Much to Summer’s shock, Chase asked if she minded spending the night at his place again. It was late. He was tired and had an early meeting in the city. Since she’d figured he would dump her off like last week’s takeout as soon as humanly possible, she eagerly agreed.

Would they actually sleep together in his bed? Whoa, too much to anticipate. But still, it was possible.

The ride home went about as well as she’d expected. Chase fiddled with the radio, with the to-go cup of coffee he bought on the way, with the folded papers in the ashtray. He couldn’t seem to settle. Since his attempts to be casual amused her, she folded her gloved hands primly in her lap and hummed under her breath after pleasantly refusing his offer for coffee or a late night snack. She nearly said she was horny again just to tease him, then decided that would be skirting too close to the truth.

“Can you stop that?” he snapped, making her pop open her eyes—she’d been almost asleep—and gaze at him in confusion in the wavering beams of light from oncoming traffic. They were almost to Chase’s building. “It’s really annoying.”

“What?”

“You know damn well what. Stop humming. I get that you enjoyed yourself. You don’t have to be smug about it.”

She tried to stifle her laughter, but it was no use. “No? Well, I stand corrected then. Suppose I’ll sit here and stew like you.” She fixed a pout on her face and hunched over. “Better?”

He picked up his coffee and slapped open the top. “Yes. Thank you.”

A few minutes later they walked into his apartment. She tugged off her coat and tossed it on the couch. “I’m going to take a shower before bed, okay?”

No answer. She turned around and realized the room was empty. Fabulous. Clearly Chase had gotten more spooked than she’d thought.

She glanced up as he came down the hall with a stack of bedding in his arms. “Oh hell no. I’m not sleeping out here. You invited me over, I’m not getting guest accommodations.” She walked over to him and poked him in his formidable chest. “I’m your lover now, remember?”

If he tightened his mouth any more, he would look like he’d swallowed a lemon whole. “Having sex once doesn’t mean we’re lovers. Technically.”

“Merriam-Webster would beg to differ, and so would I. I’m not sleeping out here. You can’t make me.”

The slightest hint of a smile lifted his lips. “Fine, squirt, where do you want to sleep? And only sleep,” he stressed before she could pounce on him for calling her squirt. He hadn’t used that dreaded name since high school and she’d be damned if he’d resurrect bad habits now.

“Your bed.”

He jerked a shoulder and headed down the hall. “As you wish. But I need to get up early, so don’t cover hog. I have to get some actual sleep.” Yet again he overemphasized that word like she was some sort of middle of the night sex creeper. The jerk.

Rather than continue to argue, she went into his bathroom and shut the door. Very softly, like a mature adult. She wasn’t going to have a tantrum.

She also wasn’t going to glower at her reflection while she stripped and tried to figure out why he found it so easy to dismiss her after such earth-rocking sex. At least on her end. And his too, she was almost positive, even if he would never admit it.

Soaping and shampooing and standing under brutally hot water for the better part of an hour eased some of her annoyance, though none of her frustration. She got out, wrapped herself in a giant plush towel that smelled of citrus and opened the door.

To Chase.

Instead of commenting on her state of near-nudity, he peered over her shoulder at the clothes-strewn floor. “Are you incapable of picking up after yourself? Or not using all the hot water?” He waved a hand at the steam that flowed out of the bathroom.

Cocking her head, she gave him a bright smile. “Nope.” She let the towel fall before sidling past him—with full body contact, of course.

She marched into his bedroom and yanked open a dresser drawer. The obnoxious ass was going to get it. Just as soon as she sorted through all the neat piles of boxers and shorts to find a T-shirt.

Finding a suitable choice, she pulled it out and tugged it over her head. The hem fell to above her knees. Perfect. She wouldn’t accost anyone with the unseemly sight of her upper thighs.

God, and he called her church girl? She’d seen priests who behaved less prudishly than Chase was at the moment.

