracked rearview mirror.
She’d tried, though. She’d tricked him into signing up for the track team by telling him it would get him out of those dreaded physical fitness tests. And he quit smoking after she showed him horrifying pictures of cancerous lungs from her high school anatomy class.
Lucas could have been a huge screwup if it weren’t for Anne. When she used to call him out for being a jerk, it’d felt like a stab through the heart, but she always managed to get through to him. She didn’t buy his bad-boy act for a second, even if everyone else did. And that was fine by him. Truth was, he liked it better when he made her and Mom laugh, not worry. He rubbed his chest thinking how long Mom had been worrying about him. Ten years, counting basic training. The last thing Mom needed to know was he’d cut his PTSD treatment short to come home and take care of her and Dad.
Once Anne was gone, he switched on the old radio in the corner and listened to static oldies through the tinny speaker. When he’d finished wiping down the car, he sat inside and cleaned the tattered leather upholstery and faded dashboard, fingered the steering wheel and imagined driving with the top down, feeling the winds of Whispering Oaks rushing through his hair. Now that he had some hair. What was that word, or more importantly, that feeling, he’d forgotten? Carefree.
He let out a breath. The last time he’d felt carefree was around the time his biggest charge was pulling little Jocelyn Howard’s braids and having her chase him around the yard. But once he’d hit puberty, that was child’s play.
With the late hour, the static was coarse on the radio. He got out of the car to turn it off and to try for a couple hours of sleep. On his way inside, he noticed the light was out in Jocelyn’s bedroom. He thought about looking for some pebbles to toss at her window, just to bug her, but he was only wearing his army-issue brown boxers. What kind of impression would that make? Besides, if this time she opened the window, he wouldn’t have a clue what to say.
Mere hours later, a loud knock on the door woke Lucas. “I’ll be right there,” he said, husky-voiced. He hopped to attention, threw on some shorts and a crewneck T-shirt and fumbled for the knob. The last thing he needed was for Dad to see the tattoos on his shoulders. Pushing open the door, he saw Anne through bleary eyes.
“We need your help,” she said.
“That’s what I’m here for.” He strode across the hall to his parents’ room, pretending to be awake, as Anne’s cell phone rang.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Answer it. I’ll take care of this.” He continued into the bedroom as she back-stepped down the hallway, already talking.
“Well, good morning, bright eyes!” his father said, obviously trying to get a rise out of him. How many times growing up had Lucas heard that phrase when he hadn’t looked alert enough at the breakfast table?
“Hey, Dad. So how do we do this?” he said, scratching his chest, determined not to knee-jerk a snotty response to his father’s jab.
Kieran sat at the edge of the bed, hair ruffled, eyes grumpy, sheets twisted and knotted around him.
Lucas let a slow smile tug at one corner of his mouth. “You know, you’re not looking so bright-eyed yourself, Dad.”
“It’s been hell, Lucas. These damn casts are driving me nuts. I’m counting the days until they’ll take them off.”
Nearby, Bart, his parents’ replacement for the kids, warily eyed Lucas. Lucas approached, ignoring the Rhodesian ridgeback’s low growl. “Good boy,” he said. Though big and imposing-looking, the dog’s real personality was betrayed by a wagging long brown tail.
Soon, the huge dog licked Lucas’s arm as if they’d been friends forever.
Only sheer will could have gotten Dad to sit up on his own because Mom, who stood close by with a yellow robe over her shoulders and that bright pink cast, couldn’t possibly have helped him with her one good hand. The man was too damn big. Good thing Dad had a will of steel.
“What did you always say to me, ‘This too shall pass,’ or something?” Lucas said, wanting to ease his dad’s frazzled mood.
Kieran grimaced. “Using my own words against me—that’s cold, son.” He flashed a brief grin at Lucas—more of a touché than an affirmation. Truce. For now.
“Let me explain how we do this,” his mom, Beverly, said, stepping around the bed to her husband’s side.
He’d done thousands of patient transfers in his nine years of active duty. But Lucas bit his tongue and let her explain their routine for getting Dad into the wheelchair.
Forty-five minutes later he’d helped his father wash and get dressed and had rolled him into the kitchen for breakfast. After years of helping his share of proud-but-wounded soldiers in the field, Lucas understood how humiliating it was for a grown man to need someone else to help him bathe. So he’d offered his dad all due respect, looking away when necessary, and the man had appreciated it.
He could tell because Dad had let his guard down a little. They carried on a civilized conversation … as if new acquaintances. Same stuff he’d covered with Anne on the drive from the airport. Weather, food, old friends. Though the conversation with his dad had felt stilted, anything was better than snarky attacks.
At least his dad hadn’t mentioned his appearance. Lucas had caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom with Dad and had to laugh at how bad he looked. He’d at least managed to throw some water on his face and run damp fingers through his hair. He’d thought about shaving when he’d shaved his father but decided to wait until later when he showered. And Dad would have nothing to do with the soul patch he’d tried to talk him into, opting for a clean shave. He noted that Dad’s hairline seemed to be getting higher and higher.
In the kitchen, after gulping down the orange juice Anne had set on the counter for him, Lucas headed out front for the newspaper. The neighborhood hadn’t changed a bit—a meandering street lined with pine and ash trees, mostly single-story ranch houses except for the Howards’ next door and a few others. The beige of the Grady home was accented with red brick, which set it apart from the otherwise similar homes along the street. Bushes or rustic wood fences divided most property lines.
He glanced up and down the block as he searched for the paper on yet another sunny day in Southern California. God, he’d missed that. The paper had been thrown between the family car in the driveway and the long row of box bushes bordering the Howards’ yard. As he bent to reach for it, he heard footfalls running down the sidewalk. He popped his head over the car bumper in time to see Jocelyn jog by. He hadn’t seen her in almost ten years, yet he instantly recognized her.
She wore black thigh-length form-fitting running shorts and a sports bra. More athletic than voluptuous, she could get away with it. And did she ever. Her long torso, thin legs and arms looked fit, covered in a light bronze California tan. Her fawn-colored hair, held high in a ponytail over the back of her visor, shone in the sun.
Flooded with good memories and hit by an impulse, he shot out from behind the car after her. Her long ponytail wagged back and forth with each stride, begging to be yanked. Nearly catching up with her, he reached out for her hair and tugged.
