“Calm down,” she told herself.

Nothing had happened, really. Nothing serious. Something could have, but she’d managed to get away.

Suddenly, she remembered the weight crashing down on her, the air whooshing from her lungs. Her heart started racing again.

Calm down.

She grabbed a towel and patted her face dry, then went into the bedroom and snagged her blouse off the bed. She took it into the utility room, where she dropped it into the basket for dry cleaning. On her way back through the living room she stopped to pick up the collection of flip-flops scattered around the floor.

The doorbell rang.

“Crap!”

How had he made it so fast? She scurried into the bedroom, dumped everything in the closet, and grabbed a UT Law sweatshirt. Pulling it over her head, she tugged loose her bun and hurriedly combed her fingers through her hair as she went to the door. A sweatshirt and miniskirt was a strange combination, but who cared?

She checked the peephole before opening the door.

“Hi,” she said, trying for upbeat.

Brandon looked her over, taking in every last detail, it seemed, down to her bare feet and her hot-pink toenails.

“Hi.”

She stepped back to let him in, then closed the door and flipped the lock.

He gazed down at her, and there it was again—that feeling of relief. Just seeing him in her foyer settled her nerves.

“You got here fast,” she said.

“I was on my way home.” He nodded at her hand. “How’s the wrist?”

“Not too bad.”

He frowned. “Did you ice it?”

“I was about to.” She turned to walk into the kitchen. “Would you like a beer?” she asked over her shoulder.

“I’m good.”

“You sure? I’m having one.” She suddenly had a bone-deep need for something to take the edge off.

Leigh grabbed a Shiner from the fridge and set it on the counter, then opened the freezer and scooped a handful of ice. She pulled open a drawer.

“Damn it,” she said.

“What?”

“No baggies.”

Brandon stepped around her and opened the freezer again. He took out a bag of frozen strawberries that she used for smoothies.

“Oh. Good idea.” She dumped the ice in the sink.

“Peas work better,” he said, handing her the bag.

“Why?”

“They’re smaller. The bag conforms to the injury better.” He leaned against the counter and watched as she pressed the frozen strawberries to her wrist.

“Been in a few fights, I take it?”

“A few.”

He held her gaze, and tension simmered between them. Brandon Reynolds was in her kitchen. At midnight. Not something she would have predicted when she got up this morning.

He eased closer—just a shift of his weight, really—and gazed down at her with those brown-black eyes. The bag against her wrist was cold, but she felt warm all over, and she was all too aware of her bedroom only a few feet away.