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anyway.
    It was just a lift down the stairs.
    But Jamie had said no, and Remy had kept going. It had been sort of caveman-like. Controlling.
    Don’t overreact. He did put me down.
    He chewed on the pencil. Afterward, everything had gone back to a seemingly level playing field.
    When they’d returned from the motel, Remy had eased off Jamie’s splint and put a lawn chair in the shower—“for safety,” he’d said—and turned Jamie loose with soap and water. After the initial skepticism, Jamie’d discovered it worked well. Clean was heaven.
    Afterward, he’d wrapped a towel around his hips and opened the bathroom door, and Remy’s gaze had skated down Jamie’s front before darting away. For a second, Jamie had thought he’d seen a spark of desire there, but Remy had only smiled and helped him to the bedroom in a brotherly fashion, leaving him alone to get dressed.
    A few minutes later, Remy had returned and replaced the splint on Jamie’s left ankle. Remy had seemed nervous, saying little and keeping contact to a minimum. He’d said good-bye and blitzed off for a run. The sense of letdown had caught Jamie by surprise.
    Jamie tapped the pencil on his lip. If he knew how to cook, he could fix Remy dinner as a thank-you for everything he’d done. Living with Vince had left Jamie with the main culinary skill of dialing for takeout. The time he’d tried making spaghetti, Vince had tossed it in the trash without tasting it. Vince had hated leftovers, so there hadn’t even been microwave reheating. Hell, Jamie had ended up getting lunch at the hospital cafeteria most days.
    Those days were over. Now he’d eat what he wanted when he wanted. He’d learn to cook, damn it. Maybe Remy would be willing to teach him.
    I’m supposed to be thinking of a way to help him, not the other way around.
    No cleaning to be done either. Remy was an excellent housekeeper. And yard work was out of the question with his ankle. God, he was a useless houseguest. He pulled out his cell phone.
    “Hello?” Sarah sounded breathless.
    “Hey. It’s me.”
    “Hey, me. How are ya?” In the background, kids screeched.
    “Better. Up and around on crutches.” On crutches and nearly wiping out innocent bystanders with the greatest of ease.
    “Good. So are you still at the doctor’s house?”
    “Yeah. But he’s gone right now to work out.”
    “Oooh. Musclehead, huh?”
    “Not at all. He’s running—training for a marathon. I screwed up his schedule.”
    “Aw, honey. One day isn’t going to make that much difference. Hold on.” The phone muffled, and Sarah yelled something unintelligible. “Okay. I’m back. The boys are trying to murder each other. Superman and Batman are not friends, no matter what they tell you.”
    “It’s that superpower-envy thing.” Jamie chuckled.
    “I guess. It’s just that—” A crash followed by a howl overtook the words. “Aw, frick. Gotta go. Behave.”
    And she was gone. Jamie snapped the phone shut and grinned. With luck, the superheroes wouldn’t need stitches.

Chapter Six
    Stupid, stupid, stupid.
    Remy pulled into the garage and turned off the ignition, feeling the muscles cramping up from hips to toes. Tension ran up his back into his shoulders and curled around the base of his skull. Three in the afternoon, and he’d burned out his legs. Idiot.
    Considering he knew better, why had he convinced himself he could do ten miles? Normal was six, and eight was the plan for the week. Missing a day didn’t mean making it up all at once. At this rate, he wouldn’t be able to get out of bed in the morning.
    Ibuprofen, a hot shower, and prayer.
    Or maybe an ice bath and prayer.
    The engine pinged as it cooled. He eased out of the car, wincing at the knots forming in his calves. So not the plan. Plus, he needed to call Brett and ask him to help retrieve Jamie’s vehicle from the park, before something happened. It had been fine today, but it wasn’t a good idea to leave it there.
    Skirting the