“Wouldn’t know about that.”

She punched in Meg’s number and kept the call brief. “I’m fine.” “Not sure what I’m going to do.” “Rather not say.” “Tell my folks.” And finally, “I’ve got to go.”

Over the years, she and Meg had talked about so many things, but she couldn’t do that now. Fortunately, Meg seemed preoccupied and didn’t press.

It wasn’t even nine o’clock when she hung up. She had nothing to read. Nothing to do. When she’d returned from her honeymoon, she’d planned to start work on the writing project about Nealy that her father was spearheading, but she couldn’t concentrate on anything like that now, and she definitely couldn’t think about the lobbying work she intended to resume in the fall.

She moved to the far side of the unoccupied bed and pushed the pillows against the wobbly headboard. The truck show finally ended. She jumped as the springs squeaked next to her. Panda grabbed some of his things and disappeared into the bathroom. She got up to look for his phone but couldn’t find it. It must still be in his pocket.

The shower went on. She hadn’t noticed him buying pajamas either. Viper, the biker girl she wished she could be, would take something like that in stride, but the idea of a naked Panda made Lucy nervous.

Sleep offered an escape from her enforced confinement. She rearranged the covers and sandwiched her head between the pillows. As she told herself to go to sleep, she heard the bathroom door open. Once again, she thought about how much Sandy would have loved Panda. He was swarthy, surly, and dense. Guys like Panda explained how her mother had ended up with two daughters by different fathers.

Sandy’s vague memories of Lucy’s sperm donor had included the words “stoned frat boy.” Tracy’s jerk of a father had died in the same car accident that had killed Sandy.

A hand curled around her shoulder. She shot up, the pillow falling off her head. “What?”

He stood over her, wearing nothing but a splash of shower water and a clean pair of jeans. Her heart pounded. His bare chest was rock hard—too hard. He hadn’t bothered to fasten the snap on his jeans, and they barely clung to his hip bones. She saw a flat abdomen, a narrow arrow of dark hair, and a sizable bulge.

He rubbed his thumb on her shoulder. “So … You want to get it on or what?”

She jerked back. “No.”

“You’ve been acting like you do.”

“I have not!”

He ran the flat of his hand over one pectoral and glanced toward the TV. “Just as well, I guess.”

The crazy part of her wanted to know why it was “just as well.” She clenched her teeth.