Whatever you say, sweet. TJ agreed to the roommate deal-- if only to remove the worry from her eyes. Alyssa was lying. About something. When she lied, she rambled. But he was exhausted in a hundred different ways-- so he didn't much care why she'd lied. Maybe he’d care tomorrow. Then again-- maybe not. He hadn't traveled halfway around the world to get caught up in some bullshit drama with his best friend's sister. He had decisions to make. About his life. How he wanted to spend the rest of it. How to go about making amends with the few friends he had remaining in it.

Like a dimmer switch, TJ could feel his brain fading. Since Alyssa seemed eager to lessen her guilt over spraining his wrist, he took advantage of the opportunity and put her to work.

Without complaint, she righted the tilted umbrella stand and dragged his duffel into the center of the living room. "There's nothing . . . dangerous in here, right?"

He caught her dubious expression before she ventured into the dusty rucksack. "Like a rocket launcher? They don't let us bring those home."

"What about scorpions?"

He stifled a yawn, willing away the fatigue. Ten o'clock in Boston meant he'd been awake nearly thirty-six hours. "The splint should be in the far left zippered pocket." He heard a grunt as the zipper slid. Glancing over his shoulder, he smiled as she wrestled with the over-packed duffel.

"What have you got in here," she muttered.

"Try packing for fourteen months in a warzone. Then we'll talk."

When she bent over to tug with both hands, his breath caught. A perfect, round, wiggling butt met his gaze. Covered in the most amazing, clinging fabric ever invented. A sheen of perspiration gathered at the base of his spine as thoughts of sleep deserted him.

As though sensing his stare, Alyssa whipped around and caught him looking. "Bring the ace bandage with the slats," he directed, hoping she hadn't heard the sudden tension in his voice.

Sapphire eyes flashing with suspicion, she set the items on the table. "What else do you need?"

Grateful he was already seated, the rather obvious evidence of his spying was safely hidden from view. "Can you get the bottle of Jack from the cabinet?" He studiously kept his gaze off her butt when she crossed the room. At least-- he meant to.

"Which cabinet?"

"Uh . . . one more. Yeah-- that one." When she raised up on her toes to reach for the amber bottle, her shirt rose with her, revealing several inches of tantalizing skin. Jeez-- she was tiny. And perfect. Ten years later, she was still the prettiest woman he'd ever met. TJ released a steadying breath as his fatigues tightened uncomfortably.

"Got it." Alyssa paused. "Need a glass?"

"I'm good." Suddenly curious about the last ten years, he searched his memory. He’d received infrequent updates about her-- mostly from Madeline, who’d sent regular care packages, making sure he knew she hadn’t forgotten him. The woman he considered a second mother. Maybe his only mother, now—since he’d walked out on Mama Lou.

To a guy lost in the shuffle of five cousins, his standing out to anyone had been something of a miracle. Not that Mama Lou hadn’t loved him. Somehow, she'd managed to welcome the nephew dumped on her when she already had five of her own.

Uncomfortable where his tired brain drifted, TJ was relieved when she finally set the bottle on the table and pulled out a chair.

"What can I do to help?"

"Okay, this next part is gonna hurt like a bitch.” He took a hit off the bottle of Jack. The smooth, amber liquid stoked a river of heat in his belly. “If you’re the queasy type-”

"I’m fine," she insisted, her voice just this side of stubborn.

He released a calming breath and another, as though he were settling in for a long night on a sand-gritted rooftop, slouched behind his M24 as flickering lanterns winked in the village below. Each mountainous hideout looking much like the last as his team scouted ahead of the caravan. Miles from close air support if it all went to shit. And light years away from where he sat now. "Don't startle or you'll make it worse."

Eyes wide, her throat worked a few times before she nodded. The sooner he splinted his swollen wrist, the sooner he could collapse in bed. But that meant straightening it. If there were any broken bones, he'd find out now. Sucking in a breath, he straightened it with a quick jerk, confirming the swift, sharp pain was not a break. But it still hurt like a bitch. Reaction slithered up his spine in a sweep of shivery needles. A glance at Alyssa confirmed she’d paled, but still observed with macabre fascination.

Her fingers brushed his as he awkwardly slid his arm between the thin, sturdy boards. "Are you sure you should be doing that? Can’t I . . . take you somewhere?"

"I've got it." Gritting his teeth, TJ battled the rush of nausea. But after a decade of military training in suck-it-up, he forged through on autopilot. As he fumbled to wrap the balsa slats, her hands joined his.

"Let me do it."

