“Why?” He’s Jack freaking Hawke. Why does he need me?

He throws a look back at Jack, who’s walked back to the den. “Look, he’s a stand-up guy. Misunderstood a little. Plus, I overheard how you showed Gideon the door. Ballbuster.” He pauses, his expression hardening. “You won’t . . . hurt him, right?”

Hurt him? What on earth? “Of course not.”

“I knew it.” He grins, his face lighting up. “He likes you, you know. Asked me twenty questions after you left the penthouse. Wanted to know everything you said. He saw your note in the bathroom. He laughed for a good five minutes. Said you were a firecracker.”

And then he’s out the door.

When I head back to the den, Jack’s already on the phone ordering our food, giving instructions for the driver. I roam over the den, my shoes already kicked off, taking in the modern furnishings, black leather sofas, sleek armchairs, heavy glass sculptures that adorn end tables—things I barely noticed the night I was here. No photos or thriller books on the bookshelf. Not one single cheesy mug or magnet in the kitchen, either, or I would have remembered it because I cataloged everything when I cooked. All I found were the basics of a nice kitchen: stainless steel pots and pans, expensive white china.

Nothing meaningful.

Cold and sterile.

I stand at the huge floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlook downtown Nashville. Beautiful view. And close to the stadium—only a block away. Convenient.

From the reflection in the glass, I watch as Jack approaches me, still bare chested.

“Food will be here soon.” His voice is quiet, as if he senses my unease now that we’re alone.

“Why did we come to the penthouse instead of where you live?” I turn around to face him, and his face is unsmiling, a little frown there.

“Why would I?”

“Because you’d be more comfortable there? This isn’t a home. There are no pictures of you or trophies. And don’t you live with Devon? I’m sure he would have helped you get situated instead of calling Quinn.”

“Right.”

“You don’t trust me?” I cock my head, not angry but just curious. I understand now his need for privacy based on what I’ve read, but to think of living like this, being so defensive with every single person you meet—it must be exhausting.

He eases down on the couch and pats the seat next to him. “Come on; sit down.”

I sit, keeping about three feet between us, keeping my hands clasped in my lap. “Tell me about that scar on your shoulder.”

He frowns.

Yeah, I saw that bundle of raised skin, about the size of a nickel, when he stripped for the trainer. Somehow I’d missed it before.

“It looks like a bullet wound.” I smirk at his surprised glance. “Besides being the mayor of Daisy, my daddy was a doctor. He loved to entertain me with medical photos. I’ve seen it all. Knife wounds, gunshots, broken legs, even a shattered wrist once—that was weird.” I grimace. “He expected me to go to med school, but I didn’t.”

“You’re smart enough.”

“Maybe.”

“Hmm.” He gives me a bemused look. “Maybe you should get a closer look at my scar, Dr. Riley.” He scoots over closer, his leg pressed against mine. The heat from his skin emanates like a furnace.

I touch his shoulder, tracing my finger lightly over the raised skin. “It’s not your throwing shoulder, because you’re right handed, which is good.”

“Yes.” He’s watching me carefully, eyes searching my face. “But how do you know it’s a bullet wound?”

“Well, first off, I’m southern, duh, and everyone in Daisy deer hunts or owns a firearm. I personally don’t like guns, but I’ve been around them all my life. Even had a date once in a deer stand. Worst time ever. It was early and cold and high up in a tree, and all I wanted to do was go home. I’m guessing a handgun at close range. It looks like it might have hit your brachial plexus, that bundle of nerves that controls arm function. Have you had surgery on it? While people think gunshots to the shoulder aren’t life threatening, they can damage blood vessels and cause severe pain—especially if there are fragments still floating around in your muscles; am I right?”

“Hmm.”

“And I bet you were younger when it happened, based on how it’s faded.”

“Elena . . .” He frowns.

He’s retreating. Not telling me everything.

I drop my hand from his warm skin, swallowing. I shouldn’t be touching him, even to check out his injury . . . but . . .

