Setting everything on the sink, he turned to look at the bathroom. It was like something out of those old videos, he thought. The clunky oval tub, with its single awkward-looking shower head sticking out of the wall. He would start filing it all away. Who could tell, maybe he’d write a book when he got home.

Of more immediate importance was figuring out how to operate the shower. Above the lip of the tub were three round white knobs. One was marked H, another C, and the middle was graced with an arrow. Cal scowled at them. He could certainly figure out that they meant Hot and Cold, but it was a far cry from the individual temperature settings he was accustomed to. There would be no stepping inside and telling the computerized unit he wanted ninety-eight degrees at a mist. It was fend-for-yourself.

He scalded himself first, then froze, then scalded himself again before he and the shower began to understand each other. Once it was running smoothly he could appreciate the feel of hot water beating down on his skin. He found a bottle marked Shampoo, took a moment to be amused by the packaging, then dumped some in his hand.

It smelled like Libby.

Almost immediately his stomach muscles tightened, and a wave of desire flowed over him, as hot as the water on his back. That was odd. Baffled, he continued to stare down at the pool of shampoo. Attraction had always been easy—simple, basic. But this was painful. He pressed a hand to his stomach and waited for it to pass. But it persisted.

It probably had to do with the accident. That was what he told himself, and what he preferred to believe. When he got back home he’d have to check into a rest center for a full workup. But he’d lost his pleasure in the shower. He toweled off quickly. The scent of soap and shampoo—and Libby—was everywhere.

***

The jeans were a little loose in the waist, but he liked them. Natural cotton was so outrageously expensive that no one but the very rich could afford it. The black roll-necked sweater had a hole in the cuff and made him feel at home. He’d always preferred casual, comfortable clothes. One of the reasons he’d left the ISF was that they had a penchant for uniforms and polish. Barefoot and pleased with himself, he followed the scents of cooking into the kitchen.

She looked great. Her baggy pants accentuated her slenderness and made a man imagine all the curves and angles beneath the material. He liked the way she’d pushed the sleeves of the bulky red sweater up past her elbows. She had very sensitive elbows, he recalled, and felt his stomach knot again.

He wasn’t going to think of her that way. He’d promised himself.

“Hi.”

This time she was expecting him, and she didn’t jump. “Hi. Sit down. You can eat before I check your bandage. I hope you like French toast.” She turned, holding a plate heaped with it. When their eyes met, her fingers curled tight around the edges. She recognized the sweater, but it didn’t remind her of her father when it was tugged over Cal’s long, limber torso. “You didn’t shave.”