come close. Yes, he fled the house without pants, and yes, Chief Dugan found him running down the street clutching his genitals, and yes, it was unfortunate a reporter happened to be in the neighborhood—”
“Um, Bradley—”
“But I swear, I never touched him.” God, I hate telling this story. “There’s an area in the brainstem called the pontine micturition center, and it’s in constant contact with the bladder. Stress or fear can cause the inhibitory signals of the prefrontal cortex to be overridden, which causes uncontrolled bladder evacuation and—”
“Bradley?”
“—in a flight or fight situation, the fear triggers from the limbic system are what prompted my sister’s ex to remove his soiled slacks before fleeing the scene and—”
“Bradley!”
The surprising force in her voice jerks me back from that unpleasant memory. I don’t realize until I look down that my hands have clenched in fists. “I’m sorry.” I uncurl my fingers. “You had a question?”
Izzy stares at me. “There seems to be a misunderstanding here.”
I stare back, not sure what she means. “I wasn’t arrested.” Again with the ridiculous need to clarify details that don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. “No charges, either. I swear I didn’t lay a hand on him.”
There was no need. I may have described for him in detail the ways the U.S. Army taught me to rupture someone’s trachea. Somewhere between that and the sharp tool in my hand, he pissed himself.
“I’m glad you weren’t violent,” she says slowly. “But I wasn’t asking about that. About any of it, truly.” Izzy bites her lip. “This is the first I’m hearing of it.”
Hell. “Seriously?”
She nods, eyes flashing with something between amusement and embarrassment. “It’s a fascinating story, but none of my business. I mean, unless you want to share—”
“No. God, no.” The desire to dig a hole in her lawn and crawl into it is overwhelming. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Izzy rests a gloved hand on my arm, sending a burst of sparks straight to my brain. “Your sister is fortunate to have you.”
“I can’t believe I said all that.” And I can’t believe how good it feels to have Izzy’s hand on my arm. “Can we have a do-over?”
Her forehead scrunches. “Do-over?”
“Pretend this conversation never happened.” As if. “Change the subject, maybe.”
“Of course.” She draws her hand back, and I miss it instantly. “What would you like to talk about?”
I wrack my brain for something less mortifying. The time I velcroed my name to the wrong side of my Army combat uniform, or the time I got into a stranger’s car, assuming it was my Uber, and asked a nice older woman to drive me home. It wasn’t until we arrived that she thanked me for not harming her in the carjacking.
Iz must sense I need a lifeline. “Tell me about your childhood,” she prompts softly. “I’m fascinated by the idea of growing up on a farm.”
I love how she makes it sound exotic instead of fraught with family drama. “I had a pretty normal, small-town American upbringing,” I say. “It’s a large ranch with a lot of employees, but I still had to buck hay and clean stalls.”
My parents may have had money, but they also had a strong urge to teach me the value of hard work. Probably why my father was so delighted when I told him my plan to join the service and become an Army doc instead of taking the traditional route through med school. Basic training gave me one helluva good lesson in work ethic, not to mention my time in Iraq.
“What was high school like?” she asks. “What were you like?”
“Pretty boring, actually,” I admit, grateful she’s focusing on my earlier life. “I studied hard, played football, went to prom, all that jazz.” I study her face, which has taken on an odd, dreamy quality. “What was your childhood like?”
“Pretty much the opposite,” she says. “There were a lot of royal functions to attend. Balls and ceremonies and high tea. I only had one year of actual classroom education, and that was boarding school.”
“Seriously?”
She shakes her head a little sadly. “I had private tutors.”
“But what about your social life?”
Sadness blooms in her eyes, and I kick myself for making her go there. “Until I got here, I didn’t really have that.”
“Wow. That sounds…lonely.”
She shrugs and fiddles with a thread on the edge of her blanket. “I had playmates growing up. Other princesses and duchesses I’d join for tea or for a playdate. But real friends…” She trails off, glancing away.