The floorboards creaked near the door and she whirled, prepared to do battle. “Look, Dixon, we fucked. I know it traumatized you, but can we act like adults? I won’t try to maul you in your sleep, I promise.”

She didn’t expect him to laugh or to drag his hands through his hair. His wet hair. How had he managed to take a shower in under three minutes flat?

Slowly, her gaze drifted from his water-sprinkled shoulders to his ripped torso and down to the towel precariously hitched on his hips. Suddenly she wasn’t so irritated anymore. It was hard to be mad when facing more than six feet of pure, damp lusciousness.

And eight or nine inches of that were particularly memorable.

It was only then that she realized his mouth was moving. Whoops. “Sorry, what did you say?”

His lips twitched as he gestured toward the bed. “Sit down for a second. Please,” he added when she hesitated.

She climbed the steps to the bed and perched on the edge of the firm mattress—the bed was immaculately made once again—and tugged his shirt down until she was sufficiently covered. He blinked, obviously just realizing she’d borrowed his clothes. “That’s mine.”

“Yes, Sherlock. I don’t usually wear Daggers shirts. Only on special occasions.” Smirking, she patted the bed. “C’mon, sit. Then we’ll get some sleep so you’ll be ready for your early appointment. How early in the morning is it?”

“Eight.” He sat, giving her a moment to appreciate the colorful playing card tattoo on his left shoulder blade before he shifted awkwardly toward her. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. It affects you, so I shouldn’t keep it from you any longer. Tonight’s show proved that to me.” He adjusted the knot of his towel, not looking at her. Making her worry because he wouldn’t. “I’m seeing a doctor tomorrow morning. He doesn’t normally take Sunday patients, but he’s doing me a favor.”

“Oh God.” He cut his gaze to hers and she bit her lip. Great. She sucked at handling emotionally sensitive situations. “I mean, okay. Um, yes. Thank you for sharing.” She turned away to pull at the comforter. She’d crawl onto her side of the bed, roll over and let the poor terminal man sleep. “Uh, good night then.”

Yet again he laughed. The sound was so foreign that she looked back at him, sure she was recalling happier memories of a simpler time. The Chase she knew now hardly ever laughed so freely. “Aren’t you going to ask what’s wrong?”

“No. As long as it’s not a sexually transmitted disease, it’s not my business.” The light in his eyes flickered before fading completely. She groaned and shut her own. “I’m going to stop talking permanently. I can’t say anything right.”

He took her hand and threaded their fingers together. The sensation of his callused palm rubbing over hers startled her eyes right back open, but he didn’t appear to notice her staring. “Us starting up anything would be a mistake for a number of reasons, not the least of which is my physical situation. I hope you can understand.”

“Well, since I didn’t know a thing about your health until just now, no, I didn’t.” She waited a beat and tried to calm her racing pulse. Odds were good he wasn’t dying. She hoped. “And actually, no, I don’t understand. I won’t until you tell me what’s going on. Otherwise I’ll have to point out you already did start something with me. You did, Chase, not vice versa.”

“You were crying.”

“So you had to give me a sex-cookie to make me feel better?”

His laughter made her smile. God, she loved that sound. It was like summer days and making love—fine, fucking—and blue raspberry cotton candy all rolled into one. “No. I’m saying I wasn’t thinking all that clearly. Add in the leftover adrenaline rush from seeing that dickwad throw a glass at you earlier and I was off my game.”

“He didn’t throw it at me. He threw it on stage. Because that’s what drunk people do.” Only once the words were out did she remember she was talking to a member of AA. God, she needed to sleep. Forever. “I didn’t mean—I meant—”

The fingers around hers squeezed. “I know. That’s why I don’t drink anymore. That, and other reasons.” His exhale reminded her of air steadily leaking out of a tire. “You’re beautiful and so talented and—”

“And you’re not interested in having sex with me again.” She nodded briskly. “I understand.”

“It’s not that simple. We’re friends.”

