“Did I do something wrong?” She sounded curious, confused, but not nervous. It was the only thing that allowed him to keep the lid on his temper.

“No. Long day.”

“Did something happen? Do you want to talk about it?”

He glared down at the grass at his feet. Even in the dark, he could tell he needed to mow it again. One more goddamn thing he didn’t have time for. “Just need to blow off some steam. Give me half an hour, okay?”

“LJ, why don’t you ever let me use the Saints cup?”

“What?” He glanced back at the plastic cup he’d left by the shed. She wanted to argue about dishes? Screw it—she’d have to put up with the light and his crappy shed. If he didn’t throw his energy against some iron, it was going to explode out somehow, probably in words he’d regret later. He threw down a loop of cord, stomping toward the house as he fed it out. “Use whatever cup you want. I don’t care.”

“Don’t you? Because you always push it to the back of the cupboard when you’re getting a glass out for me.” She hesitated. “When we were in Montana, even when you were mad, you could talk to me about it. What changed?” Her voice wavered on the last word.

He threw a look her way, but the yard was too dark to make out more than her shape. Fumbling, he plugged in the light.

She blinked against the sudden glare, putting a hand up to shield her eyes.

He should figure out why she was suddenly worried about cups, but he couldn’t deal with that right now. “I just need to work out—that’s all. Thank you for everything you did for Mama today.” He moved a cardboard box closer to the rest of the stack at the left of the shed and started piling weight plates onto his bench press bar.

The thin metal of the shed creaked as Andra leaned against it.

Why the hell wouldn’t she leave him be? He had to stop to throw rounds on the other side so the bar wouldn’t tip off its stand. The forty-five-pound weights felt like paper plates, as if he could crumple them in his hands. Yeah, right now he was definitely not the kind of guy Andra needed to teach her how to trust again.

As he finished loading the bar, the raw handcuff marks around his wrists glared at him. Would she recognize them? She had little pink marks around her wrists, too. Blood roared through his head as the marks on his wrists overlaid his memory of hers. And they matched.

He hit the bar with the flat of both palms, sending it jumping out of the stand and crashing to the floor, metal plates bouncing off.

“LJ!”