Redwolf's Woman. Laura Wright

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      “No. It’s nothing.”

      He took her hand anyway. Wasn’t that just like him, she thought as she gave in to his strong, callused fingers, prying open her tight fist. A small gash marred her index finger. Nothing serious, just a bad scrape, but Jared was really focused on it. He grabbed one of the quickly melting ice cubes off the ground and placed it on the cut.

      Ava sucked in her breath at the sharp pain.

      “Sorry,” he whispered, rolling the ice over the cut in small circles. “It isn’t deep. No permanent damage done.”

      She glanced up at him, her traitorous gaze tracing the open collar of his shirt, then stopping to stare at his smooth, tanned chest cut with pure corded muscle. Her fingers twitched in remembrance of how his chest felt beneath her hands, against her breasts. Beads of ice water trickled down her wrist, begging her pulse to slow.

      “Ava, dinner’s ready.”

      Rita called her from what seemed like a land far, far away. But it was enough. Ava pulled her hand and her gaze away from Jared and stood up.

      He followed suit. “You should get some peroxide on that.”

      She nodded.

      “And I should go.” He touched the brim of his hat and started to walk away.

      Last chance. To what? she thought. Run away, escape, try to get out of this neighborly call that wasn’t going to turn out very neighborly? She said, “Listen, Jared, about tomorrow.”

      He turned and cut her a sideways glance. “What about it?”

      She bit her lip. This was getting ridiculous. There was no escaping the inescapable. He deserved the truth. Hell, he demanded it. And whatever happened tomorrow she’d deal with it—here or back in New York. At least she and Jared could be free of a four-year burden. She took a deep breath, praying that he was ready to hear what she had to say. “We’ll be there at noon.”