Wild with You

by Sara Jane Stone

  She looked up from the chart spread out on the Summers kitchen table, documenting Josh’s symptoms from his injury. In addition to his short-­term memory loss, her patient had difficulty concentrating and he had headaches. But unlike some of the professional athletes she’d treated, he’d been spared many of the symptoms caused by multiple head injuries. Epilepsy, personality changes—­repeated concussions often led to a downward spiral. Treatment and therapy were always an uphill battle. But in Josh’s case, they weren’t climbing Everest. She had a good feeling that he could recover from this.

  “If you can’t remember, go back and check the cookbook,” she said.

  Her patient let out a frustrated grunt. He knew the layout of the kitchen—­that part of his memory was still intact—­but finding the recipe was another story.

  “Doc, I don’t know where I put the damn cookbook.”

  “It’s open beside the fridge,” she said, offering just enough help to keep the defeated feeling from pushing him to quit—­or consult his notebook. If he even remembered it was in his back pocket. “We’re making Bourbon Pecan Pie.”

  “I vote we skip straight to drinking the liquor.” Josh picked up the open book. His lips moved as he read the words.

  “You picked it.”

  His brow furrowed. “It says here, we need to place the piecrust in the refrigerator for thirty minutes. Do we even have a piecrust?”

  “It’s in there,” Kat confirmed. “We made it first thing.”

  “Shit, I don’t remember that part.”

  “Focus on what you’re doing now,” she said. “What’s in your hand?”

  Josh glanced at the mixing device. “Doc, I didn’t know what this was before I got knocked in the head.”

  “It’s a whisk,” she said, keeping her tone calm and even. “Read through the recipe. Find out what comes next.”

  “Brown sugar, eggs, cream, bourbon.” Josh glanced up from the book and focused on the ingredients on the counter. “I was holding the bourbon.”

  “That’s right,” Kat said.

  “But I don’t have a clue about whether I put it in there or not,” he said.

  “I guess we’ll find out when we taste it.” Chad Summers waltzed into the room wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and white T-­shirt that read, My Hero, My Veteran, My Girl, in big black letters.

  “Dip a spoon into what you have so far,” Kat suggested as Chad claimed the seat next to her at the table.

  “Figuring out if there is bourbon in the batter will help his memory?” Chad murmured.

  “Taking stimuli, in this instance, taste from an external source and processing it helps.” Or at least that was the hypothesis of their clinical trial.

  “It’s in there,” Josh confirmed. He picked up a bottle and took a swig, then winked at Kat. “For good luck.”

  Her somewhat unruly patient turned back to the counter and picked up the pecans. Kat watched for a moment before turning her attention to the man beside her. “He remembered that the pecans went in next without having to check.”

  “So this is a slow and steady wins the race sort of thing?”

  “Regaining memory takes time and patience,” Kat said. “The best thing you can do for your brother right now is offer support and do what you can to keep his environment the same. I can get him started on the path to recovery, but then he’ll need his family and caretakers to help him.”

  “Oh, I fully intend to give him my support and have a slice of pie. And we’re not letting the nursing student go. We’re making it clear to Megan that she has to keep her clothes on while we’re paying her. But during her down time . . .” Chad shrugged. “They’re adults.”

  “Good.” Kat kept her voice low while her patient worked on his pie. “We’re on the same page, then. I think a sexual relationship that extends beyond a handful of encounters might be a good thing for him. It helps with the depression.”

  “Dr. Arnold, I don’t need a medical degree to confirm that sex goes in the plus column. To be honest, I’m not worried about Josh’s emotional state when you leave. But Brody’s another story.”

  “He’s all grown up too,” she said, glancing back at her chart.

  “True,” Chad said, no longer making an effort to keep his voice low. “But he’s always been the serious, responsible one.”

  Josh let out a snort as he pulled the chilled piecrust from the fridge and consulted the cookbook.

