“You’re the only person I’ve allowed to drive it.” I grip the padded armrest as he takes a sharp turn. “I bought it with money my grandfather left me when he passed. He would have loved it. He was a big car collector. Every weekend he would take me for a ride in a different car. My dad hated him. He was furious when he found out Grandpa left everything to me. He got Mom to contest the will, but the judge threw the whole thing out of court. I would never have been able to move to America without that money. He took care of me, even when he was gone.”

    “Sounds like my kinda guy.” He turns into Rockridge, and I direct him to a quiet street off Claremont Avenue and up to a small Southwestern-style duplex, brightly painted in cream and ochre.

    Jack parks in my little garage and then follows me outside and up the steps, where my giant ball of white fluff, Clarice, is waiting impatiently.

    “Didn’t think you were a cat person,” he says.

    “I didn’t think I was either because I wasn’t allowed to have a pet growing up, but then I met Clarice.” I bend down to give her a pat. “I found her on my driveway just after I moved in. She’d been abused and abandoned and looked like she’d had a rough time on the street. She’s got a bit of a temper, and she gets annoyed when I’m late, so watch yourself.”

    Clarice arches and hisses when Jack reaches for her, and he backs off while I open the door.

    “Oh, and she doesn’t like men,” I add.

    “Yeah, picked that up.” Jack waits for Clarice to saunter into the house before he steps inside. “I always had dogs,” he says. “We had a lot of land, so they had lots of room to run. Wanted a dog when I came to California, but I didn’t think it was fair when I was living in an apartment. One day, I’m gonna have a house with a big yard, and then I’ll get my dogs. Big ones. But good with kids.”

    “You want kids?” I close the door, and Clarice rubs up against me and purrs.

    “I used to. Thought about it a lot when I was with Avery. Now I don’t think I’d be able to make that kind of commitment to someone.”

    “She burned you really bad, didn’t she?” I reach around him to hang up my gym bag, bringing us so close I get heated all over again.

    “Yeah, she did.”

    Jack follows me into the kitchen. Clarice noses her dish, and I avoid the awkward silence by chastising her for her bad behavior. I feed her and turn to see Jack leaning against the door, watching me.

    “You help everyone.” His face softens. “Serve documents for Amanda, save an ornery cat, fix Cora and Blade Saw up, help out the newbies in jiu-jitsu class by giving them tips. Who helps you?”

    “I don’t need help.” I turn away, avoiding his scrutiny. “I learned early on to look after myself. But I like to help out people when I can because I know what it’s like to need help and have no one there to give it.”

    “Everyone needs help.” His gaze drops to my thighs, and I cringe inside. He thinks I need help to stop the cutting. Is that why he’s here? He thinks I’m going to hurt myself tonight?

    “I totally lucked out with this place.” I lead him into the living room as an excuse to change the topic. “They had just renovated, and I was driving by when they were putting out the for-sale sign. I had a bit of money left over from my grandpa’s estate, and the money from the lawsuit against Vetch Retch, so I took it on the spot.”

    I love my little place with its small corner kitchen, dark wood cabinets, white granite counters, and polished wood floors. A small dining table surrounded by four red plastic chairs takes up the space by the window. The rest of the open-plan area is dominated by a giant gray sectional that I have positioned in front of the television and decorated with accent cushions and a thick, red rug.

    “The red is very you.” He gestures to the bright red lights hanging in the kitchen, which match the three cherry-red chairs at the counter.

    “Yeah. The red sold me. I like color.”

    We talk about the gym and his training and his move into professional life while I make coffee, and then I turn on the television and excuse myself to take a quick shower, which proves to be a challenge because of the bandages. I slip into shorts and a T-shirt, comb my fingers through my damp hair, and join Jack on the couch.

    “What are we watching?”

    “Soccer.” He reaches past me for the remote, and his arm brushes against mine. I look up to see him staring at me, his eyes taking in every detail of my face, the damp tendrils of my hair, the V of my shirt…

    “You clean up nice.”

    “You mean I look better when I’m not soaked in sweat and covered in gravel, dirt, and blood?” I want to touch him, feel him against me. I want to curl into his body like I did in the first aid room and feel safe all over again.

    “I mean you’re a beautiful woman.” He strokes his fingers along my jaw, caressing my cheek. My eyes flutter closed, and I lean into the warmth of his palm. I don’t remember the last time I felt like this, like I’m alive, like I can be myself because he already knows my secret.

    “So beautiful,” he whispers.

    I melt into his touch, the deep, low rumble of his voice, and his hot, hard body on the couch beside me.

    He brushes the damp hair away from my face and dips his head, brushing his cheek against mine. His breath is warm on my ear, his five-o’clock shadow rough on my skin. I inch toward him, leaning up for more.

    “Beautiful lips.” His mouth brushes against mine, and he slides his tongue between the seam of my lips. I open for him, and he kisses me. Soft and sweet. Slow and gentle. So unlike the man from the club or the fighter from Redemption. This is Jack as I have never seen him before. He tastes of coffee and desire, and I want to drink him down.

    He sweeps my mouth, kisses me deeper, his hands cupping my face, holding me still. I slide my hands around his neck, burning, floating, desperate to be free.