“Hey there,” he said.
She gasped and spun around, recoiled with muscles tensed, eyes large and dark with surprise—or possibly fear. Idiot, you scared her! Maybe he should have thought through his bright idea a bit more.
Just as suddenly, she beamed with recognition.
With the yank on her hair, Jocelyn almost leaped out of her skin. Every muscle in her body went on alert as memories of another time she hadn’t been paying close enough attention to coursed through her. She spun around … and couldn’t believe her eyes. Trying to catch her breath and reel in her wildly beating heart, she broke into a smile.
It was Lucas, all six feet and change of him. He stood before her wearing a T-shirt and shorts that seemed to have been left in the dryer too long. He looked like a never-forgotten, though rumpled, dream. A dream from ten years ago that hadn’t ever faded.
She grinned wider, her lower lip trembling. His shoulders seemed broader, and his flat stomach, muscled arms and legs advertised one super-fit male. His dark brown hair stuck out in several different directions, and by the goofy, upside-down attempt at a smile he was glad to see her.
After ten years, Lucas had finally come home, and the sight of him practically made her knees buckle.
“Lucas!”

Chapter Two
Jocelyn kicked out at Lucas. “I could crown you!” she said, taking a swing at him. “You could have given me a heart attack.”
He dodged her swing. “I’m sorry.” He held up his hands, fighting back his grin and enjoying every second of her protest. “I saw you run by, and, well, I never could resist pulling your ponytail.” The warm feeling in his chest caught him off guard, plus the fact he was genuinely glad to see her.
“Were you hiding in the bushes or something?”
He tapped the newspaper in the air. “I’m not that messed up. I was getting the paper.”
Color rose on her olive-toned cheeks.
“Who says you’re messed up? You’re just a freak who likes to sneak up on unsuspecting women and pull their hair.” She squared off, hands on her hips, and stared at him.
“Not true. Not women. Only one unsuspecting woman. You.” He folded his arms and watched.
Man, she’d changed, yet she hadn’t. Gotten a lot taller—almost as tall as him. Filled out a little. Grew some hips. Looked good in sports gear. Had the same pretty teeth and shiny brown eyes … and he hadn’t even washed his face yet. What the hell was he thinking?
“So, you’re home for good now?”
“Yup. Got back last night.”
“Fantastic. Welcome home.” There was that pretty and contagious grin again. He felt dumb smiling this much so early in the morning, but, there you go, he was. “Then I guess I’ll see you around,” she said.
He nodded, wondering why he’d bothered to bug her. What was the point?
“Great!” She turned, tossing her ponytail, and resumed running. His gaze followed her long, smooth strides for a few seconds.
Without looking back she lifted her arm and waved, as if she knew he was still there. Watching.
For a moment, he’d felt like that kid he used to be, the one full of bravado, pretending to take on the universe, not like the world-weary dude he’d turned into.
“I’m glad you’re home, Lucas,” she called out two house-lengths away.
He cupped his hands around his mouth. “You run like a girl.”
She gave a single-finger salute and picked up her stride. It made him laugh, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed.
You know what? Maybe he was glad to be home.
Monday afternoon, after performing all of the basic duties for his father and setting him free in the wheelchair, he’d caught his sister making plane reservations to return home on Saturday. It only made sense. She worked as an RN in Oregon and couldn’t stay forever. But was he ready to take on the whole show—to be nursemaid, chauffeur, cook and delivery boy?
Lucas wandered out to the garage with his new best friend, Bart, hot on his trail. Well, best friend since he’d shared some of his peanut butter sandwich with him at lunch. Lost in tinkering with his Mustang, he’d enjoy the solitude for what few days were left before Anne went home. Time flew by, and soon it was late afternoon and he heard Anne scraping the grill and firing up the barbecue.
“Annie-belle, could you throw another shrimp on the barbie?” Kieran, using his worst Australian accent, sounded really close. Lucas shook his head. He had to hand it to his father—he never gave up. And somehow he had gotten the wheelchair out to the garage all by himself. “I’ve invited Jocelyn for dinner.”
Jocelyn?
Lucas pretended he hadn’t heard. Fortunately, since being cooped up in the house the past month, Dad had the attention span of someone with ADD hopped up on caffeine. Kieran’s melancholy gaze had already drifted to the totaled Harley motorcycle parked in the corner of the garage.
“It’s a crying shame, isn’t it?” Kieran said.
“Most definitely.”
“Too bad your specialty isn’t motorcycles instead of Mustangs.”
“I used to know a guy named David in auto shop who loved bikes. Want me to look him up for you?”
“Your mother would divorce me if I ever got back on one of those babies.”
“You’ve got a point.”
“Hey, let me run something by you,” Kieran said, shifting to yet another topic as he rolled his motorized wheelchair into the garage.
“I want you to help out Jocelyn with our annual athletic department fund-raiser.”
“Dad, I’m really not interested in …”
“I need you to help me, Lucas. I can do all the phoning and can make contacts with vendors and solicit donations, but I need you to be my legs.” Dad looked earnest, the corners of his blue eyes crinkled and staring Lucas down. “Jocelyn’s great. But the thing is, she doesn’t think she can sub for me as coach because she lost her track scholarship when she was at the university and she’s insecure. She needs help with the fundraiser and track. And that’s where I need to throw her a crumb—you. Not that you’re a crumb.”
This was the first Lucas had heard about Jocelyn bombing out of her scholarship. Hmm. She bombed out. He slacked. Maybe he and Jocelyn had more in common than he ever thought.
“This is our big fund-raiser for the entire year. I need someone to watch over Jocelyn, help her out and report back to me. Someone to be my eyes and ears until I can be there myself.”
“Your snoop, you mean.”
“That’s just an added bonus.” Kieran looked serious. “I really need your help. She needs your help. The Whispering Oaks track team needs your help. I’m not sure I’m ever going to be able to be head coach again, and this team has lots of potential.”
“I feel so special.” Lucas put splayed fingers over his chest.
The old man was laying it on pretty thick. Despite himself, Lucas listened with great interest, wondering how he’d let himself get sucked into the plan. Oh, right. He was the coach’s son.
As he listened to his dad, Lucas stuck the key into the ignition of the Mustang, turned it and after a few rum-rum-rums, a tingle of excitement bled out from his chest as the engine almost turned over before moaning like a distressed horse.
