He’d been with her just about every step of the way since her doctor had approved PT. He’d seen her flat on the mats at his wellness center, writhing in agony as he dug into her scar tissue to loosen it up. He’d seen her fighting her way through the pain as she worked the weights and stretches he’d given her. He’d seen her stand up out of her wheelchair and take her first steps again.

All of it had moved him.

Deeply.

It was why he did what he did. He never got tired of being such an integral part of someone’s recovery.

But now, right this very minute, watching her do a triumphant dance, which included a very carefully orchestrated hip boogie and body shake that had his eyes going straight to her sweet ass, made his day.

“Nicely done,” he said.

She slid him a look, and he had no idea if it was the morning huskiness of his voice or something else, but she blinked in surprise at him.

And then turned left instead of heading to his truck. She walked to the middle of the grass in her yard and …

Lay down on her back. Despite the fact that the air was chilled and the ground even colder, she stared up at the sky and smiled as the rain hit her.

He stared down at his feet, blew out a breath, and tossed her bags into his truck. Then he joined her, sprawling out on his back on the—oh, perfect—wet grass next to her. Their arms touched and she reached for his hand, squeezing his fingers. “Perfect start to the day, right?”

The wet grass was seeping through his clothes as drops of rain splashed right in his eye. They had a long drive ahead of them, but all he could feel was her fingers in his, and then there was her smile.

Brighter than the sun that hadn’t come out in weeks.

The front door of the house across the street opened. An older woman in a thick bathrobe and curlers peered out. “What the hell are you crazy kids doing?” she yelled.

Darcy laughed her musical laugh. “Being crazy kids,” she yelled back.

The woman muttered something and slammed her door.

“She’ll call the cops,” Darcy said. “And poor Kel will have to come out and investigate.”

Kel was the local sheriff and a friend of AJ’s. “We’re not doing anything illegal,” he said. “Stupid, yes. Illegal, no.”

Darcy shrugged. “Mrs. Willingham likes to cover all her bases when it comes to me.” She blew out a sigh and sat up. “We’ve got eight point five minutes to get out of here.”

A few minutes later they were on the highway. “I’m not even going to mention how disturbing it is that you know the exact response time for the police to get to your house.”

Darcy leaned forward, peering out at the long stretch of narrow two-lane road ahead of them. “Where are we going? This isn’t the way.”

“We have to take back roads today. Turns out they’re repaving the main and the detour they’ve set isn’t the best way to get there.”

“Back roads?” she asked. “Isn’t that going to take longer?”

“Yeah.”

Her silence spoke volumes on her opinion of the matter.

“We there yet?” she asked five minutes later.

“Funny.”

She squeezed the excess water out of her hair and stripped out of her sweater, which left her in a ribbed neon pink The Who tank.

To drown out the silence—and to keep himself from staring at her skimpy top—AJ turned on the radio. Rap blared through the cab.

Darcy leaned forward and changed the station. Vintage rock filled the cab. With a smile, she began to sing along to Van Halen.

He flicked the station back to Eminem.

“My fillings are going to fall right out of my head,” she said and changed the station again. Bubblegum pop this time.

She sent him an evil smile that he knew better than to trust. Plus, he was pretty sure it was Justin Bieber, and he hated himself for even knowing that. “And I’m going to need fillings just from listening to this,” he said. “Use your iPod.”

“I’m doing you a favor,” she reminded him. “The favoree picks the tunes.”

“I’m driving. Driver picks the tunes.”

“Fine,” she said. “Pull over. I’ll drive.”

He pulled over to the side of the highway so fast that she squeaked in surprise. Biting her lower lip, she made a show of looking over her shoulder. “You’re going to get a ticket.”

“You wanted to drive,” he said. “Well worth a ticket.”

Silence, which he let fill the interior of the truck because they both knew one undisputable fact—she hadn’t driven on any highway since her accident. She was cleared to drive and she drove around town when she had to, but she’d made every excuse not to go further. She was a woman who leapt without looking first, who always took a dare, who thrived on challenges, and he loved that about her. He missed that about her. He removed his seat belt and reached for hers.

“You’re an asshole,” she said softly and clutched her seat belt to her.

“Much as I’d love to listen to you whisper endearments in my ear, we’re on a tight schedule,” he said. “You’ve changed your mind, then?”

Ignoring the question, she cranked up the radio again. This time Poison blared out, singing “Talk Dirty to Me.”

Shaking his head, he pulled back onto the highway.

“You know,” she said, a loaded fifteen minutes of silence later, “most people baby me through all this stuff and my new milestones. Not you.”