Once inside the bathroom I noticed our phones still charging on the counter. Not that it mattered. The lack of service was frustrating and Christian hadn't felt the need to enforce his cell phone ban since our truce. I'd used my phone twice since last night, texting Bettina to ask about Josh's condition, but it didn't look like they'd gone through. And if by chance they had, I hadn’t received a response from her.

I sighed as I returned my phone to the counter. Glancing at the locked door, I picked up Christian's cell and was both disappointed and relieved that it required a passcode to open it. I wanted to search his contacts for the name tattooed on his arm. Maybe it was better that I didn't know.

After my shower, I headed for the kitchen where I found him sitting at the table, thumbing through a magazine that highlighted businesses in the surrounding area. He was wearing glasses and I marveled at how sexy he looked in them. I avoided his gaze as he watched me discard the empty container of Mallomars which I'd hastily shoved down my throat before my shower.

"You must've been starving," he observed.

"I was," I answered a little too brusquely. Turning to face him I leaned back against the kitchen island. Trying to avoid direct eye contact, I watched as he removed what obviously were reading glasses and laid them on the table. I stared at the dark frames, wracking my brain for a memory of Christian wearing glasses. Nothing surfaced.

I heard the scrape of his chair and my eyes cut to his. Slapping the magazine on the table he stated, "Looks like there's a bar and grill about an hour outside of Pumpkin Rest."

I nodded.

"I know you're probably not hungry now, but I was thinking if you'd like to go there maybe we could hit up a store on the way. I saw something on the news about a freak snowstorm that might blow in. I didn't bring a heavy jacket and wasn’t sure if you had anything warm to wear just in case."

"I have some warm things in the laundry basket. And freak snowstorms aren't uncommon here. I've heard people talk about a blizzard that hit close to spring in the early nineties.”

We decided to take my car since the back of his truck was still loaded down with the homeowner’s recreational toys. I watched as he went to the spot where he'd hidden the keys he'd swiped from me that first day and got in the driver's side of my SUV.

We hadn’t gone far when he gruffly announced, "Doesn't look like there's much of a choice for radio stations."

"I have some CDs I compiled." I pressed play on the car stereo. I saw a half smile when “The Weight” by The Band came on.

"We have the same taste in music," he said matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, I guess we grew up listening to the same songs as our parents," I told his profile, taking notice of his smooth dark skin and strong jaw. My eyes wandered lower to his right arm and the name I could see so prominently displayed across his muscular bicep thanks to the sleeveless tee he wore.

"You said it's about an hour to the restaurant?" I questioned.

"Yeah, looks like it."

"Maybe we could pass the time by trying to get reacquainted." The purpose behind my suggestion wasn't as noble as it sounded. I was being nosy. I wanted to know the reason behind those prison tattoos and the one in particular.

"Okay, how do you wanna do this?"

"I'll tell you something about me. And you tell me something about you that might relate to it. We could pretend it's a sort of game."

His eyes shifted to mine and he answered roughly, "You're trying to see what, if anything, we have in common."

"Maybe, yeah. It can't hurt to establish some commonalities. There's no denying we don't know each other anymore." I thought I saw his jaw tighten, but ignored it and pressed on. "We already know we like the same kind of music. What could it hurt?" His face softened as he watched the road.

"I'll go first." Without waiting I stated, "I'm a history major, but might go back to study archaeology after I get my degree. I recently discovered I have a fascination with artifacts and I'm particularly interested in digging up and studying old bones." I looked at him expectantly. He didn't say anything so I added, "Do you have any interest in history or archaeology?"

"Yeah. I guess so."

I sat up straight and turned my body to face his, the seat belt straining against my chest. "Really?" I prompted, my voice sounding hopeful. "What part?”

"The bones part," he said.

"You've dug up other people's bones? You have some experience with this?"

"Not digging up bones," he replied. "Breaking people's bones."

"You are not funny!" I barked through gritted teeth as I returned to my original position, crossing my arms over my chest.

"I'm not trying to be funny," he informed me without any hint of remorse. "It's your game. I'm doing what you said. Trying to find something related to what you told me about yourself."

I looked out the window so he wouldn't see me smile. He was right. Snapping my head around I said to him, "Maybe it's a stupid game."

He gave me a quick glance and offered, "There are other ways to get to know each other again."

I blinked, trying to ignore the warmth that was spreading through my chest and wondering what he meant. I didn't have to wait long.

"Maybe we could just talk. This time, I'll start. You told me you recognized my ink. And when I asked you how you would know about prison ink you told me I would be surprised. So tell me. How did you recognize that my tattoos were done in prison?”

A shiver of panic made its way down my back. How much could I say without telling him about Grizz? As far as Christian knew, I'd never met my biological father.

"My stepfather, James, did some time in prison. It's one of the reasons he and my mother wanted to make a clean break from Florida."

"He must've been one badass accountant," he said, his brows narrowed skeptically as he gazed out over the steering wheel.

"I guess he was," I replied, rubbing the side of my nose absentmindedly. Without letting him speak I blurted, "Your turn. What did you do to end up in prison?"

"Aggravated battery," he said, his voice even. "They tried to get me on attempted murder, but as much as I wanted to kill the guy, having him live with a constant reminder of his crime was my primary goal."

"Aggravated battery of who?" I asked, my eyes wide as saucers. "And what had he done?"

I noticed his knuckles were turning white as he grasped the steering wheel. I had a fleeting thought about whether or not I'd ever heard of anyone breaking a steering wheel with their bare hands.

"Who, Christian?" I probed.

Christian shot me a dark look, his eyes blazing with something primitive and wild.

"Nick Rosman. The piece of shit who tried to rape you seven years ago."

The only sound in the car was my loud gasp.