He asked many of the same questions the psychologist had, and she delivered the same answers.A new nurse explained how to care for the stitches in her head and instructed her of signs and symptoms requiring medical attention. She was eying Zoe’s dirty, bloodied clothes when Chance strode into her room, a duffel slung over his shoulder.He’d dressed in another pair of thigh-hugging faded jeans and a T-shirt, this one tan. A recent shower darkened his short espresso hair, but he hadn’t shaved, and the stubble on his square jaw enhanced his rugged appearance. “Good morning,” he said.“Good morning,” she lied.“How do you feel?” He pecked her on the cheek, and she forced herself to remain still to receive it. Awkward. Zoe had told her a couple of months ago they’d broken up, yet they still lived together as roomies. But twice now he’d kissed Destiny. They hadn’t been sexual kisses, but still. Had they reunited?“I’m stiff. Sore.” Not to mention anxious, confused, worried.