“I get it. You’re private.”

He lets out a deep exhale. “It’s not that pretty of a story.”

“Scars usually aren’t.”

“I don’t like to talk about it.”

“Because you think I’m going to run to the National Enquirer and tell them?”

He just shakes his head and grabs the remote, clicking on a show with Asian characters, and settles back deep into the couch, propping his feet up on the glass coffee table. “Okay, fine, it was a bullet. I got shot when I was a kid.”

“Oh.”

A flush darkens his face, and I see the vulnerability that cloaks him, even as he tries to shutter his face.

And normally, I’d let it go, but I can’t. I want to know more about Jack, more than just the legendary quarterback.

“Were you in some kind of gang? Did you defend some girl’s honor in high school?”

He stares blankly at the TV. “Why is it so important?”

“Because it tells me who you are.”

His sharp gaze turns to me. “You first. Who’s Topher?”

“Devon didn’t tell you?”

He shakes his head.

“He’s my gay roommate.”

“The one who fixed you up with Greg Zimmerman, famous weatherman. He’s tall and dark haired, by the way. I’m much better looking.”

I arch a brow.

“I looked Greg up. I just wanted to know who my competition was. Are you going to go out with him? A redo?”

“Are you jealous?”

“I figure that’s your type.”

I stare down at my clasped hands.

There are several moments of silence between us, and I feel him watching me intently, dissecting me, making a decision as a long sigh comes from him. “Elena . . . the man my mom lived with shot me.”

My heart drops as my gaze clings to his. “Jack, that’s terrible.”

He nods, his eyes seeming to drift back to a memory. “He was a piece of shit. He hit her. Slapped me around. Even came close to drowning me once in the lake behind our house. Claimed he was teaching me to swim, but the asshole held me underwater. It’s why I still can’t even swim.”

Horror washes over me. “Jack—”

“No, let me finish. She loved me, but she loved him more, you know? Even though he drank and had a vile temper. She couldn’t quit him. One day I came home from school, and she had a busted nose, and I snapped. He had me against the wall, and I thought it was over. My mom pulled a gun on him . . . he took it away from her.”

Dread fills me.

He takes an uneven breath. “He killed her, then shot me.”

My hand takes his, threading our fingers together.

He looks down in surprise, then back at me. “You didn’t know any of this?”

I shake my head, my heart heavy. “No.”

He sighs. “It’s in Sophia’s book, although she embellished quite a bit.”

“I did download it, but I haven’t gotten far. It’s crap.”

His thumb caresses the upper part of my hand. “I—I got the gun away from him and killed him. I was fourteen. The police had been to our house enough to know that it was self-defense, but that’s how I got my scar. And according to Sophia, that’s why I’m a drunk and an abuser—just like him. I used to party hard . . .” His voice trails off. “I was just full of fire then and had all this money. I don’t even know who that kid was. Like Aiden, maybe. Rash and invincible and arrogant as hell.”

I smile. “You’re still arrogant.”

He laughs, and the tension from his story eases from the air.

“Thank you for telling me.”

He gives me a long look. “Hmm, you’re easy to talk to.”

I glance at the TV, nerves flying. “Didn’t know you liked K-dramas.”

“Yeah, I’ve been waiting for this stupid guy to kiss this chick for about ten episodes, and if something doesn’t happen soon, I’m writing an email to the producers.”

“It’s subtitled, and it’s a romance? Wow.”

He takes in my open mouth. “I won’t judge you for eating a pound of bread when we met, and you don’t judge me for my K-dramas.”

“Not judging. Who is who, and what is going on?”

He points at the TV. “It’s called Once I Saw You. That guy is Lee, and he’s a badass who loves to fight and argue with everyone. He’s totally misunderstood. She’s Dan-i. They met when he spilled a soda down her dress; then she slapped him in the face, and now he can’t stop chasing her around campus.”

“It’s a college romance?” I can’t keep the incredulity out of my voice.

“It’s good! The feelings are intense. I’m invested.”