He’d simply gone on doing the same things he always did. He worked for Marcus O’Bannion at the Cincinnati Ledger, the newspaper Marcus had inherited from his grandfather. Diesel was their IT guy, using his online skills partly to support investigations for their reporting, and partly to dig up extortable dirt on lowlifes who preyed on defenseless women and children. He and Marcus continued to build houses for those in need through the organization Marcus had founded, modeled on Habitat for Humanity. He continued to coach kids’ sports. He continued being a good friend to them all, their entire circle of friends.

All except me. Because they both knew that he wanted to be more than friends. And so do I. God help me, so do I.

And because she wanted him so damn badly, because he was such a good person, she’d stepped back, intent on letting him live his life. Without me.

It was for the best.

Lifting her head, she pasted a professional smile on her face and followed Scarlett into the waiting room, turning to her nurse as she passed. “Jenny, can you get the room ready for the next patient?”

“Sure, Dani.” Jenny’s eyes flicked to the doorway, where Diesel stood with an older woman and two boys, brothers from the look of them. The little one looked warily hopeful. The older one appeared sullen and ready to bolt. “Mr. Kennedy called about ten minutes ago. Asked if you were on duty today. The older boy is deaf.”

“Ah. Makes sense.” Dani nodded, hoping like hell her mask held up. Because Diesel was looking at her longingly, hiding nothing. Everything he felt—and wanted—was right there in his gaze. He was an open book. Hardcover. Each page clean and white.

And I’m a tattered comic book, she thought derisively. With every page encrypted so completely that even the NSA couldn’t make a lick of sense out of a single word.

Shoving all thoughts aside, she focused on the sullen teenager at Diesel’s side. “Hi,” she signed. “I’m Dr. Dani.”

The teenager nodded stiffly. “Michael Rowland,” he spelled.

“Your name sign?” she asked, and signed hers—her right hand in the letter “D,” following the sweep of the white streak in the front of her otherwise black hair. There since birth, it was her most distinctive feature.

Michael signed his—left hand in an “M,” right hand “kicking” up into it.

She smiled at him. “So you love soccer.”

“He does,” the little boy said, signing simultaneously. “Me, too. I’m on Coach Diesel’s team.”

She lifted her eyes to Diesel, steeling herself for the now-familiar look in his eyes. “Coach Diesel. It’s always a pleasure to see you.”

He nodded once. “And you, Dr. Dani. This is my assistant coach, Mrs. Moody. She’s a retired nurse.”