  “Which is why we’re taking bets on what happened when you two disappeared during Eric and Georgia’s wedding reception,” Chad said. “My sister thought you might’ve gotten locked in the bathroom and needed a rescue. Liam went along with her because, well, agreeing with my sister is in his best interest. And saving the day is Brody’s specialty. But I saw the way he danced with you and I think it was more of a mutual rescuing.”

  “I want in,” Josh called, pulling the spiral notebook out of his back pocket. He flipped it open and scanned a page. “Put my money on Brody. He was smiling this morning like he’d gotten lucky last night.”

  Kat reached for her pen, determined to shift the focus on the conversation. “Josh, you knew to look in your notebook for that detail. That’s great.”

  Josh stuffed the notebook into his jeans pocket. “Don’t get too excited, Doc. Brody parted ways with his last serious girlfriend nearly a year ago. I knew if he looked like he’d gotten some action, I’d have written it down. Easier to give him grief later.”

  “I’m not his girlfriend,” she said quickly.

  “But you weren’t locked in the bathroom waiting to be rescued last night,” Chad said.

  “I don’t need your brother to save me.” She turned her attention to the chart. “But in terms of the bet, you’d have to ask Brody.”

  “I just might to do that.” Chad pushed back from the table. “While I’m at it, I’ll remind him that you’re not his girlfriend. And that you’re leaving soon.”

  “He knows,” she said.

  Chad placed his palms flat on the table and his smile vanished. “If that fact was front and center in his mind, Brody would never have left the reception last night. My brother goes all in for the ­people he cares about. And the way he looked at you last night, I’d say you’re on that list. Maybe he hasn’t woken up to that fact yet, but he will.”

  The warning rang in her ears as Chad turned to Josh. “Save some pie for me, bro.” And then he slipped out the kitchen door and headed for the barn.

  “Hey, Doc.”

  Kat pushed Chad’s words away and focused on the man placing a pie into the oven. Fingers crossed it was edible. Most of the other patients in their trial had some prior cooking experience. The inspiration for the study, Maureen from upstate New York, had been a pastry chef before a horseback riding accident temporarily stole her short-­term memory. Maureen had given Kat the idea to try cooking as a way to help patients recover their memory. Kat never would have come up with it by herself. Before she’d started working with patients, her idea of cooking had been limited to opening take-­out containers. But when she’d mentioned it to Dr. Westbury, her mentor had been intrigued, and eager to start a clinical trial.

  “Yes?” she asked as Josh closed the oven, before setting the timer and reclaiming the cookbook.

  Josh offered a wicked smile straight out of his brother Chad’s repertoire as he glanced from his handwriting to the recipe. “Can I make extra whip cream and save some for later? I also wrote a line or two about Megan swinging by after her second job. According to my trusty notebook, she wants to lift my spirits a bit, and a nice serving of whip cream would sure help.”

  “Sure,” Kat said with a laugh. “Go ahead and double it.”

  Out the window, she saw Brody leaving the barn, carrying a toolbox. He gave her a wave and then headed for his truck. After yesterday in the wine cellar, she wanted more of him. But “seriou
s” and “girlfriend” were labels that didn’t fit with her life. Fling and Casual Sex? Those words worked for her. And she had an idea about how to win Brody over to her way of thinking.

  “Josh, why don’t you triple the recipe?”

  BRODY PULLED UP to the house with a solid plan for the evening. First, a shower to wash away the grease from working on one of Moore Timber’s trucks, then he’d find Kat and ask her to join him for a pizza in town. In a crowded restaurant—­and A Slice of Independence was always packed, even on a Sunday—­they could talk about Josh’s treatment and keep their clothes on.

  Of course, Kat had proven last night that a roomful of ­people wouldn’t stop her from rocking his world in a wine cellar. But he could keep her out of the pizza place storage room while they split a pie.