She bound his throbbing arm, compressing it between the splint. Only when it was safely wrapped, did he expel a breath of relief. He glanced up when she slid the bottle toward him.

"Now I need a drink," she croaked.

Pretty, violet eyes flashed with guilt as she offered him the bottle. He swallowed another measure. Felt it burn down his throat and pool with a lovely glow of heat in the pit of his stomach. "Thanks."

"Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital?"

"That would take too long." TJ was determined to sleep-- no matter the cost. For fourteen months, he'd taken orders—some of them logical; some bordering on idiotic. For the next twenty-six days he'd call his own shots. Meeting Alyssa's gaze across the table, he frowned when he noted the greenish tinge to her skin. "Are you okay?"

She released a shuddering breath. "I finally understand the phrase 'sick with guilt'."

Finished with his wrist, he proceeded to his finger, methodically cleaning the twin bite marks with antiseptic before reaching for a band aid. Again, he felt her gaze. Despite his fatigue, TJ couldn’t resist prodding her. "Did you know the human mouth carries more germs than most animals?"

Her cheeks bloomed. "So, I'm worse than . . . a camel?"

"Your teeth are smaller." He quirked an eyebrow. "But, otherwise, yes."

"I’m sorry," she said for the hundredth time. "If I’d known-"

Her contrite expression caused a trace of remorse. "How could you know I was coming home?" He stifled another volley of yawns. "Only mistake was not calling the cops."

Confused eyes met his. "I thought you were glad I didn't call?"

"What if you hadn’t stopped me? I would’ve trapped you inside your apartment." Raking his good hand through out-of-control hair, TJ felt drunk from lack of sleep. Stringing coherent words together was increasingly difficult. "If my intent had been to hurt you-"

Shrugging slender shoulders, she frowned. "The way you were maneuvering the security chain, you’d be inside before I could get to my phone, so I made a judgment call."

"Which worked-- luckily," he tacked on. His gaze traveled the darkened living room to the foyer. "We should probably put another lock on that door for you."

"You’re forgetting I don’t normally live here," she reminded. "Besides, I know self-defense. If I’d been cornered, I would've taken you out."

"Right . . . all chicks think they know karate."

"Said the man with the sprained wrist," she reminded.

* * *

Teagan's smile was condescending. Over the past two years, Alyssa had exhausted her patience trying to correct other people’s assumptions. Rising from her chair, she hoisted the amber bottle. "Finished with this?"

Nodding toward the cabinets, he extended his good hand. "I'll do it. You can barely reach."

She handed him the bottle, allowing his injured arm a wide berth. Anguish lanced her as she acknowledged his pain-filled eyes. Learning to defend herself had been reassuring. Confidence boosting. Life-altering. But seeing the actual result-- was different than she'd imagined.

"Do you need anything before you turn in?"

"Nope, I’m gonna crash." His red-rimmed eyes held a glimmer of longing. "I haven’t slept in three days. If I don’t surface tomorrow, don't wake me. I’m not dead. "

"Don't worry." Entering Teagan's bedroom would be the last thing she’d attempt.

"I’m not being a jerk." He frowned. "If I’m awakened suddenly, I assume I’m under attack and I come out fighting."

Alyssa nodded, wondering what those weary, gray eyes had seen the past year. Wondered why it would be necessary to awaken prepared to hurt someone. "I’ll try to be quiet."

"When I finally crash, I won’t hear anything for the next twenty-four hours."

Dead on his feet, his glazed expression suggested he was praying she'd stop talking. "We should get to bed."

Despite his exhaustion, his lips quirked in a smile. "Your brother would disagree, but . . . if you say so."

"I meant . . . you know-" Her cheeks heated as she stammered an incoherent response. Ten years hadn't dulled her memory of the incredible body lurking under his faded tee and fatigues. But a decade earlier, he'd been clean-shaven and irresistible. New Teagan seemed to prefer the caveman look. Unfortunately, hulking, bearded giants now made her heart pound with fear-- not interest.

"I'm very familiar with the 'you know' clause," he teased.

Amusement heated the gunmetal gray eyes. Unable to resist, she returned his smile. "I guess I’ll say goodnight."

"I’m right behind you." Turning, he palmed the whiskey in his good hand. Returning the bottle to the shelf gave her a clear shot of a perfectly sculpted backside clad in worn khakis. In a calendar of hot, military bodies, Teagan O’Brien would surely be Captain January.

"You sure you’ll be okay with your wrist?" She blinked over the mental image of perfect, narrow hips. His incredible butt now seared into her retinas.