“I thought you already jumped the battery with my cables,” Kieran said.
“I did one better. I bought a new one,” Lucas said. “It started okay earlier. Maybe it’s the alternator.” If he turned out to be right about the alternator, as soon as he cashed his last check he’d buy a new one, which was no easy feat when dealing with classic cars. He’d have to get online tonight and research a few possibilities. Good thing he’d saved up substantially during his army stint because the car could suck him dry. In the meantime, he’d have to wait to take his baby for a test-drive.
Lucas shut the hood and wiped his hands, turning in time to see Jocelyn walk up. She wore tan cropped pants, double-layered tank tops in bright yellow and dark orange, flashy gladiator sandals and even had a pedicure complete with a tiny flower on each big toe. Nice.
“Hi, Lucas,” Jocelyn said, losing her step on the gravel. She opened her arms, and he gave her a quick one-arm hug, feeling uncomfortable. Seeing her now was nothing like the other day when it was just the two of them. Anne was bound to make a big deal out of them meeting up again. His dad wanted him to help her coach. The whole situation made him tense. The last thing he needed was pressure over anything. Not in his state.
Jocelyn stepped back uncertainly. “How are you?” she asked.
“Fine. Just fine.” He glanced at the ground, molars pressed tight. “I hear you’re house-sitting for your parents.”
“Yeah, they’re finally taking that RV road trip they’ve always dreamed about.”
“There she is,” Kieran said, rolling out of the garage, Bart tugging on the knotted rope in his hand.
“You wanted to talk to me, Coach Grady?” Jocelyn asked. To Lucas, she sounded relieved to have a purpose for being there.
Lucas chuckled. “He’s got big plans for the fundraiser this year. How are you at being micromanaged?”
“I’m right here and I can hear you,” Dad said, droll as ever.
In jest, Lucas flashed her a warning glance. “Let me know if you need backup.”
“That’s the last time I run my game plans by you,” Kieran muttered, obviously unfazed by Lucas’s jab, maybe even enjoying the guy banter.
“I guess I’d better see what you’ve got in mind.” Jocelyn tossed Lucas a playful look, stepped behind the wheelchair and rolled it toward the back door, which had a makeshift ramp. She glanced over her shoulder and mouthed “thanks.”
“Good luck.” He raised a brow and enjoyed the color tinting her cheeks when she smiled.
“Don’t listen to him, Jocelyn,” Kieran said, sounding anything but perturbed.
He watched Jocelyn push his father into the house, liking the sway of her hips, then glanced up to find Anne watching him. Yeah, snoopy big sisters noticed stuff like that.
“Aren’t you supposed to be barbecuing?” he said.
Once Kieran and Jocelyn were well inside the house, Anne used her playground whisper. “She is so adorable, don’t you think?”
“Back off, Sis,” he said, heading toward the garage.
He didn’t mean to snap at Anne, but his father had already laid out his cockamamie plan for Lucas to help with the sports department fund-raiser. He didn’t need his sister playing matchmaker on top of that.
Sure, being the coach’s kid, he’d attended the annual athletic event since he was little and had always enjoyed it, but never did he ever want to help plan it. Too bad Anne wasn’t sticking around. That was more her thing.
He didn’t appreciate the obvious matchmaking on his father’s part, either. Now, with Anne’s comments, he was beginning to feel the brunt of a family conspiracy. Guess what, folks—I’m not looking for a girlfriend.
If his dad was trying to get him some job experience by asking him to look after Jocelyn, he was barking up the wrong tree. Chasing a bunch of teen runners around the Tartan track would have about as much clout on his thin résumé as being a medic in the army would in getting a job in a hospital. Unless he went back to school, there wasn’t a place in California that would hire him without a degree. Good thing he had that small nest egg saved up.
College. The last thing he felt like doing was going back to school. But it seemed like the only option at this point. Truth was, though, he didn’t have a clue what he wanted to do next. He’d always planned to stick it out in the military. But then the damn PTSD started.
Now what?
“Pass the veggies, Annie-belle, would you?” Mr. Grady said, sitting at the head of the huge, whitewashed, French country-style dining table. The bank of ceiling-to-wainscoting windows let in peach-tinged evening light. Gusts of wind battered and rumbled the double panes.
Even though Jocelyn had worked with him for the past eight months and known him since she was a baby, she still couldn’t bring herself to call him by his first name. He’d always been Mr. Grady. Ditto for Mrs. Grady. Using her first name just didn’t seem appropriate.
“Is this jasmine rice?” Mrs. Grady sniffed and closed her eyes.
Anne nodded with a hint of a proud smile. “I thought you might like that.”
“I never thought you had it in you, sweetheart, but you’ve turned out to be a good cook,” Mrs. Grady said.
“Gee, thanks, Mom.” Anne’s sarcasm put the cherry on top of the backhanded compliment.
For an only child like Jocelyn, a large family dinner with everyone passing food and chatting was a special treat. When she was young, longing to have brothers and sisters, she used to dream she was one of the Grady kids. When she hit preadolescence, having developed a huge crush, she was glad she wasn’t Lucas’s sister.
As the relaxed dinner banter continued, Jocelyn passed quick looks at Lucas. He’d left home ten years ago built like a long-distance runner. He’d filled out, muscled up and looked all man in a natural way. Not all men looked like that. Her ex-fiancé sure hadn’t.
She needed to look away before Lucas caught her again, but, uh-oh, he’d noticed. What was that, the sixth time? She made a quick smile and took another bite of Japanese eggplant, grilled to perfection by Anne.
Speaking of perfection … Lucas had turned into a gorgeous man. His classic pentagonal-shaped face with high forehead, squared jaw and angular chin was striking to say the least. The military-short hair was filling in, darker than the brown she’d remembered. He didn’t seem to care about combing it, and it stuck out in assorted directions. Tonight he’d wound up with a faux-hawk ridge on top of his head. His hazel eyes evaded contact, but she’d managed to catch his gaze a time or two or three. And he’d actually smiled for her—well, if you counted lips that turned downward instead of up while showing some teeth a smile. An upside-down smile that looked like he was in pain. Like smiling had become foreign to him.
So a smile from Lucas wasn’t necessarily a happy thing. She’d have to think on that for a while.