“Friends can’t have sex?”

He continued as if she’d never spoken. “I work for you.”

Not that again. “No money has ever changed hands between us. I could pay you—and I fully intend to—but you haven’t let me yet. Besides, I didn’t really want to hire you. You basically forced me to. Not that I’m saying I disagree about the whole security thing,” she added, unwilling to get into that same old fight.

“I’m…injured.” His shoulders slumped and for the first time she could remember, genuine fatigue lurked in his voice. “I stood there tonight and couldn’t concentrate on keeping you safe because I was so hard for you that I couldn’t think straight. Do you have any idea at all what your singing does to me?”

She had nothing to say to that, nothing at all. Her shock was so absolute that it froze her vocal cords. Only the warmth flowing up from her chest could combat her sudden deep freeze.

He liked her voice. Thought she had talent. Maybe one day he’d even believe in her dreams. Maybe then he’d start going after his own again.

“And if that wasn’t enough, my stupid fucking arm fails at the worst possible times. I never know when it’s going to happen. Usually I’m okay, but all it would take is one bad moment and I could risk someone who matters to me.”

“Me?” she managed.

He slanted her a look. “I’m your bodyguard.”

“You’re my friend first, and my lover second.” At his derisive snort, she cupped his cheek with her free hand. “We’re lovers now. You can’t pretend otherwise.”

“I’m not pretending anything. I’m saying it was a one-time thing. It has to be. For your sake,” he added.

“Because you’re the bad boy of the major league?” She shook her head, letting her hand drop from his face. She knew it was a lost cause. He wouldn’t take her comfort yet, if ever. “Sorry to rub your bat raw, but I think I can handle anything you dish out. In fact, I’m sure of it.”

“I never sleep with the same woman twice.”

“Then you’re overdue, aren’t you?” she asked lightly, unwilling to allow her churning emotions to creep into her tone. That little factoid wasn’t true. It couldn’t be, could it?

He sighed. “I’d like you to talk to my…partner in the agency. Temporary partner, at least. Not sure how it’s gonna go long-term. The bodyguard agency,” he added when she gazed at him blankly. “His name is Jason Wilder. He’s new to the field too, but we have some—”

“Jason Wilder?” Her voice rose. “Jax Wilder?”

“You remember Jax?”

“Sure I do. He was your best friend.” She grinned and slugged Chase lightly in the arm, then immediately rubbed it. She didn’t know which arm he’d injured. “Sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“No, it’s my left elbow, not my right. Pretty sure I can still handle a girl punch, anyway,” he said drily.

“Ass. So Jax’s working with you in your little bodyguard thing, huh? That’s awesome. So what are you going to call it? Deuce and Jax? You know, like Turner and Hooch? Or better yet, Wild Deuce. Or…”

“Little bodyguard thing? Thanks, ace.” He paused. “Deuces Wild.”

“Yeah. I was getting there.” She frowned and let her gaze drop to his left arm. She’d tried to talk her way around and through her worry for him, but she’d be popping antacids by the end of the night if she didn’t address the topic. “What happened to your arm?”

“Typical pitcher’s injury. Overuse, not enough stretching. Getting older.”

“Huh, you, a defeatist.” He started to release her hand, but she clamped tighter around his fingers. “Never would’ve figured on that.”

He cursed under his breath. “Defeatist? I nearly dropped you tonight in that dressing room. That would’ve been memorable, right? So instead of trying to hang on, I got between your legs.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “Hell of a consolation prize.”

“Here I thought you just liked being there.”

Chase brushed his mouth over her knuckles, and her heart threatened to burst out of her chest. “Liked? Try loved.” He gave her that smug little grin that by turns infuriated and aroused her. Sometimes simultaneously. “Never knew how much I’d enjoy being with a commanding woman.”

Better not to discuss her commands right now, considering she was already starting to get warm all over from the memory. “Are you doing PT?”