"I’m a heavy sleeper. I won’t feel a thing."

* * *

Heavy sleeper, his ass. TJ lay on his back, staring at the plaster ceiling he’d helped Matt repair. He should be dead to the world. He hadn’t slept more than a few hours at a time over the past week-- most of them on the military transport he’d hitched a ride on. The handful of ibuprofin he’d downed an hour earlier had finally kicked in, muting the sharp, throbbing pain in his wrist. Yet sleep eluded him.

Like a football playbook, TJ had sketched a dozen ways to make a quick fling with Alyssa work. The trouble was-- every play in the book ended with her brother, Matt. Punching him in the face.

Though he had The Decision looming, the likely probability was he’d return to Afghanistan. The easy-hard decision. Continue doing what he knew. Knowing his luck would eventually run out. The nine IEDs he'd missed by sheer chance over the last six years meant his number had to be coming up. Or-- he could return to civilization. On autopilot, his mind slid away from that possibility. Because it was too vast to contemplate. He could do something different. He could do anything. That was the trouble. An immense sounding word that left him uneasy.

What the hell would he be qualified for after a decade in a warzone? Psy-ops and a masters in dicking with the enemy psyche didn't necessarily translate to the private sector.

It was much easier to think about short term problems-- like getting laid. Relieved to switch gears, he ran through the mission critical getting-laid-op. Only a few weeks in Boston meant little time to relearn the niceties of the civilized world. Hook ups were easy enough to get him through the first few nights. But-- at thirty-five, TJ was now willing to accept a few concessions of age. Patience being one of them. Inane small-talk in a too loud, too smoky, too crowded bar. A different, faceless woman in his bed each night wouldn't cut it anymore. Which was unfortunate, because he still needed the sex part. Badly.

At least-- that's what he was thinking now. Wide awake. Frustrated. Hard. Stroking himself as he imagined bed-wrecking sex with the hot, sexy (but currently comatose) blonde in the next room.

Alyssa was here. They already shared a history—not exactly a good one, but it was a starting point. Despite his dive out the window a decade earlier, the sex had been amazing. She was available . . . he assumed. Tonight, he'd sensed the prickle of awareness. No mistaking that vibe.

TJ's business was human emotion. Predicting behavior. Anticipating responses. He’d observed her carefully. Alyssa wanted to kick him in the balls—but she also wanted him. But unlike his grad school days, two people wanting to get horizontal didn't necessarily mean it happened. He was now smack in the middle of his thirties. The dealing-with-baggage decade. Ten years later, with the certainty he’d bolt on her again-- Allie might not be interested.

Alyssa-- not Allie. Get the damn name right, idiot. The gorgeous, sexy blonde he’d lusted after all semester-- before finally making his move. When it was too late. A decade later, he could still remember the stunned gratitude that swept him as the recipient of her smile. TJ groaned. "You're pathetic."

Arguably, they were consenting adults, but his best friend in the world was her brother. After the axis-shifting night a decade earlier, it had finally made sense why Matt had done his damndest to keep his sister out of the picture. Except for a single night, he'd succeeded. A miscommunication with his friend had led to a mind-blowing night he'd never been able to forget-- nor confess to Matt. A night Alyssa had clearly kept in the vault, too. Otherwise, TJ would've been dead before he'd caught his flight to officer training school two days later.

One thing was certain. No woman could rank higher than his longest friendship. Which meant he might have to find an accommodating stranger after all. As he reached that disappointing conclusion, a sharp cry from the next room had him bolting up in bed.

"What the hell?" Senses throttled open, he swung his legs to the floor. Entering the living room, he scanned for signs of an intruder, but was met with comforting stillness. A slumbering apartment on a quiet floor in his sleeping building.

Until he heard it again. Crying. From her room. The only approach there would be the fire escape—but it started at the second floor. Quite a leap up for someone at street level. He was halfway through the living room before he thought to glance down and confirm he was still wearing pants. Exhaustion and one working arm meant he'd face-planted into bed still wearing them.

His feet padded noiselessly on the cool tile as he drifted through the kitchen to the spare bedroom. Three years earlier, he'd helped Matt renovate the kitchen. He’d managed to string together four weeks of leave-- and spent it rehabbing the brownstone with his friend. It had been one of the best vacations of his life.

Pressing his ear to the bedroom door, he frowned. He could hear her thrashing around. Could hear snuffly whimpers. Was she crying? Should he check on her—just to make sure? “Damned if you do . . .” His sigh exasperated, he turned the knob. Hell if he’d get any sleep otherwise.

