“What happened?” she asked as she reached gently for his right hand. The knuckles on his index and middle fingers were cut open, the skin snarly and scratched up.

“My fist met a streetlamp. They did not agree,” he said, chuffing out a humorless laugh.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said, immediately segueing into Nurse Casey mode, as her brother had called it when they were kids. Though Jack was older, she was usually the one who’d tended to his scrapes and bruises from the baseball games he’d played in. Grasping Nate’s other hand, she led him past the doorman, through the lobby, up the lift and to his apartment with its view of Central Park. She parked her hands on his shoulders, pushing him down on his couch.

“Stay here.”

She headed for the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, and rooted around for Band-Aids. She tried to shield her eyes from the big box of condoms. True, he’d used them with her. But he had the large stash because he didn’t like being tied down. He operated free and easy. Played the field. He probably hadn’t said a word about wanting more with her because he preferred what they had—hot sex, good friendship, and no commitment.

A weed took root in her belly, twisting insidiously around her organs. She forced herself to focus on the task at hand. She found peroxide in the vanity, grabbed a washcloth, wetted it, snagged some Band-Aids, and returned to him on the couch. He was sunk down in the plush gray cushion, his eyes closed.

“Give me your hand,” she said softly, and he held out his bruised fingers. But he didn’t open his eyes. As she cleaned up the cuts, him wincing a few times, she asked what had happened.

“I really don’t want to talk about it,” he muttered.

That statement lodged like a brick in her chest. How were they ever going to be together if he couldn’t talk about the simplest things? She’d never been one to shy away from tough topics. Hell, she’d pushed her big, broody brother to open up. She could certainly do the same with Nate. “Hmm. Let me play a guessing game. I’m guessing it happened when you went to Joanna’s gallery?”

He tapped his finger to his nose in answer. At least they were getting somewhere with that small admission.

“And I take it that it didn’t go well?”

“It went fine. I gave the sculpture to her husband,” Nate bit out in a snarl, his eyes snapping open.

“Ugh. That must have sucked to see him,” Casey said, squeezing his wrist gently. But even as she sympathized with him, the weed twisted tighter in her gut with the reminder—the reminder that came in the tortured look on his face, and the acid in his tone—that he was still so easily affected by the past. How could he move forward with her when he hadn’t yet moved on?

“Sucked is putting it mildly. That guy made a chump out of me for a year. A whole fucking year. Hell, it’s not like Joanna and I have kids. Or joint custody of a dog. There’s no reason I should have to see her, let alone him. But there he was. In the fucking middle of it all, making small talk about how awesome—” he stopped to sketch air quotes, “—she is.”