“Into town?”

Micki sat on Mom’s bench, seriously paralyzed by Captain America asking her out.

Or maybe this was a sympathy thing to get her out of the house and away from the stress of the evening.

Did it matter? Either way, she wanted to go. Quite badly. Be normal for a while. Whatever normal might be.

Gage shook his head, laughing a little. “Yes, into town. But, hey, if you'd rather sit out here by yourself…”

“Yes. No. I mean—oy!” She laughed at herself. “I don’t know.”

“You’re funny, Micki. Anyway, I wouldn’t mind the company.”

Her chest slamming, Micki stood. “Well, Mr. All-American, I wouldn’t either.”

In town, Micki strolled beside Gage under a canopy of Christmas lights while ducking around the growing crowd on Main Street. Her cousin, Sheriff Maggie, had barricaded the block to motor traffic, and a solid wall of people stretched from one side to the other.

All they needed was snow and Steele Ridge would be a holiday wonderland.

Pausing in front of La Belle Style, Micki peered in the window where Evie, Brynne, and another young woman dealt with customers. “They're busy.”

“Yeah. Grif keeps coming up with ideas to increase foot traffic in town. He’s pretty good at it and the business owners are all over it.”

Brynne spotted the two of them at the window and waved. While she had her attention, Micki jabbed her finger at the gray cashmere V-neck sweater she wore under her jacket and received a double thumbs up for her choice.

Hours ago, Brynne had talked her into the sweater. At the time it felt way too classic. Cashmere? Seriously? But now that she had it on, it made her feel, what?

Grownup.

Feminine.

Pretty?

All of the above. And why not?

Brynne went back to her customer, and Gage and Micki moved on. “So,” she said. “It’s Thanksgiving weekend and you’re here rather than in Iowa. Why is that?”

He shrugged. “We have a lot to do here. Training center opens February first.”

Please. For every holiday she’d spent away from her home, she’d come up with a new reason she couldn’t make it back. Everything from a burgeoning sinus infection, too much work, couldn’t afford the flight, to . . . whatever. She’d used them all and the entire time, she’d known, down deep, that they’d never believed any of it. “Not buying it. All I’ve wanted for years was to spend a holiday with my family. And from what I saw with you mediating between your mom and dad, it seems like you’re close to them.”

“Just because I didn’t go home for a holiday doesn’t mean I don't miss them.”

One thing Micki understood, better than most, was secrets. Gage was hiding something and she was pretty sure it had something to do with those dizzy spells.

She wouldn’t pressure him, though. Bottom line? Even heroes hid things. “I’m not bugging you about it—”

“Not much.”

She smacked his arm. “But you’ve been nice to me. If you want to talk, I’m here.”

He halted, right in the middle of the sidewalk, and hooked on to her elbow. “Shit.”

“What is it?”

“Cherlyn. Twelve o’clock.”

The hand on her elbow moved to her back, his fingers gliding up her spine and sending a happy zing to parts of her body that had definitely not experienced any recent happy zings. Yowza, yowza, yowza.

“Um, what are you doing?”

He leaned in, got close to her ear, his warm breath sending you go, girl! alerts to her extremely neglected private parts.

“Roll with me here.”

Oh, she’d roll with him.

His fingers continued their climb until he reached her shoulder, where he casually draped that big hand and pulled her closer.

Whatever Gage had going on with Cherlyn, he clearly wanted the woman to believe he and Micki were playing House. Unable to resist, she reached up, linked her fingers with his, hanging on as they strolled.

“Gage Barber!”

Micki followed the voice, found a redhead who could be Cherlyn coming toward them, but Micki hadn’t seen her since high school. Back then, Cherlyn’s hair had been sandy blond and she’d worn heavy eye makeup. Her hair had changed, but the makeup hadn’t and Cherlyn, sadly, resembled a trashy thirty-two-year-old grappling with—and losing—her fading youth.

“Hey, Cherlyn,” Gage said, keeping his hand on Micki’s shoulder.

Cherlyn turned her icy blue eyes on Micki. “And is this Micki Steele? I’d know you anywhere.”

Micki wished she could say the same. “Hi, Cherlyn. How are you?”

“I’m good.” Her eyes went to Gage’s hand, then snapped back to Micki. “Are you visiting?”

“Sort of.” She gazed lovingly up at Gage. “I think I’ll stay a while. Maybe settle at home again.”

“Well,” she drawled, “you Steeles always did move quick.”

Gage coughed and put his free hand in front of his mouth, turning away to hide the laugh. Apparently, he was unaccustomed to cats.

“Well,” Micki mimicked, still gazing up at Gage, “when we see something we want, we don’t dawdle.”

The strum of a guitar streamed from speakers at the end of the block. Wanting to be rid of Cherlyn and have Captain America to herself, Micki patted Gage’s hand. “Let’s head over and listen to the music. Cherlyn, I guess I’ll see you around town. You take care now.”

Micki saved his ass.

Small-town living sometimes created awkward situations, and Cherlyn had become a full-blown man-eater. Hell, he'd run out of polite ways to turn her down. Growing up, he’d perfected the art of riding the line between accommodating versus total asshole, but this challenged him.

With Cherlyn, as much as he didn’t want to, he might have to nudge into total asshole territory. The woman would not let up. If this had happened last year, his Special Forces buddies, guys who had stupid theories on women, would’ve told him to just do her and get it over with. The thought of that bunch of dumb-asses, him included, sitting around shooting the shit made him laugh, but the punch of loss was there. He didn’t spend a lot of time lamenting his injuries or questioning the sudden directional change of his life. Why bother? Nothing would change and he’d still not be fit for duty. Still, he didn’t mind admitting he missed his friends.

