I sat impotently—which, for the record, is not a word I liked to use in reference to myself in any way, shape, or form—on the bench. Oh, sure, I could try to get up and walk to the window. In fact, I suspect that’s exactly what Jackson was trying to goad me into doing. Jerk.

It would take a lot more than the promise of a good-looking woman for me to give up the security of my safe seat, especially after an episode. Still my curiosity was yammering at me to get a look at the woman Miguel Vasquez had foisted upon me.

“All right, all right, I’ll take a look,” I said. I waved my hand at Jackson. He understood the unspoken command and yet chose to ignore it.

“Walk,” he said, and turned back to the window.

“No,” I said. It was the voice I’d used on construction guys who were slacking and bank loan officers who were weasels. It was supposed to make the person I was speaking to fall in line. Jackson was impervious.

“You need to—” he began.

“Dut dut dut,” I interrupted him. “I didn’t hire you to tell me what I need. I hired you to train me and to be around as needed.”

“You don’t need me right now,” he said.

He didn’t even bother turning around to speak to me, so riveted was he on the woman he could see from the window. My new tenant. What was her name? I couldn’t remember. Fuzzy brain, damn it, another gift from that horrible day. No wonder I never left my house.

I gauged the distance from where I was sitting to my wheelchair parked beside Jackson at the window. I could get there, spotting myself on the line of equipment in my personal gym if I was so motivated. Jackson was still staring outside, ignoring me. All right, my curiosity was most definitely getting the better of me.

I pulled myself to my feet. The fatigue that occasionally clobbered me, also without warning, made me inch my way to my wheelchair beside the window. I absolutely did not want to slide to the floor in a heap. I’d had enough humiliation for one morning. I felt my heart rate accelerate as I got closer. My nerves were snapping just beneath the surface. Being picked up by Jackson twice in one day was more than my ego could bear. I tried to distract myself.

As I got closer, I asked, “Scale of one to ten, with one being my great-aunt Madge with the long chin whisker and the faint odor of mothballs about her, and ten being Scarlett Johansson, where does she rank?”

Jackson glanced over his shoulder at me with an assessing stare then he shook his head. “I don’t rate women.”

“What?” I cried. “You’re the one who just called her a ‘looker.’ ”