As great as he looked, Lucas seemed withdrawn and guarded—nothing like the crazy kid and overconfident teen she used to know. Well, she wasn’t nearly as carefree as she used to be, either. Life had a way of teaching everyone lessons about caution.
Kieran tapped his knife against his water glass. “So, here’s the deal. Jocelyn has been taking over the Whispering Oaks track team as head coach while I’ve been laid up, and now Lucas has agreed to help her out with track meets and the annual sports fund-raiser.”
Lucas’s brows shot up. “Who said anything about track meets? You just asked me to help out with the fund-raiser and occasional practices.”
“You can’t expect Jocelyn to run a meet on her own,” Mr. Grady said. “She’s got a couple of assistant coaches, but they’ll all have their hands full. We need another body, and you make the most sense.”
Lucas shook his head, took another bite of rice with vegetables and, by the way his jaw worked overtime, ground the food into pulp.
Jocelyn chewed her bottom lip, then flashed her cheerleading smile. “Mr. Grady.”
“Call me Kieran, would you, please?”
“Uh, Kieran.” It came out completely unnatural. “I think I can find more help. Maybe Jack …”
“Jack volunteers for the fire department on Saturdays,” Anne spoke up. “He wouldn’t be available for the weekend meets.”
“Well, maybe he could help at the weekday practices.” Jocelyn’s smile was quickly fading, but she wasn’t going to let Lucas get put on the spot. Not because of her own failings. Not because she was being a wuss about running the team on her own. Not because she still felt guilty about losing her track scholarship.
“Lucas, honey,” Mrs. Grady said. “You used to love track. Maybe you’d enjoy sharing your experiences with the kids. And Jocelyn could use your help. Please think about it.”
“Yup. Sure, Mom,” he said, short, clipped words heralding the closure of the subject.
Stilted silence followed. Jocelyn’s smile faded to nonexistent. I should be able to handle things myself. But was she even worthy of being a coach? What was the old saying: “Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach”?
Lucas took a long draw of his ice water. “Well, I’m not sure what you want me to do for the fund-raiser, Jocelyn, but once Annie leaves on Saturday, I don’t know how available I’ll be for much of anything.”
“You’re leaving, Anne?” Beverly said, concern drawing her brows together.
Anne flashed a thanks-a-lot look at Lucas, who pulled in his chin and raised his shoulders. Clearly, he didn’t know she hadn’t told anyone about leaving.
“Well, yes, Mom. We agreed from the beginning I’d go home once Lucas got discharged.”
Beverly’s bright expression deflated on the spot. “You’ve been such a big help around here,” Beverly said. “And who’s going to do my hair?”
That lightened the atmosphere and got a chuckle out of Lucas. “Don’t look at me.”
“Maybe you could teach me,” Jocelyn said. She felt a bit foolish making the offer, especially when everyone, most especially Mrs. Grady, checked out her simple ponytail at once.
“How are you with a blow-dryer and hair spray?” Anne asked, an impish flint in her light brown eyes.
“It really is all about the cut,” Beverly said. “And fortunately, I’ve got a good one.”
“See?” Anne said. “All you’ll need to do is wash, comb and fluff.”
“Well, because Mrs. Grady’s hair isn’t long enough for a ponytail, I guess I can learn to dry, fluff and spray.”
“If you’re going to be my hairdresser, you’re going to have to learn to call me Beverly.”
Jocelyn grinned. “Beverly.” Would she ever feel comfortable saying Kieran and Beverly?
“What about Jack?” Kieran said. “Does he know you’re leaving?”
“Dad, just drop it, would you?” Anne stood and picked up her plate, then her mother’s, and headed to the sink.
With Jocelyn’s help, Jack had convinced Anne to go out with him since she’d been home, and he’d been looking very happy the last couple of weeks. In Anne’s defense, she did have a nursing job in Portland, Oregon to get back to—but Jocelyn was pretty sure Jack had bigger plans in mind.
No one looked more disappointed than Beverly. “It’s been so great having you around, Anne. We just hate to see you go—that’s all.”
Jocelyn noticed the expression on Lucas’s face, like he wasn’t good enough to take Anne’s place. She remembered that look from high school. Then he changed. Got tough. Used to brag about being a slacker.
She never believed him. Not for a second.
Wednesday morning, after Lucas helped Kieran get washed and dressed, he jumped into the shower. Midway through, a pounding on the door cut short the soothing hot ribbons of water streaming over his tense shoulders and back.
“Jack isn’t answering my calls,” Kieran shouted through the closed door. “We need to find another way to get to the doctor’s appointment.”
Lucas shut off the water, grabbed the bath towel and wrapped it around his waist in the thick-with-steam bathroom, then opened the door. “Why don’t you give him another call in a minute or two? Maybe he’s already on the road.”
Today’s appointment was important. It would clarify for Kieran when his leg cast might come off and, for a normally hyperactive guy, he was looking for a light at the end of this recovery. If he missed the appointment, it might be another month before he could reschedule.
His parents both owned hybrids, cars that had lots of attributes but weren’t made for people with full leg casts. Especially six-foot-four people with full leg casts. Anne had mentioned that Jack had been providing his 1980s van for Kieran’s transportation.
Lucas turned to wipe steam off the mirror.
“What the land’s end is that?” Kieran said, as if he’d noticed a gaping wound on Lucas.
At first it didn’t register, then it hit him. He’d turned his back on his father and exposed the tattoos. “Oh, these?” He played dumb and glanced over his shoulder as if he’d forgotten the raven on the backside of each shoulder blade existed.
“For cryin’ out loud, are you serious? What got into you? Next you’re going to tell me you’ve taken up smoking again.”
Lucas had actually put a lot of thought into his choice of tattoos. The ravens were Hugin and Munin, “thought” and “memory.” According to Norse mythology, each morning Odin sent the birds out to the world to report back what they saw. Lucas preferred to think of his ravens as thought and reason—because he didn’t put much stock in memories.
Sometimes, those ravens were the only things that kept him from having lousy judgment. Still, he saw that old and familiar look in his father’s eyes. Slacker. Only slackers get tats.
Yeah? Well, you don’t know everything, dear old Dad. But it wouldn’t be worth the breath to explain how it felt to have men’s lives balanced in your hands or how a wrong decision could cost a limb or eyesight or, worse yet, death. Dad wouldn’t get it.
