As he watched, she finished the exercise and started to massage her hand, stroking upward. What with only being able to use the one hand, her efforts were ineffectual.

“You’re not getting anywhere.” With a huff, he sat beside her and took over the massage. He tried to apply enough pressure to be therapeutic, but not so much he hurt her. Fuck knew, he had strong hands.

After a minute, the silence registered.

She was staring at him, immobile with terror.

Hell. She’d been in his helicopter. Had lunch with him. Hugged him. He hadn’t thought she was afraid of him any longer.

He stopped. Considered moving away. But no. “I won’t hit you,” he said quietly, returning his attention to the massage. “Or hit on you.”

Her swallow was audible.

“Sorry,” she whispered. A second later, she said in a stronger voice, “I’m sorry. I know that. I just…”

Had a fucking panic attack. Because he was an idiot.

“Want me to stop?”

Her jaw muscles went tight as she fought against her body’s fear. “No. Keep going…please.”

He nodded.

Her fingers were cold. Trembling slightly.

Panic attacks—he’d had his fair share. And he’d just moved right in on her, was treating her the way he would one of his brothers. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have—” And why the fuck had he? He shook his head and glanced at her. “Guess you feel like family.”

Her expression brightened. He wasn’t the only one who valued family, it seemed.

“I’m sorry too. I think I’m doing better and still…this happens.”

“Instincts aren’t in the thinking part of the brain. Makes ’em hard to control.” It’d taken therapy for him to accept that shit.

He concentrated on what he was doing. Her hand was warming up. Relaxing.

“So I’m finding.” The wry humor in her light voice made him look up. Although she was still pale, her lips curled up. A dimple appeared.

Her smiles were coming more often.

As he worked, her hand gradually turned a pretty pink with decreased swelling.

“Done.” He let go, rose, and settled back into his big chair.

Her hand felt better, less like her fingers were fat little sausages, although the massage had made the muscles ache in a different way.

Leaning back, she considered taking Aric home now even if it did mess up his game. But no, if she surrendered to her nerves every time she had a panic attack, she’d turn into a hermit. Or so her counselor had warned.

Fine. Pretending to be comfortable, she glanced around Hawk’s house. And realized she’d never really looked at his place.

Although the structure of the Hermitage houses was identical, each of the brothers had very individual décor.

Bull’s place was warm browns and creams with a massive plushy suede sectional.