  He reached the sagging wraparound front porch, which he planned to rebuild now that the winter weather was behind them and they had money in the bank from selling the trucking company. As soon as he found the time. Between working with Moore Timber, volunteering with the search and rescue squad, and looking out for Josh, he needed more hours in the day. He had one foot on the steps when the door swung wide-­open.

  “Hey there, cowboy.” Kat stood in the entryway to his family home wearing jeans and a button-­down shirt that hugged her curves. Her long blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail. But the black ankle boots with the high, thin heel . . .

  Brody paused on the porch steps. He had a plan for tonight, but those shoes made him wish he could reconsider.

  “I bet my mental image for tonight beats yours,” she said, her green eyes blazing with mischief.

  “Oh yeah?” He closed the space between them in two long strides, just in case his siblings were close by. Not that he was hiding his relationship with Kat. He’d seen the smirk on Chad’s face when he slipped into the reception last night just moments after Kat returned. But his siblings didn’t need details, and Brody didn’t have a clue what would come out of her mouth next.

  “I have two words for you.” Her voice hit a sultry note that drove him damn near crazy. “Whip cream.”

  The best two words he’d heard all day.

  “I was thinking pizza,” he said. “And while you might win points for creativity, my idea gets us both fed while you tell me about your day.”

  “My day?” She raised an eyebrow. “I spent the last hour sitting at the table you made wondering if you’d ever thought about bending me over it and binding my ankles to the table legs.”

  His imagination followed her words, summoning the image. His body hardened, sending one message to his brain: I want that.

  “Kat—­”

  “Once you had me there, I wonder where you’d put the whip cream.”

  Heat, need, desire roared through him. He stepped closer, pressing her back against the door. “I swear there is something about you that is so goddamn irresistible.”

  “My mouth?”

  “That’s part of it.”

  His hands found hers. Fingers interlaced, he drew her arms up, pinning them against the solid wood door. He didn’t give a damn who saw, he had to touch her, taste her. His lips brushed hers, stealing a kiss.

  “You taste like sugar and whiskey,” he murmured.

  “Bourbon,” she corrected. “I’ve been baking pies with Josh.”

  “Are you done with my brother?”

  She nodded. “Megan arrived for a visit. They took his creation and escaped into the barn.”

  “If Josh ran off with the pie, how are we going to eat the whip cream?”

  “I have a few ideas.”

  “As much as I’d like to hear them all . . .” He released her hands, forcing himself to step back and stick to his plan. “I need a shower. And then I’m taking you out for pizza.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “You don’t need to woo me with food when I’ve offered whip cream sex.”

  “I’m not wooing.” He headed for the main stairs leading to the farmhouse’s second story. “Tonight ends with pizza.”

  “If you say so.” Her laughter followed him up the stairs.

  He’d stand by those words. But he had a feeling she wouldn’t make it easy. Stepping under the water, he closed his eyes and gave his imagination free rein.

  Kat bent over the kitchen table . . . Or better still, here with him in the shower. Little Miss Perfect’s back pressed against the tile wall, her legs wrapped around him while he drove into her.

  He wrapped his hand around his dick. If he wanted release, he’d have it here. His fist moved up and down, drawing him closer and closer with each stroke.

  The way her hands looked pinned overhead. Her mouth. Her voice. . .

  Every word that escaped between those full lips excited him, from the naughty, teasing ones to the words that offered an insight into who she was past and present.

  He pushed aside the image of her mouth and focused on how she’d looked in his bed. Picturing it here, under the steaming hot spray of water, was as close as he could get. Once he stepped out of this shower, he needed to focus on what was best for the ­people he cared about. The family who needed his time and focus. And he was pretty damn sure that taking Dr. Katherine Arnold, the doctor who lived on the other side of the country, to his bed was not on that list.

  FORTY MINUTES LATER, after Brody had cleaned up, checked in with his little brother via text—­he knew better than to interrupt “pie time” in the apartment over the barn—­and confirmed that Megan would be staying off the clock awhile, he snagged the last parking space in the lot behind A Slice of Independence.