“For your information, I didn’t start smoking again, and these are the only tattoos I have.”
It’s not like it’s a dragon or demon or snake winding up my neck. They’re ravens—just black birds. Okay, more like crows on steroids.
“The damn things nearly cover your back. Your mother will burst into tears when she sees them.”
“Are you going to call Jack or what?”
On edge over the possibility of missing his appointment, Kieran momentarily put his judgment about tattoos aside, flipped open his cell and put his special electric wheelchair in reverse. At least for now, Lucas had gotten him off his back. Literally.
Ten minutes later, Kieran still hadn’t reached Jack. Lucas ran next door.
He rapped on Jocelyn’s door, and moments later she answered, looking surprised. “Hi, Lucas. What’s up?”
She was dressed for teaching in a pin-striped pencil skirt, white blouse and black flats. Her hair was down and he liked how it gathered in fluffy bunches on her shoulders, but he wasn’t here to gawk at her good looks. He’d come to get help.
“Sorry if I disturbed anything, but …” Lucas said, pulling back on track. “Does your dad still have that big old van?”
“Yeah. It’s in the garage. Why?”
“Any chance we could borrow it?”
“No one has driven it in years. Probably doesn’t even run.”
Due to her confused expression, brows low, eyes narrowed, lips pursed—he especially liked that last part—he figured he owed her an explanation. “I’ve got to get Dad to his doctor’s appointment in half an hour and Jack was supposed to pick us up and take us. He’s a no-show.”
“Oh,” she said. “Yesterday afternoon Jack got a call at school to report for duty to fight the fire.”
Anne had already explained how Jack was a teacher at the high school and a volunteer fireman for Whispering Oaks. Wait until Anne found out about Jack getting called in to fight the fire.
“Let me find the key,” Jocelyn said. “Though the van battery’s probably dead.”
“I’ve got jumper cables.”
She found the key hanging on one of multiple hooks in the laundry room and handed it to him. Their fingers touched and the pop of pleasure immediately grabbed his attention. “Let’s see if it starts,” she said, leading him into the garage. “If it does, it’s yours.”
“Thanks,” Lucas said. “We really appreciate it.”
Once in the driveway, Lucas couldn’t help but notice how Jocelyn had to hike up her tight skirt in order to climb inside the van. Not wanting to tick her off, he averted his eyes after a quick appreciative glance.
He ran home to grab the jumper cables and to wheel his dad outside. On his way, he noticed a darkened sky with deep purple and red haze beneath and huge black clouds above a distant ridge. The wind had picked up instead of settling down, which didn’t bode well for the firefighters, including Jack. Anne would be worried sick.
After he’d gotten a relieved Kieran inside the big old red van, with his leg cast stretched across the spacious back bench seat, Lucas loaded in the wheelchair. He closed the heavy door and turned, almost bumping into Jocelyn. Up close she smelled really good, like marshmallows and flowers.
He stretched the orange cables from car to van. “Pull your car up and leave the engine running,” he said.
Lucas gave her a thumbs-up and Jocelyn started the car engine. “Now the van!” he called.
Lucas watched Jocelyn hike up her skirt again in order to slip behind the steering wheel. This time Lucas let himself enjoy the whole, long-legged show. When his eyes kept moving upward, he realized he’d been caught.
Jocelyn glanced at her lap before her lashes fluttered back up and she looked into his eyes. There went another mini jolt right through his chest—better than caffeine.
A tiny mischievous smile accompanied her glance as she turned the key and the old behemoth engine coughed and sputtered to life. Their eyes met and held a few moments, and he wondered if she felt what he was feeling. Turned on.
“Come on, you guys, or we’ll never make it on time,” said Mr. Personality from the backseat.
Lucas shot up in the dark, panting, drenched with sweat. There was fire. He smelled it. Where the hell was he? Clutching his chest, heart pounding in his throat, he searched frantically for a clue, but he had to wait for his eyes to adjust to the dark. It was too soft to be in a sleeping bag on the desert floor. Besides, he had a pillow, and he never had a pillow out there.
Right. He was home, at Whispering Oaks. It was two in the morning on Friday. There were wildfires in the distant hills. He was okay.
With adrenaline crawling along his arms and legs, he threw back the covers. He needed mindless tinkering. Keeping busy. Distraction. Anything to keep from thinking.
His pulse slowed a fraction as he headed for the kitchen. He avoided the creak in the hall floor outside of Anne’s bedroom so as not to wake her.
After he got his drink, when he stepped outside, he came to a halt. Something had changed. The wind had stopped. He glanced across the backyard to a glowing orange ridge in the distance. Maybe now the fire would settle down, too.
Letting the last of his nervousness drizzle out, he opened the garage door and got to work changing out the headlights on the car.
Time slipped by and, as had been the early morning routine since he’d been home, Anne eventually showed up. Tonight she had an old high school yearbook in her hand and a melancholy expression in her eyes. She’d tried not to be obvious when she found out about Jack fighting the fire today, but Lucas could tell by the way she bit her nails and twisted her hair all evening that inside she was freaking out. Something big was going on between her and Jack.
He glanced at his sister, hair every which way, nightgown hanging loose nearly to the floor, looking like some kind of messy angel. She climbed into the Mustang, talking about anything that seemed to pop into her head. It led back to high school and a love triangle between Anne, her best friend at the time and Jack. He’d tried his best to stay out of that drama back then but still recalled the heartache his sister had lived through.
When she started what he called the remember game, he tried to keep up, knowing she might throw in a curveball pop quiz. So far, the first few questions she’d thrown at him had been slow and down the center.
“Remember the night before I left for college when I came and sat here and told you that I still loved Jackson Lightfoot but I could never have him?”
Was he supposed to remember those kinds of conversations? “Uh, kinda.”
She went dramatic, tossed back her head and groaned. “Damn, Lucas, I break open my heart and spill my guts to you and you don’t remember?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t remember. I just said it’s a little vague. Why don’t you run it by me again?”
And she did, boy did she, the whole sordid tale, which went on for at least fifteen minutes. He kept busy with the headlight, eyes nearly glazing over. Finally, things got around to the real reason she couldn’t sleep.