“I have. I will again. Though I don’t see the point. It’s not working. I can take NSAIDs out the wazoo and stretch until my eyes cross and I still don’t know when my elbow’s going to fuck me over.” He shook his head. “At this point, either I live with it or I have surgery. The risks are good with the surgery, but there are no guarantees. Some guys still don’t get back on a mound, you just don’t hear about them as much.”

“Do you know anyone who didn’t?” she asked softly.

“Yeah. I do. Damn good pitcher too. He didn’t have the additional nerve damage I do either. And the rehabilitation is extensive. We’re talking months I can’t try to get back on a team. I may end up having to walk away from the game whatever road I choose.”

“But surgery could get you back on the field? Maybe even better than ever?”

“I’m a free agent, Summer. No guarantees,” he repeated, finally releasing her hand. This time she let him. He reclined on the mattress and threw an arm over his eyes. The towel gaped, nudging him ever closer to indecency, but somehow she refrained from remarking on it. Or staring.

Much.

“What is guaranteed in life? Nothing. So if PT’s not getting the job done, you try the surgery. What’s the worst that could happen?” Worry edged back into her voice, no matter how hard she tried to keep it out. “Could the surgery leave you worse off?”

“It could. The odds are small, but they’re there. Or it could take me longer to come back from it than they think, and by the time I’m back in fighting shape, no team will look at me.”

She scoffed. “Big time Deuce Dixon, forgotten that easily? No fucking way.” She rushed on, not giving him time to argue. “You could get better. Those are the odds you need to focus on. If you’re in pain, what option do you have? Do you really want to live like that?” She pushed at his rock hard thigh and smothered an appreciative sigh. Someday she’d get a stack of coins to check out the whole bouncing quarter theory. She’d start with his tight as hell butt, then move on to his entire body. “Do you really want to have to resort to oral sex when a good fuck will do?”

He dropped his arm and opened one eye balefully. “Resort? Oh, church girl, you disappoint me. Besides, as I recall, you were concerned you couldn’t…take me otherwise.”

“So I’ll get a dildo. A big one.” She shrugged it off, knowing full well the chances of them having sex often enough to warrant her worrying about his size were slim to fuhgeddaboutit.

His chuckle made her sigh inwardly. She didn’t want to get off-topic. This was a serious conversation and she had genuine concerns about his health and wellbeing. But from the amusement playing around his mouth, they were done discussing it.

She gave in and climbed on top of him, playfully straddling his waist. She slid her palms up his still damp chest and started singing “I Love Rock and Roll” in a husky, sleepy voice that wouldn’t win any awards—other than his slow, sexy grin that thrilled her more than any Grammy.

“Oh, and just so you know, you didn’t disappoint me,” she murmured, keeping her face completely sober until he poked her in the ribs and made her dissolve into giggles.

He rolled her on her back, and she found herself staring up at him, brown hair messy, mouth soft with a smile, while his hard, heavy body ranged over hers. The towel opened more and the hardest, heaviest part of him pressed against her bare thigh, eliciting a moan she couldn’t hide.

“Sleep,” he murmured, tickling her again, more gently this time.

“Okay.” Disappointment weighed down the assent, making him chuckle. “Thank you for telling me. Though I’m kind of amazed you did, big stoic guy that you are.”

“I didn’t want to, God knows. But your safety could be compromised if I didn’t come clean, and I won’t have that on my conscience too. You deserved the truth.” Soft fingertips stroked her cheek. “You deserve so much more than what I did tonight. A dressing room in some crappy club…” He trailed off and shut his eyes as if the thought pained him.

Well, bullshit to that. Screw keeping her language clean. She’d moved past that when he’d nailed her on her dressing room table. She had bigger problems—like him thinking she hadn’t loved every second of being with him. Wherever, whenever. However.

Rather than say that though, she chose a question with at least a passing chance of a positive response. “Do you want me to come with you to the doctor?”