  “This place is packed,” Kat said. “We might want to think about taking our pie to go. My hotel is not far from here.”

  “Tables turn over quickly.” He took her hand and led her toward the screen door separating the picnic tables from the indoor seating area. “We’ll place our order at the counter. And while we wait for a table to open up, you can tell me about Josh’s first session.”

  She nodded, transforming from I-­want-­whip-­cream-­sex Kat to Dr. Katherine Arnold. “Your brother managed a Bourbon Pecan Pie today.”

  He listened to the details, making mental notes of the little signs she thought spelled progress as they waited in line. When they reached the counter, he ordered the daily special, a pizza topped with local sausage.

  “According to his medical history,” Kat continued as they moved away from the counter, joining a cluster of locals waiting for to-­go orders or an open table. “The staff at the rehab facility used memory games as part of his therapy.”

  “Yeah, he hated those,” Brody said. “Said they just reminded him of what he couldn’t do. And they seemed childish.”

  “The key is balancing the frustration with success.”

  “And having pie as a reward helps,” Brody said. “Or at least that’s your theory.”

  “It’s a little more complicated than that. To be honest, your brother is in pretty good shape. A lot of the patients I see with brain injuries suffer from debilitating side effects.”

  “Does cooking help them all?”

  “No. And that is only one element. Our trial is designed to show that individuals suffering from TBI—­traumatic brain injury—­need help dealing with their emotions while they work to recover their memory.”

  He heard the passion in her voice, punctuating each sentence. “You know, you seem to care a helluva lot more than his previous doctors.”

  “Part of what makes me one of the best,” she said with a warm smile.

  Brody cocked his head, studying her. “Why neuroscience?”

  “It’s one of the more difficult areas of medicine.”

  “You like the challenge.” And you hate to lose, he thought. He suspected she’d spent enough time on the losing end of things growing up.

  “I like coming out on top. But I’m also
interested in how the brain works. How ­people build memories attached to emotions.” Her expression became serious. “After I leave, you might want to look for another therapist. Someone Josh can talk to, call day or night if he feels overwhelmed. I’m not joking about the link between depression and brain injuries.”

  “Kat Arnold?”

  Brody glanced over his shoulder and spotted Delilah Travis. A slim woman with short black hair, he’d known the young nurse for years. He still owed Delilah a thank-­you for taking care of Josh when his brother was in the hospital, though he suspected she’d prefer a more intimate sign of the Summers family’s gratitude from Chad. Brody placed Delilah at the top of the list of single women in Independence Falls who mourned Chad’s move from single playboy to off the market.

  “You probably don’t remember me,” Delilah said to Kat. “I was Missy Jackson’s best friend back when we were kids. You were a few years ahead of us in school, but I spent a lot of time at the Jacksons’ house while you were living there.”

  Kat nodded, her lips forming a thin line. “I remember Missy. How is she?”

  “Not as good as you. Two years at the community college isn’t Harvard. She is living by the university now. Last time I spoke to her, she was thinking about getting a waitressing job when her youngest starts school next year. Missy’s little boy is just the cutest. What about you? Are you thinking about moving back or just visiting?”

  “I’m here for work,” Kat said.

  “Kat’s is one of the leading neurologists in the country,” Brody said. “She flew out to help Josh.”

  “Wow.” Delilah’s eyes widened. “Pretty amazing what going to Harvard can do for you, huh? I guess more ­people from here should apply to those fancy East Coast schools. Though it probably helps that you had such an interesting childhood.”

  “Yes, it probably did,” Kat said.

  The words sounded like verbal daggers. Brody could feel the tension rolling off Kat in waves, threatening to turn into a hurricane.

  Oblivious, Delilah turned to him, placing her arm on his forearm. “Brody, you have to tell me all about the wedding.”