“The thing is, I never quit loving him …”
So this was her bombshell? Hell, he could have told her that. Now all she had to do was be practical.
“Then why not move back here and be with him?”
For his effort of listening to and supporting his sister by offering a solution, he got the death glare.
“Ugh. It’s not that easy.”
“Sure it is,” he said. “What do you have in Portland that you can’t find here?”
She sighed and, ignoring him, thumbed through the yearbook.
Several minutes slipped by in silence. He was okay with that. It allowed him to work on the headlight change in peace.
“Do you believe in people finding the love of their lives, Lucas?”
“Nope.” He knee-jerked his answer as he used a wrench to tighten a bolt, then thought about Anne and Jack and what she’d just confessed. “But maybe in your case.…”
Not answering, she closed her eyes and hugged that ancient yearbook to her chest. A moment later she got out of the car. “Thanks for listening, little brother.”
Lucas loved his sister. He’d probably never said the actual words I love you, Sis, but right now he felt her pain and wanted her to know he cared. He gave her the first genuine smile he’d made since coming home, besides the one for Jocelyn, and it reached all the way inside, warmed him up and felt pretty damn good. He rubbed at a foreign, dull tugging in his chest.
“And by the way—” Anne said, closing the car door “—when you get ready to find the love of your life, may I suggest that you start by looking next door?”
He threw the greasy rag he’d wiped his hands on at her as she brushed past him on the way out of the garage. A ridiculous notion. Yet his eyes drifted across the dark yard to the house on the other side of the fence, and in his mind’s eye a long pair of shapely legs came back into focus.

Chapter Three
Saturday morning, Lucas showed up for track practice like he told his father he would. It was already sunny at quarter to eight, no wind, mostly blue sky with leftover smoke in the distance along with a lingering sooty scent. He checked his watch. Where were the athletes? More importantly, where was Jocelyn?
He paced the length of the track, pieces of memories patching through his thoughts. Just focus on the race. Give it your full effort. He would swear his father spoke over his shoulder, though he knew Dad was home in the wheelchair where he’d left him—in the family room watching golf on TV. The poor guy was practically on house arrest.
How many times had he let dear old Dad down when he raced? How many times could he have won and made Dad proud if he’d just three-stepped between hurdles instead of stuttering? But signing up for track hadn’t been his idea. Anne had talked him into it, just so she could be around Jackson Lightfoot. Speaking of Anne, she’d never come home last night. Last he’d heard, she’d gone looking for Jack at the fire command center.
More thoughts rushed his mind as he walked the track. Back in high school, Lucas hadn’t yet learned the fine art of total focus, except for when it came to cars. Being the coach’s kid meant having to prove yourself, and it seemed that in his father’s eyes, Lucas never really did. Second place was only a quick flash on Kieran Grady’s track radar; third place didn’t register at all. At least that’s how it’d felt.
Lucas shook the bitter memories from his head.
What the hell was he doing here? Jogging on this track was like reliving his slacker days all over again. It felt idiotic. Old insecurities laced through him, quickly followed by anger. He wanted to punch something or kick over a hurdle and storm off, just like he used to.
Here he was, honorably discharged from the army, a medic, twenty-eight years old, no plans, no job, subbing for his dad for some stinking high school fund-raiser. He squinted into the sun. In some ways he still felt an L was tattooed on his forehead.
Ambushed by frustration, he burst into a sprint, slowed down a few paces, then sprinted again. Maybe he could run off the negativity.
“Lucas!” Jocelyn came trotting across the grass wearing running gear and holding her workout bag in one hand, long strides accentuating the tone and muscle of a female athlete. He could get used to looking at those legs, all right.
“Hey,” he said when she got ten feet away, chiding himself for being so glad to see her.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“Where’re the kids?”
She checked her watch. “They should start straggling in any time now.”
“That lack of discipline flies with my dad?”
“Nope,” she said, plunking her overstuffed gym bag on the nearest bleacher seat. “They’re taking advantage of me. They think I’m a softy because I don’t blow my whistle and yell like he does.”
“Dad would turn over in his wheelchair if he found out.”
She laughed, way overdone for his lame comment. Her laugh sparked a déjà vu zing back to when he used to tease her. Good old Joss used to let him bug and nearly torture her, and she’d think it was funny. The sound of her laugh had grown huskier over time, but the sweet nature of it hadn’t changed at all. A smile just sort of popped up on his face. She smiled back, and something about being here with her made his shoulders relax.
“Well, I guess I’ll have to crack the old whip on my dad’s behalf, then,” he said.
She put her hands on her hips and raised her brows above her sunglasses. “You do remember being exactly the same as these kids, don’t you?”
“I’ve made it a point to erase my entire four years at Whispering Oaks.”
“That’s a pity because we had some good times. At least I thought so.” She’d leaned over to stretch out her hamstrings, so he figured he should do something, too, besides ogle. He grabbed his foot, drawing it flush to the back of his thigh, and enjoyed the long pull on his right quadriceps.
“It wasn’t that bad, was it?” she asked, head between the V of her legs. Did she have a clue about the power of that pose?
His answer stuck in his throat, which was a good thing because his tongue had momentarily quit working.
A gaggle of teens rushed across the lawn, a few stragglers running behind, as if they’d all arrived on a bus together. Lucas was sorry Jocelyn had quit stretching in order to greet the students. He glanced at his watch—eight-fifteen. Dad would hit the ceiling, and because he’d filled him in on Jocelyn’s insecurity about losing her athletic scholarship and feeling as if she had little right to authority, Lucas decided to step in and give her some back up.
Channeling his father, and avoiding Jocelyn’s questions, he clapped his hands hard enough to make an echo. “Let’s put a move on it. Come on. Practice started fifteen minutes ago.”
Fifteen minutes later, four more teens swaggered in to practice. “That was sick,” the most muscular one said.
“So epic,” the lankiest replied.
“You’re late, guys,” Jocelyn said. “Start your stretching.”
Her comments didn’t register on their too-cool-for-track-practice attitudes. Lucas walked up close to them, and having borrowed his dad’s favorite device, blew the whistle.
“Drop your bags and take laps.” Lucas glanced at his watch. “You’re almost a half hour late, so you four will stay an extra half hour.” If he were still in the military, he would have started the sentence with “ladies.”