He didn’t answer for so long that she turned her face away. Obviously she’d overstepped. One-time lovers didn’t rate as companions for doctor’s visits. She knew that, but she’d thought that maybe since they were friends, it would be different. Guess not.

“Why would you want to?” He shifted away, taking his side of the bed. He’d given her pillows, but not himself. “I’ll be fine. You can sleep in. I’ll take you back home after my appointment.” He turned off the light.

End of conversation. End of them.

She faked a big yawn and rolled over to face the opposite wall. The gulf between their backs felt about as big—and cold—as the Adriatic Sea, but hell if she knew how to close the gap. “Okay. Sleep well.” She pressed her cheek into one of her pillows and forced out the rest. “Good luck tomorrow.”

If he replied, she didn’t hear it before she fell asleep.

Chase woke to the sound of crying.

It wasn’t morning yet. Judging from the darkness of the sky outside the window, they had a couple hours yet. He leaned up on an elbow, then swiftly realized that wasn’t a good idea as pain streaked up his arm. Fucking hell. He rolled on his back and stared at Summer, the movement of her shoulders beneath the covers stunning him into inaction. So much for thinking he’d been dreaming about her crying.

Was this another bad dream? Or was she actually awake?

Only one way to find out.

Carefully, he shook her shoulder and swallowed his instinctive desire to bundle her up in his arms. Since when did he have instincts like that? It had to be because it was Summer. His little sister’s best friend, who happened to be wearing his T-shirt and smelled like him and shifted into his embrace without a word.

She was soft, so soft. And warm. He held her because he didn’t know what else to do. She hadn’t stopped crying and the tears soaked his chest, each of them striking with the force of an anvil.

Had he done this? God, he hoped not. If he’d fucked things up even worse for her, he’d never forgive himself.

Her hands crept over his shoulders and wrapped around his neck and he rocked her, closing his eyes and pressing his face into silky hair scented with his minty shampoo.

A long while later, her sobs quieted and she slipped back into sleep. He stroked her back and stared into the darkness, wondering what demons followed her into her dreams.

If they had the same faces as his.

He didn’t let go of her until it was time to get ready for his appointment. Dr. Jensen was delaying a trip to discuss his case, and the good physician remained hopeful that with the right combination of medication and PT, Chase could avoid surgery. It wasn’t going under the knife that made him nervous. The chance of never playing again—no matter how remote—and that avenue possibly closing forever…until yesterday, he hadn’t been ready to make that choice. Now he was closer.

Being a bodyguard was something to keep him busy. He could handle the muscle end of it when his arm cooperated, and it gave him a focus other than the alcohol he wasn’t drinking and the women he wasn’t screwing. But if he didn’t get his elbow situation handled, he was no use to anyone.

Especially Summer.

He glanced back at the bed. Thick waves of dark hair fell across the mattress and her forehead peeked out from under the comforter. He’d given her a couple of pillows and one was under her head, the other clenched tightly in her grasp under the sheets.

She was better off holding on to that brick of feathers and foam than him. After the previous evening, hopefully she’d come to that realization on her own. Taking her in a dressing room like some baseball groupie was inexcusable. Whatever his reasons, he’d been flat-out wrong. She wasn’t just some cute singer chick he happened to be guarding.

Now he’d gone so far as to taint those he cared about with his reckless behavior, and he’d be damned if he dragged her down into the cesspool of his life.

Hell, Cass would kill him when she’d found out what he’d done. In this case, he’d hand her the knife.

But they could move on from here. They’d both scratched their itches and everything would return to normal. To ensure that, he’d call Jax and set things into motion.

While his ex-best friend was protecting her, Chase would take the steps he needed to in his own life. Like returning to AA meetings, and this time, actually going inside instead of turning around at the door. The groups he’d found weren’t the problem. He was. And he needed to discuss surgery as a real, viable option. She’d been right. It was time to admit he couldn’t live like this anymore.

It was also time he backed away from Summer—for good.