Leaving my hair loose around my shoulders, I opened the door and stepped out just as he finished a pass down the lawn away from me, turning the mower at the last minute. I must have caught his attention immediately because he looked up from his focus on the grass to gaze at me, and I waved, smiling too wide at someone who wasn’t mine and couldn’t be.

When he didn’t shut off the machine, I made a drinking gesture toward my mouth and he shook his head.

Okay. What was I supposed to do now?

I watched him for a moment, noticing there was something different about him, but I couldn’t figure out what. His lawn mower was bagged, but he had to empty it out. By the time I heard the motor putter to a stop, I had already made it out to the shed to grab a couple of the big, black bags we used for the leaves and opened the gate that led to the front. Dallas was busy taking the bag off the back of the machine when I came up to him.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, telling my eyeballs they better not backstab me right then and there by straying somewhere they had no business going.

“Morning,” he said in that low voice. “Did I wake you?”

“No.” I used my chin to point toward the bag in my hands. “I can hold it with one hand, can you pour and hold the other side of the bag, too?” He nodded and did it, setting the attachment back to the mower while I shook the clippings so they settled at the bottom. “So, can I ask what exactly you’re doing?”

“It’s called mowing a lawn,” he informed me, his attention still centered on the red-painted machine. “I’ve seen you do it before.”

And people thought of me as a smart-ass. “I’m being serious. What are you doing, Professor X? I was planning on laying a guilt trip on the boys so they would do it on their own.”

He eyed me with those golden-brown irises before focusing back on the trash bag in front of him. “I have hair, and your lawn needed mowing. Your hand is fucked. I just got back and don’t have any work scheduled for today.”

“You didn’t have to do anything—”

He stood up to his full height and stared me down. “Accept the help, Diana.”

I blew out a breath and kept watching him, still trying to see why he looked different.

He crossed his arms over his chest, and it took every single ounce of strength I had to not glance at the eagle head. “Is it everyone or just from me?”

Pinching my lips together, I brought my hand to my chest and watched as he glanced at it. I’d swear a tendon in his neck popped. But I told him the truth. “You, mostly. I don’t want to take advantage of you. I’m not shy about asking for things.”

“I didn’t think you knew how to be shy.” He raised an eyebrow. “You’re not taking advantage of me. We talked about this already.”

“Fine, but I don’t want to make you feel weird either.”

His reply was low and steady. “I’ve seen you in your underwear and combed nits out of your hair, baby. I think we’re past that.”

I focused on one thing and one thing only.

Baby?

Me?

I was still thinking about his word choice when he asked, “How’s your hand?”

What hand? There was something wrong with my hand?

“Your burned hand,” he said, raising both his eyebrows, a slight smile playing at his lips.

Jesus Christ. I’d lost it. I swallowed. “Same old. It hurts. I’m taking some pain medication when it gets really bad, but not a lot. I have to rubber band a bag around my hand to shower. I cut myself shaving. I haven’t shampooed my hair in five days. It takes me longer to do everything with this thing, but I’ll live.” Poor and in pain, but it could be worse. “Can I help you with anything?”

“Nope.”

“Really. I can help. I have one good hand, and I’m bored out of my mind. It’s only been a few days, but I don’t know how I’m going to make it being stuck at home.” That was putting it lightly. I’d gone to help my mom at the store she worked at, but only made it three hours before her comments about my intelligence—because who goes into a burning house?—got to be too much and I left.

Those hazel eyes were on me for a couple of seconds before his mouth twitched. His hands went to his hips and I told myself, Don’t fucking look, Diana. Don’t look down.

The question was out of my mouth before I could stop myself. “Are you really patriotic or do you just like eagles?”

His eyebrows went up and with a straight face, he glanced down at his chest before focusing back on me. “My dad had this tattoo on his arm.” Then, like what I’d asked was no big deal, he asked, “You need something to do?”

I nodded, telling myself to let the tattoo go.

“You sure? You’ll only use one hand?”

Why was the first thought that popped into my head a dirty one?

And why did my face turn red as I thought that over?

“Cross my heart.”

Dallas tipped his head to the side. “You didn’t start on Louie’s quarterpipe while I was gone, did you?”

There it was. Another reminder he’d gone somewhere. Hmm. “Nope.”

“Then you can help me build it.”

The “shit” came out of my mouth before I could stop it and he smiled.

“Or I can do it alone.” He paused for all of a second before saying, “If you tell me you can do it by yourself—”