The boys stood dumbfounded, kind of like adolescent dinosaurs, waiting for the message to travel from their brains all the way to their legs.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” Lucas said, clapping his hands again. Jock number one nodded to the others. Begrudgingly, they dropped their gym bags and halfheartedly jogged around the track, bickering under their breaths.
After the forty or so teens finished their warm-ups, they gathered at the bleachers and Jocelyn made formal introductions. Lucas scanned the group and easily identified the four major food groups in high school: cheerleading-squad material, battling-the-diet group, Jocks R Us, and, last but not least, “I still haven’t figured out how to work my body” bunch. He had to hand it to his dad—every year he was faced with the same material, yet he’d always managed to pull the team together, find the star athletes, sometimes in the most unlikely kids, turn the rest of the students on to team spirit and good sportsmanship and in the process reel in his fair share of track medals. No easy feat.
When Jocelyn introduced Lucas as Coach Grady’s son, he heard one quiet comment in the vicinity of the jocks. “Figures.”
He suppressed the threatening smile. Dear Old Dad ran a tight ship.
As Jocelyn timed her distance runners, she couldn’t prevent her gaze from drifting toward Lucas. One of the hurdlers had stumbled and twisted her ankle. Without being asked, Lucas had come prepared and had already elevated the runner’s leg and put an ice pack on it. That look of earnest concern blew her away.
She checked her stopwatch. What lap was that? Oh, gosh, she’d gotten distracted and lost track.
She glanced at the stopwatch then back toward Lucas, who was now laughing with a tall, scraggly, redheaded kid. The warmth in her heart doubled when she saw him encourage the boy to give hurdling a try, and to her amazement, the kid wasn’t half-bad.
Lucas glanced in her direction, and their gazes met and held. He nodded. She’d have to settle for the subtle lip twitch he offered instead of a smile, but that was enough to send a marching brigade of chills over her shoulders. She wasn’t sure what it was, but Lucas Grady had It with a capital “I”—and she’d known that since she was six years old.
This was the Lucas she’d always seen. The bighearted guy he’d fought to conceal. She’d never let him get away with putting himself down. Not on her watch.
Before Lucas knew it, the two-hour practice came to an end. He finished wrapping an elastic bandage around the little runner who’d twisted her ankle and sent her home with RICE instructions—rest, ice, compression and elevation. Somewhere along the line, he’d abandoned his everyday thoughts and had become completely engrossed in being outdoors, enjoying the sunshine and coaching track. It felt good.
But as he thought of heading home with no particular plans other than helping out his parents, a huge dreary cavity opened up deep inside. He’d tried meeting one of his high school buddies for a beer one night, but they couldn’t relate to each other anymore. Lucas’s world had expanded to include faraway deserts, death and mayhem and his buddy had finished college and spent most of his time at the bar complaining about not yet finding his dream job. Not once did the guy ask what it had been like to go to war, and Lucas sure as hell wouldn’t bring up the topic. He went home feeling even more alienated—and then he had another crazy dream. Maybe tonight he’d have better luck sleeping.
“You were such a big help today, Lucas,” Jocelyn said, jogging his way. “I can’t thank you enough. I think you really got the runners to buckle down.”
Little Miss Sunshine, acting like he was the greatest gift on earth. Didn’t she get it? He was messed up. Always had been, but even more so now. He didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong anywhere, and he really didn’t want to be forced to be around Jocelyn, the perennial cheerleader.
“No problem.” His jaws locked, and the old and familiar tension in his shoulders returned. “I’ll put the hurdles away, then I’ve got to get back home,” he muttered, feeling as though the leftover ashes from the big fire hovered around him—like that character from Charlie Brown, Pig-Pen, but instead of a cloud of dirt and dust, his was gloom.
“You know, I’m barely holding it together,” she said. “Your dad always works wonders.”
He stopped, turned and gave her his full attention.
“I guess what I’m saying is, I can’t wait for the big guy to get back, but in the meantime, I’m really glad you’re around to help.”
He wanted to ignore her, wanted to disappear. But he knew she was insecure about taking on the job, and from the unruly lot of athletes she’d inherited, she sure as hell could use some back up.
“Why wait for my dad? Why not work your own wonders?”
She pulled in her chin as if the idea were preposterous. After a moment or two of obvious consideration, switching weight from one hip to the other, opening her mouth once or twice as if to speak but nothing coming out, she shrugged. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“There you go.” He winked, turned and, back on task, jogged toward the storage bin where the lanky kid with possibilities waited with the practice hurdles to help put them away.
“I’ll see you Monday at four?” she called out.
“Yup,” he said, over his shoulder.
“Ah, the magnificent smell of formaldehyde,” Jocelyn said to herself, opening up her classroom lab at Whispering Oaks High on Sunday afternoon as the stale, toxic wave hit her nostrils. “Think I’ll leave the door open.”
The empty room stood forlorn, in need of filling up. Rows of student desks seemed eerily vacant. She’d come in to set up for the big anatomy test on Monday. She hadn’t been at all sure she wanted to be the anatomy instructor a year ago when she’d transferred over from her substitute teaching job at Marshfield High. When she’d blown her free-ride athletic scholarship, she transferred to the state college and got her teaching degree in science. Then Whispering Oaks needed an anatomy teacher, so here she was teaching elementary science and college prep anatomy/physiology.
No longer a fill-in for a teacher on maternity leave, but a full-time science teacher, she was track coach, too.
She went about setting up for the test in quiet serenity, random thoughts popping in and out as she did. Yesterday, Lucas had been a natural at coaching. He was young, buff and gorgeous enough to keep the attention of all the girls, yet jock enough to challenge and command respect from the guys. He’d also accidentally discovered the natural talent of redheaded Brian Flaherty. Who knew the kid was a hurdler waiting to be outed?
Jocelyn shook her head. She’d spent far too much time thinking about Lucas since he’d gotten home a week ago, and it hadn’t been that long since she’d broken off her engagement. What a disaster that had turned out to be … She stuck a red-tipped pin into the gastrocnemius muscle of the lab specimen, near the Achilles tendon. The poor stiff cat bore the expression of the famous Edvard Munch painting, The Scream. They all did—all ten of them—in various stages of dissection. Sometimes she preferred biology labs to anatomy. Dissecting frogs wasn’t nearly as grotesque as the cats.
