Jayne turned to meet Seth’s gaze.
“I very much regret that I am responsible for your pain.”

He studied her for a moment. “Who did you see shot to death?”

His question jolted through her, bringing all the memories of that day forward in a flash. “My fiancé, Oliver.” She twisted the towel she held, knotting her fingers into the material.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” He lifted his hand and caught her fingers. His hand was large, work hardened and steadying.

She tore her gaze from their linked hands and stared into his eyes. Her imagination read a dozen things into his gaze—comfort, concern, perhaps even the offer of protection.

She jerked her gaze away, stepped back to hang the towel over the back of the chair. The last thing she wanted was to be taken care of by anyone. “I’ll be fine on my own.” Her words were firm, almost as if daring him to think otherwise.