Free The Sweetheart Bargain (A Sweetheart Sisters Novel) by Shirley Jump

hurt you. Come on out.”
    More scrambling back and panting hard. Scared. Olivia couldn’t blame him. Poor thing had surely been through a lot.
    “Let me try.”
    She turned toward Luke’s voice. He was leaning against the doorjamb, watching her, still wearing those damned sunglasses even though the room was dim. Had he been there the whole time? “Sure. He’s a little skittish. You’ll probably have better luck with him. After all, he came to your house. Obviously, he trusts you.”
    “I can’t imagine why.”
    “Maybe because he can relate to you.” The words were out before she could stop them.
    He scoffed. “Or maybe he’s just like you.”
    “Me?”
    He took a step forward, those sunglasses locked on her features. Why did he wear them still? In the dimly lit house? Did it have something to do with the scar? The medal?
    Still, she got the sense that even if he couldn’t see well in the low light, he could see everything about her, while keeping everything about himself hidden. She wanted to look away, wanted to do anything but connect with this man, but every time he came within five feet of her, that intoxicating thread began to knit a little tighter.
    “You’re the one who came marching into my yard”—he took another step closer to her, his voice low, dark—“demanding that I help you find that dog.”
    She raised her chin. “I didn’t demand. I . . . asked.” Then she shot him a smile and eased her tone. “Nicely.”
    “I think we’re using different dictionaries.” The darkness in his voice yielded to a slight uptick. “My definition of demand is flanked by a picture of you.”
    She laughed, and, as if joining in on the moment, the dog’s tail thumped. Luke turned toward the sound, and when he did, the light caught his features and she saw the rest of what the sunglasses had been hiding. She sucked in a quick gasp.
    The wide arm of the sunglasses striped a black band across the scar running down one side of his face, spidering away from his left eye in thick red lines. An angry indent punctured the space above his brow.
    “What . . . ?” The sentence trailed off, caught in the awkward tug-of-war between curiosity and propriety.
    He swung back to face her. “You’re staring at me. I can feel it. I’m not a goddamn freak of nature.”
    “What . . . happened?”
    “You want to see? You want to know?” He cursed, then ripped off the sunglasses. A dark wash deepened the blue in his left eye, and though his right eventually zeroed in on her, the left didn’t. The pieces filtered into place. Luke’s inability to see the dog. The way he measured his steps. The dusty but tidy, organized house. The sunglasses. The attitude.
    She reached out a hand, curious, concerned. “Are you okay? I mean, is this . . . is it . . .”
    He jerked away. “You’re not here for me. You’re here for the dog.”
    She sensed the angry growl of a wounded animal trying to keep others away. How she knew that feeling. In the days after her divorce, she’d called in sick, curled up on the couch, and avoided the world. The dishes had piled up, the dust had multiplied. She hadn’t answered the phone or the door or done a damned thing for days. Then her mother arrived, and wouldn’t take no for an answer, dragging Olivia out for a terrible lunch at a loud, busy restaurant with waiters who sang off-key. And made her laugh for the first time in forever.
    After that, her days had brightened, one after another, and she’d once again found herself and her spirit. Maybe Luke needed to do the same.
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
    “Then don’t.” He let out a gust and surveyed the living room. “Where’s the dog?”
    “He’s right there. Can’t you—” She cut off the sentence. “Sorry.”
    “What do you keep apologizing for?”
    “Nothing.” It didn’t take a rocket scientist—or an idiot therapist—to realize that the pain from the scar had penetrated far deeper than the surface of his