Before Jocelyn realized it, two hours had passed as she painstakingly pinned numbered paper markers inside the formaldehyde-fixed innards of the cats for the midterm anatomy test. The smell had given her a headache, and she still had one cat left to label. Tomorrow morning she’d come in early and place the numbered note cards with the test questions by each pan.
She needed to get things set up for the non-honors basic anatomy class, too. Every year she’d have the students outline themselves on butcher paper, and as they studied each organ, they’d place it inside the body outline where it belonged. The life-size study aid could be rolled up and taken home, too.
Her eyes burned and got teary beneath the mask. If she wasn’t wearing surgical gloves, she’d blow her nose. Being an anatomy teacher might be an unglamorous profession, but it was her job and she gave it her best effort. She’d learned her limits at the university when she couldn’t give one hundred percent to her athletic scholarship and still manage to keep up with the academics. Although it was the hardest decision of her life, she knew that a sports career would be short-lived, whereas her education would last a lifetime. That had to come first.
How many other people at age twenty-seven could say they were content with their jobs and mean it?
But was she really happy, or was she just settling for content?
Why not work your own wonders?
Lucas’s challenge jarred her. She’d been settling for stand-in status with track while subbing for Coach Grady, merely holding things down and waiting for him to get back. Was it because of her painful failure in college? She’d matured now, could focus more. Maybe it was time to own the position, put her name on it.
Work your own wonders.
Yeah, that’s exactly what she’d do … that is, if it was okay with Mr. Grady. Uh, Kieran.
After a few more finishing touches, and meticulous hand washing, she was ready to leave for home. Her parents’ house held a lot more appeal since Lucas had come back last week. If she were lucky, she’d get to see him again today.
Hmm, maybe Beverly needed her hair done…
An hour and a half later, after she’d washed and blow-dried Beverly’s hair while hatching her plan, she knocked on Lucas’s bedroom door with determination.
She needed his help. Honestly.
Minutes later, Lucas glanced down at Jocelyn sprawled out on top of a long sheet of butcher paper on the hardwood floor of the Howards’ family room. She handed him a pencil.
“I need you to trace my body.”
Three seconds ago he’d watched her on all fours with her backside up in the air, while she unrolled and smoothed out the thick brown paper. Now, her long legs lay beneath him in form-fitting jogging shorts. His gaze trailed upward, grateful she’d put on a T-shirt over the black sports bra, which was outlined through the thin white material. One slender arm reached out, extending a black wax pencil to him.
“Outline?”
She smiled up at him, oblivious to the battle she’d ignited between his head and body. Good old Jocelyn, the little girl next door versus the come-hither sex kitten stretched out on butcher paper reaching for him.
“I do this every semester,” she said, sounding like usual but looking anything but. “I used to have Rick help me, but …”
He took the pencil. “Every semester.” A crazy pinch of jealousy over Rick outlining her took him by surprise.
“Yeah. I have every student do the same thing in class. Then, as we learn about each system, we add organs to our ‘bodies.’” She used air quotes. “By the end of the year, they have a great study aid for the final exam.” She bent one knee and casually crossed the other over it, folding her arms across her chest. Maybe she did have a clue because he’d forgotten his manners and had stared at her chest for the past few seconds.
He cleared his throat, forcing his eyes upward to her face. “So where should I start?” His voice sounded foreign as she resumed the position and he dropped to his knees.
“You can start at my head.” She beamed an encouraging smile. She couldn’t possibly know how awkward this felt, not to mention the sexy visions flashing through his mind.
The room became deadly quiet except for the crinkling of butcher paper and his breathing. Their eyes caught for an instant. His fingertips tingled, and he quickly looked away. She finished repositioning herself into the dead man’s pose with legs outstretched and arms at her sides.
Lucas kneeled over her and began to trace, focusing on the work and not the person. Her hair was fine, rich brown and lustrous, with emphasis on the lust. Geez, he’d been watching too many TV commercials since he’d gotten home. Lustrous? Her neck was long, like that of a ballet dancer. The only reason he knew about ballet dancers’ necks was because Mom had talked him into watching Black Swan with them last week. Her shoulders were broader than most women’s, but not manly-broad, definitely not. Hell, she was an athlete, so what did he expect?
Her arms only gave the impression of being thin. Fine muscles overlapped and cut a subtle, sturdy shape that made him want to touch them. Show me what you got. He was careful not to make contact with her skin, only allowing the thick-tipped pencil to do that.
Do not look at her face or into her eyes.
He concentrated on the task at hand.
“I want them to be together,” she said. Her husky voice broke the stretching silence.
“What?” He looked at her face—damn—and into her eyes—crap.
“Anne and Jack. Have you noticed the chemistry between them?” She stared at the ceiling, and he was grateful she didn’t see how closely he examined her mouth as each word rolled out.
He cleared his throat. “I haven’t been around them much.” Realizing he was hovering over her in a lover’s position, he sat back on his haunches. “But I noticed how preoccupied Anne has been. She’s been real touchy whenever anyone brings up Jack’s name.” He went back to outlining her torso, hip and bare-fleshed thigh, wishing for a longer pencil. Anything to avoid touching her skin. “She missed her plane yesterday, but Jack took her to the airport today.”
“Great. Maybe they can trade weekends for a while until they …”
Three quarters of the way down her thigh, his thumb made contact. The surge of electricity shot up his fingers and into his arm. “Sorry.” He quickly traced the safe region of her bony knee. Dimples? Her kneecap had dimples. Had he ever seen cute kneecaps before?
A safe distance from her eyes and steady gaze, he traced down to her ankle and her bare feet. A soft pink pedicure made him smile. What would she do if he ran his fingers over her toes?
“You think they’ll ever get together?”
His little fantasy dissolved. “No way of telling. Anne’s pretty stubborn.” The pencil began its journey up the inside of her leg. Satiny-smooth flesh waited to be traced. He swallowed hard. Three-quarters of the way up her inner thigh, the pencil made a sharp left turn, as if it had a mind of its own, making a saggy square-bottom effect. She didn’t really expect him to go all the way, did she?
He began the descent back to her other knee and foot, taking a second look at the pretty pink nail polish, around and up the outside of her leg, as attractive as the other. She must have realized what she’d asked him to do was torture. Since when had little Jocelyn Howard become a tease?

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