Someday Soon by Debbie Macomber

explosion.
    “How soon can you leave?” he asked, burying his hands in his pockets in an effort to resist the urge to kiss her again.
    She gestured weakly as if she weren’t sure how to answer him. “Tomorrow, but I’ll need to make the arrangements with Bonnie, and I need be back before the twenty-eighth.”
    “No problem.”
    She grinned then, and Cain swore he’d never seen anyone with a more beautiful smile.
    “You’ll call me in the morning?”
    He nodded, and took two giant steps backward.
    “Good night, Cain.”
    “Night.” It wasn’t until he was in his car that he realized he was whistling. He stopped abruptly, wondering what madness had overtaken him. It didn’t matter if this craziness had a name, Cain decided. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d been this happy.
     
    Francine dressed carefully for her second encounter with Tim Mallory. Not that she had a vast wardrobe to choose from. Her closet contained mostly white uniforms of tops and slacks that afforded her freedom of movement. For the occasional interview and business meeting, she kept a couple of tailored suits on hand, but nothing spectacular.
    She wore her hair the way she always did, pulled tightly away from her face in a long French braid that stretched halfway down the middle of her back. She didn’t bother with makeup. Never had, even as a teenager. Nature hadn’t given her an attractive face, and with nothing to enhance, she figured why go to all the bother.
    She parked her car in the driveway and hopped out, taking her gym bag with her. She was eager to get started on this case. She’d always thrived on challenge, and something told her she was going to enjoy working with this particular patient.
    Generally she would have preferred starting Monday morning, but the longer they waited before beginning the exercises, the greater the chance Tim Mallory’s muscles would atrophy. She’d know soon enough how much his leg muscles had already degenerated.
    Tim Mallory might think he was some he-man soldier, but she’d demand every ounce of grit the mercenary ever believed he possessed.
    When she arrived at the house, Greg, his personal assistant, opened the door for her. “It’s Sunday,” he said, looking surprised to see her.
    “I know. How’s the patient?”
    The beefy young man shrugged. “About the same. Cantankerous, angry, and in a generally bad mood.”
    “Be prepared, then,” she said, casting the assistant a sympathetic glance. “Because it’s about to get worse. Much worse.”
    “You’re kidding, I hope.”
    “I wish I was. Come and get me in an hour, and bring ice bags and two aspirin.”
    “For Mr. Mallory?”
    “No,” she said with a chuckle. “For me. Mallory and I’ve only met once, but I can tell this guy’s going to give me a migraine.”
    Greg laughed.
    Francine didn’t wait for him to show her the way, she already knew the mercenary was holed up in the back bedroom. Probably with the lights off, buried under blankets because the lack of circulation in the lower half of his body left him chilled inside and out.
    She found him just where she’d suspected she would.
    “Hello again,” she said brightly, flipping on the light switch and moving into the bedroom with the determination of a Mac truck.
    “What the hell are you doing here?” Tim demanded. He sat up in the bed and grabbed the clock off the bedstand. “It’s barely nine.”
    “I prefer to start early. Beginning Monday morning, I’ll be here at six. We’ll have your first workout before breakfast.”
    “Wanna bet, sweetheart?” His dark gaze hardened, daring her to defy him. She noted his eyes were dull with pain and rimmed with fatigue. Her best guess was that he wasn’t sleeping much and had the appetite of a bird. That too was about to change.
    Francine flattened her hand against her hip. She didn’t like being referred to as “sweetheart,” especially in that tone of voice, but mentioning it was certain to guarantee he