Micki bumped him with her elbow as they walked. “What’s funny?”

“I was thinking about the guys in my unit. And, by the way, thank you.”

Still with his arm around her shoulders, he squeezed her a wee bit closer. Really, he should take his mitts off of Reid’s sister. He’d been in this town long enough to know that tongues would be wagging. As soon as word got back to the Steeles, they’d close ranks and expect answers on his intentions.

Which, at the moment, were far from pure.

Micki—the girl who didn’t smile a lot—hit him with the trademark all-flash-and-glory Steele smile. That smile morphed her into a combination of Miss Joan, Jonah, and Reid. All in one. He saw bits of each of them in her—Jonah’s eyes, Reid’s carved face, Miss Joan’s nose. When Micki smiled all of it came together in one fantastic package that made the extremely male parts of him roar.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “It’s so odd to see some of these people now.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “I still picture them ten years ago. Cherlyn used to be…” She paused, thought about it a sec. “…softer. The girl next door. I don’t see that now.”

“From what I hear, she’s had a rough few years. Her ex-husband worked her over pretty good. Word is he was abusive.”

“That’s a shame. But men can be jerks. Present company excluded.”

A loud pop sounded—behind the building— and sent a warning blast straight to Gage’s brain. He whipped around, dragging Micki closer, and an immediate whoosh rocked him. The street and the crowd swayed, then did a loop and he held his free hand out.

Focal point.

He locked on the first stationary thing he spotted, the now-lit Christmas tree, and let his overactive brain adjust.

Pop, pop. Pop. Three more went off and Micki gripped his forearm. “It’s okay. Firecrackers.”

Damned idiot kids. The Christmas tree anchored him and the spinning slowly subsided, but he’d almost fallen over in front of Micki.

He straightened up and forced out a laugh.

Yeah, he’d just blow this off. Minimize it. “I’m good,” he said. “Moved too fast.”

“That happens a lot, huh?”

“Not that much.” He nudged his chin toward the tree, ignoring the post-whirl softness in his knees.

“You know,” she said, strolling beside him, “I’m working on a software project.”

Uh, okay. Could he get that lucky with a subject change? “Tell me about it.”

“It’s been in development for over a year, but I’ve really put some energy into it these last few months.”

“What kind of software?”

“Educational. If I’ve done it right, it’ll help people with ADD to focus.”

Slick one. And, no, he hadn’t gotten lucky with the subject change. He knew exactly where this was going. “You should ask Jonah about licensing.”

“I will. When I finish it. The interesting part is all the research I’ve done. The brain is a fascinating thing.”

Shit.

“I’ve heard that.”

Now she stopped walking and peered up at him. The streetlamp illuminated tiny specks of green in her hazel eyes, giving them an un-Micki softness that caused his body to lock up. Total paralysis.

“I have files and files and files on brain research. In fact, one of the websites I stumbled onto caught my interest.”

“Why’s that?”

“It talked about traumatic brain injuries.”

To the left of the Christmas tree, the singer Grif had hired was doing a decent job with a Keith Urban song and Gage pulled his eyes from Micki, breaking the way-too-revealing eye contact. He pointed at the singer. “He’s pretty good, this guy.”

“He is. You have one, don’t you? A TBI.”

Now what, Ace? Leave it to Micki Steele to come right out and ask him. No one before had. Sure, Reid suspected. You don’t spend that much time with a person and not notice changes. The mother of all telltales, at least for Gage, was the speed with which he processed things. The dizzy spells and lack of concentration Gage could, to a certain extent, hide. The processing thing? No chance.

“I don’t—”

“Please don’t lie to me,” she said. “I may keep secrets, but I haven’t lied to you. About anything.”

She had him there.

Admitting his injury to her, rather than her brother, his employer and more than that, his friend, somehow didn’t wash. If he had to admit it to someone, it should be Reid.

His extended silence must have clued her in to his dilemma, because she stepped back and held her hands up. “I’m sorry. I’m getting too personal. I shouldn't assume—”

Before she retreated another step, because Micki Steele, no doubt, was a runner, he wrapped his hand around hers. “I’ve been up in your business. You’re entitled.”

She glanced down at their joined hands, then squeezed his. “I didn’t mean to pry. I thought, if you did have a TBI, maybe you could look at the software and tell me what you think. It’s mainly memory exercises, putting things in order, that type of thing.”

Man-oh-man. Brilliant. She’d turned this around on him, making it seem like he’d be helping her rather than the other way around.

A Steele to her core.

The singer switched to Little Big Town's “Bring It On Home” and Micki whirled to face him. “Ooh. I love this song.”

A couple of teenagers crowded in and she sidestepped, winding up half in front of him, her back brushing against his chest. She peeped over her shoulder at him, those damned green flecks in her eyes once again flashing at him. “Can you see?”

I sure can. “I can see just fine.”

The crowd continued to fill in, nudging her closer and even after she’d dinged him with the TBI discussion, he didn’t mind. For months, his fear was that the injury had made him less of a man. Made him weak. With Micki, the old Gage, the go-to guy, started to bust free.

Of all the people who actually had the balls to confront him about his injury, it wound up being screwed-up Micki Steele. Go figure.

He stood for a second, listening to the lyrics, thinking about having someone to bring his troubles to. Something he didn’t have. Had never had. Instead, everyone brought him their problems, conditioning him to believe that was how it should be.

God. How the hell did that happen? Micki turned and faced him, the front of her body flush against him and pressed way too close for his own personal comfort.

“I love this song,” she said.

He grinned. “You said that.”

She grinned back. “It’s very romantic, wouldn’t you say?”

“Couldn’t agree more.”

“Then, maybe you could kiss me?”