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My phone buzzed with a text from Crim. Dinner tomorrow? I want to hear how the job’s going.

I stared at the message until the screen went dark, then pressed the button to light it up again.

If I had dinner with my brother, I could ask him about the picnic. About why Brashe had shut me down when I’d been sure he’d been interested. Crim had been there. He’d watched the whole thing from the table, scowling like he always did when any of his teammates looked at me for longer than three seconds.

He’d know.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

The cursor blinked at me. Waiting.

If I said no, I’d spend tomorrow night in my condo with Marzipan and a growing list of questions I couldn’t answer. I’d spent ten months building a version of Brashe in my head, brick by careful brick, and now that version was falling apart, I didn’t know what to do with the pieces.

If I said yes, I’d have to sit across from Crim and pretend I was asking casually. Crim would see right through me. He always did.

I’d rather eat grass.

But I needed to know.

My fingers moved before I could talk myself out of it. Sure. Your place or mine?

Mine. I’ll cook. Six, but you can come early if you want.

Okay, see you then.

I set the phone face down on the desk.

Brashe’s chart was still open on my tablet. I should close it. Move on to the next patient, the next file, the next task that would let me pretend the last hour hadn’t happened.

Instead, I tried to figure out how I could ask my brother about the man I’d spent ten months hating.

Without admitting that maybe I’d gotten it all wrong.

CHAPTER NINE

BRASHE

Iarrived at the arena early and sat in my truck.

The parking lot was almost empty, and the sky still clung to that pale gray that came before real daylight. My hands were locked on the steering wheel, my hip throbbing with a dull ache I’d been ignoring since I woke up.

Her car was already here, a silver sedan. I’d noticed it yesterday. And the day before. I was keeping track of when she arrived now, which was fucked up, but I couldn’t stop myself from doing it.

Seven-fifteen. Every morning.

I should go home, ice my hip, and do the stretches she’d given me. Instead, I sat in my truck and stared at her car like it would give me answers.

This was bad.

I was supposed to be keeping my distance. Show up for treatment, follow her instructions, and stay professional. That was the plan.

Except the plan was failing because I couldn’t stop noticing things.

She tucked her hair behind her ear when she was concentrating. She chewed on the cap of her pen when she was reviewing a chart. And she arrived at seven fifteen every morning and carried a coffee cup that said World’s Okayest Doctor in bold letters.

I checked the clock on my dash. Seven forty.

Twenty minutes early. Again.