She was sprawled in the middle of a queen sized bed that looked downright luxurious. Where the hell had that come from? He was folded up like a damned pretzel on the lumpy double in his room.

Frozen in the doorway, he made a split-second decision. Regardless of the life-altering choices he’d be forced to make over the next few weeks-- before he went wheels-up again, he would plunk down a wad of hazard pay and buy some damned furniture.

"Who’s there?"

Alyssa jerked upright, hair tangled, breath coming in gasps. But it was her eyes that stopped him cold. Huge and afraid . . . almost unseeing as they lanced through him.

"The beard-” She recoiled, slithering to the far side of the bed.

"Lyss-- it’s me." He spoke quietly, his voice lost in her frantic sobs. "It's TJ."

"No-- y-you’re him." Like ice fracturing on a frozen pond, her voice splintered over him. The big bed seemed to swallow her whole. She was so tiny . . . so frightened.

"I don’t want your missiles.” She shook her head. “Stay a-away."

"Alyssa . . . I’m TJ, remember?" Stomach clenched, he released a calming breath. She was still asleep. Possibly still caught in the throes of a dream. Her eyes wide open. He’d read about this sort of nightmare-- but had never witnessed one.

“Lyss, it’s just a dream.” Watching her suffer reminded him of barracks in the days after a firefight. Flashbacks. Nightmares jolting him awake—or the screams of others—each one a grim reminder that the next engagement might be the one that brought on the lasting, waking nightmare of PTSD.

He eased closer to the bed, freezing when she whimpered. Unaware of their surroundings, she clutched the blanket in fisted fingers. “Easy, sweet.” Instinctively, he kept his voice low and monotone. "You’re crying, baby. Let me help you."

"The baby?" She glance around wild-eyed. “Where’s TJ-” She scrambled across the bed.

Hell, he was making it worse. “Lyss—he’s safe.” Tension gripping him, he wasn’t certain how to soothe her—how to bring her back. “Maddie has the baby.”

“Maddie?” Slowly, she blinked and glanced around. “Where am I?”

“You’re in Matt’s apartment.” Recognition flickered as the nightmare dissipated. She inhaled several cleansing breaths.

"Teagan?” Voice watery, she finally sounded awake. “What are you doing here?"

With no time to analyze what had occurred, he was thrown on the defensive. "I heard you crying. You weren't awake-- so I . . . came in."

“I’m not crying,” she whispered, wiping her eyes. The small, preserving action made him smile.

“Are you okay?” He edged closer to the bed when she began shivering. “Why don’t I sit with you a minute?”

She slid to the edge of the bed, the rasp of her gown catching against the sheets. A single flash of tanned leg against the crisp white and his imagination exploded, his groin heating to Defcon 3. TJ glimpsed what he remembered was an incredibly pliable body hidden under the silky nightshirt. Her scent wafted over him, subtle and irresistible. Like flowers. And rain.

“I’m cold.”

The mattress sank under his weight as he sat down. Hesitantly, he offered his arm, instantly regretting the action when she leaned into his side. The last thing he needed was soft, scented skin colliding with his painfully deprived body. “I could get you a blanket?”

“I’m sorry I woke you.”

Her voice muffled into his shoulder. Her breathing still unsteady, she was restless against him. Hyper aware that this was likely the worst idea he’d ever had, he grunted a reassurance. Her bed-head hair right under his nose, TJ forced back the image of him planting his hands in it. When she leaned into his ribcage, he sucked in a breath.

“Are you alright?”

“Great,” he said through gritted teeth. “Did you want to talk about your dream?" Missiles and beards? Discussing nightmares might help him regain his willpower. Because inhaling her perfumed hair was making him drunk. He wanted to down her scent like a shot. And then have another. He wanted to taste it on her skin. Bury his nose in it as he fell asleep. And wake up to it on his pillow.

She startled against him. “I don’t . . . remember.”

She was lying, but at that point, TJ had his own problems. He flinched at the strength of her fingers on his overheated skin. Not good. His forehead clammy with perspiration, he reminded himself not to-

Too late. His overheated brain flashed over-- imagining those hands elsewhere. Shit-- everywhere. Maybe there was a way- A scenario where sex with his best friend's sister didn't end with him losing his teeth. Or his best friend.

"I should let you get back to sleep," he choked out as he untangled himself from her. His body a parched, arid desert devoid of life and hers-- a warm, enticing, thirst-quenching mirage. But Delta rule number one? When you're overrun by enemy forces, the only thing left is retreat.