Mason’s voice bounced around the tiled bathroom walls. Damn. Shivering, Jill tucked herself deeper into the corner of the shower behind the half-drawn curtain. She scrubbed her wrist across her eyes and scrambled to regain control before she faced Mason. God, she didn’t want him to see her like this, hugging her knees and crying long past when the steam had evaporated. But once the water had begun pouring over her, the true waterworks had started. Even when she’d shut off the real shower, she hadn’t been able to control the flow of tears—for her murdered friend Lara, for all those victims, for Uncle Phil’s past that wouldn’t let him go. And yes, she’d even sobbed some selfish tears for herself. She wasn’t any better than all those women she’d labeled idiots in the mess hall because they’d fallen for Mason Randolph only to have him pull away. Her only consolation? He wasn’t shallow. He was just too damaged from his divorce to let himself get close, truly close to another woman.
