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automatic doors slid open, blasting Jace with a burst of Arizona air, still hot even with the sun low on the horizon.
    “Where’s this so-called perfect spot?” Noelle asked after they’d walked a few feet.
    “Don’t knock it until you see it.” He guided her onto a concrete path that ran alongside a man-made pond before disappearing down a hill into a strand of acacia. “And it’s just past those trees.”
    At least it was two years ago.
    “You weren’t very nice to Connie,” Noelle scolded.
    “Connie’s okay.” His voice cracked on the last syllable. Damned if Noelle’s schoolmarm tone didn’t get him hotter than center field at Wrigley in July. He cleared his throat and started again. “We go way back. She’d be disappointed if I didn’t mess with her.”
    “Old flame?” Noelle eyed him suspiciously.
    “Not even close.” They rounded a corner at the bottom of the hill and he led her to a wooden bench on the other side of the trees. Just as he’d remembered it, down to the sun-faded, weather-worn slats still needing a fresh coat of paint. “She was here the last time I was in.”
    He sat, patting the spot next to him. She followed suit, stretching her bad leg out in front of her. “The last time?”
    He nodded, lifted his elbow, then let it fall. “This is my second stint with this thing. Tore it two years ago and got away without going under the knife. Not so lucky this time.”
    Her eyes filled with a pity he didn’t deserve and sure as hell didn’t want, especially from her. “I’m sorry.”
    “Don’t be.” He scuffed the ground in front of him with the toe of his Vans. “Odds are it’ll be stronger than ever.”
    “Good.”
    He liked that she didn’t ask questions or spout any of the bullshit he’d heard every day since his injury: “It could be worse,” or “You’ll be back out there sooner than you know it.” And his favorite, “A million guys would kill to have the career you’ve had.”
    Assholes . Like he didn’t know how lucky he’d been. Like he was a greedy bastard for wanting more.
    “So how about those cookies?” He gestured toward the tin. She popped the lid and they each took a macaroon. He bit through the crisp shell and was instantly rewarded with a burst of moist, coconutty goodness.
    “Damn, your mom can bake,” he mumbled through a mouthful of cookie.
    “She’s Italian,” Noelle said, as if that explained everything. And, in a way, it did. His mom’s idea of preparing a meal had involved a takeout menu and a cell phone. At least he hadn’t missed her cooking when she’d ditched him and his dad for greener pastures.
    He reached for another and they ate in silence for a few minutes, the only sound their chewing, interrupted periodically by his moans of pleasure.
    “Ballet did this, huh?” He nodded at her knee, extended in front of her.
    She put the tin down on the bench between them. “We’re not going there again, are we?”
    “I never went there in the first place.” He grabbed another cookie and stuffed it into his mouth. “I’m an athlete. But you—I watched you. You’re an athlete and an artist.”
    “You...watched me?”
    “You can find just about anything on YouTube these days.”
    She winced. “Then I suppose you saw the video of my accident. It’s got over a million hits. Seems people enjoy watching the suffering of others. The Germans even have a word for it. Schadenfreude.”
    “I don’t know about the Germans, but I don’t get my jollies by seeing folks in pain.” He tapped his brace. “I tore this in front of 40,000 people at Citizens Bank Park. Had to be escorted off the field.”
    “Ouch.”
    “You said it.”
    “And I thought twenty-five hundred witnesses at Lincoln Center was bad. That calls for another cookie.”
    She held up a macaroon, but instead of taking it from her he leaned forward and bit into it, his lips brushing her fingertips. The contact sent a buzz of lust through him, and he jerked