Nothing was more heart-stoppingly stunning than Sophie Vasquez in a state of determination. It was what made her so good at breaking him down. When that determination zeroed in on him, he didn’t stand a chance.

“He donated his bone marrow to me,” she eventually said, for once without her usual smile. “I, um…well…I had leukemia for a really long time. For most of my adolescence, in fact.”

“Wait. You’re the miracle girl?”

She winced.

“I’m sorry—that’s what he used to call her. The girl. You, I mean. That must have been…” He covered his flustered response by doing some rapid calculations in his head. He’d been working with Oscar a few years by that time, no longer a volunteer or summer contract worker, but part of the year-round team. He’d been a bit of a cocky shit too, but most of the people who joined the crew were. Plunging into blazing infernos required a certain level of brazenness. “What—ten, twelve years ago?”

“Eleven, give or take a few months.” She shifted from one foot to another, still looking unaccountably distressed about the whole thing. “It’s why my family is so overprotective of me. I was sick for so long they got into the habit of taking care of me and never learned how to stop.”

He wasn’t sure why she looked so uncomfortable—of the two of them, he was obviously the biggest ass. Here he was, joking about the deprivations in store for her on a fully funded state parkland when she’d gone through so much worse. Hell, even his two diabetic comas seemed paltry in comparison.

Foot, meet mouth. Harrison Parks, meet speaking before you think. It was a tale as old as time.

“Shit, Sophie,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

She transformed almost before his eyes. How a woman as small as she was could suddenly seem larger-than-life was beyond him, but that was what she did. Her eyes flashed a dangerous warning and she vibrated with some unknown energy.

“Don’t you dare say that to me,” she warned, that energy sparking out her eyes. “Not ever again, not if you want to keep standing.”

He didn’t laugh. The idea of this five-foot-two pixie forcing him to the ground was ludicrous in the extreme, but he didn’t doubt that she could do it. She’d already flattened him so many times—and in so many different ways.

“I’m sorr—” he began before her grunt of exasperation stopped him short.

“Don’t pity me,” she said. “I only told you because I wanted you to understand. Why I’m here, why I’m determined to see this thing through no matter what.”

Pity had been the last thing on his mind, but her meaning hit him like a punch to the gut, preventing him from defending himself the way he wanted to.