“I used to love my job.”
There was so much longing in her tone, Harrison had to fight the urge to hug her. And what the hell was up with that? But he understood what it felt like—to have that high of being blessed enough to do the thing you felt like you’d been born to do, and the corresponding low when it all fell apart. He’d loved being a Ranger. Until he hadn’t.
“You said you’re a writer.” Better to get his brain back on her and her issues.
“That’s what it says on my résumé. I’m not feeling much like one lately.” She accepted the bowl of soup he passed her and went to sit at the little dinette table.
He followed with his own bowl and a sleeve of crackers. “Written anything I’d have heard of?” Probably not. She looked young. Not jailbait young, but definitely not over thirty, like he
