Logan (A Cocky Cage Fighter Novel)

by Lane Hart

  “Do we…do we have a son or…or a daughter?”

  “Daughter,” I say, causing my chin to tremble.

  “A daughter. We have a daughter,” he repeats in awe. “What’s her name? Are you gonna at least let me see her?” he asks.

  “Adalyn, and that’s for the court to decide now,” I reply coldly, angry at him because he made the choice to avoid me. Despite whatever remorse he has now, he can’t ever take that back. “I kept trying, hoping you would want to be a part of her life…” I start. “But I gave up on you months ago. You wouldn’t even let me visit you! In three hundred days, all I wanted was for you to read my letters and write me back. You didn’t give a shit about us then, and now it’s too late.”

  “Sam, please,” he starts and reaches for my bare arm.

  “Don’t!” I scream at him when I jerk away. “You can’t change the past, and I’m not gonna let you ruin our future. When you told me that you regretted the day you ever met me, well, believe me, the feeling is mutual! Now get out of my car, and don’t contact me unless it’s through your attorney.”

  Taking the stack of letters with him, he finally climbs out of my car and shuts the door. I drive away quickly, leaving him standing on the sidewalk, unable to resist one last look in my rearview mirror. While there was a time I would have given anything to be with him, now I’d give anything to stop loving him.

  Maybe if I had been honest with him the first day we met, none of this would have ever happened. And while I feel incredibly guilty about being responsible for him losing his license, and every second of every day he was stuck behind bars, I lied when I told him I regretted meeting him. I wouldn’t do anything differently if given the choice to go back in time, because I love my daughter that he unknowingly gave me. I just hate that we’ll never be able to give her a real family.

  Chapter One

  Samantha Elliott

  THE PAST

  February 14, 2015

  “The physical therapist will be right with you once he’s had a chance to review your x-rays,” the young girl from the radiology center across the street says after she wheeled me over and helped me onto the exam table in the physical therapy office.

  “Thanks,” I mutter as the door shuts, swiping away another silly tear from my cheek, not because of the pain in my ankle, but because my season may be shot before it even starts after one stupid, leftover patch of ice on a beautiful, sunny day.

  Shoot!

  I need a tissue, but after hobbling back to my car and driving myself here, I’m too much of a wimp to jump off the exam table and limp the additional steps to the dispenser across the room. Instead, I just use the sleeves of my bright pink Aero sweatshirt to dry my face.

  Looking down the length of my outstretched legs, both of my knees look like shit, all scraped up and bloody, with pieces of gravel still imbedded in them. Damn black ice hiding in the dark shadows on the asphalt! My mom tried to get me to skip my run after school and go to my sister’s middle school Valentine’s dance. Now I wish I would’ve listened to her.

  Startling at the knock on the door, I dab at my face again with my sleeve and inhale a shaky breath to try to compose myself.

  “Miss Elliott?” the man asks as he steps into the room, his index finger pushing the center of his black-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose.

  Whoa! I had no idea Clark Kent was moonlighting as a physical therapist. Crime must be at an all-time low.

  “Miss Elliott?” Superman’s doppelganger asks again, but I’m too dumbstruck by his iridescent sapphire eyes behind the glasses to respond. The fluorescent light above us is participating in an incessant dance with the blue orbs in a way that’s completely hypnotizing. “Samantha Elliott?”

  “Uh-huh. That…that’s me.” I finally force the highly-intelligent response past my parted lips. Blinking several times to dispel the remaining tears, I try to figure out if this man is actually movie star handsome or if I banged my head on the asphalt and am hallucinating that the graying Dr. Draper pulled a Benjamin Button, aging backward in time to his twenties.

  Shutting the door behind him, the man in khakis and a white button up walks toward me and offers me a handshake with a polite smile. “Hi, I’m Grant Matthews.”

  “You’re my doctor?” I ask in disbelief as I take his hand.

  “Well, I have a doctorate in physical therapy but you certainly don’t have to call me Dr. Matthews.”

  “Wh-where’s Dr. Draper?” I stutter, glancing around to make sure the radiology girl brought me to the right office.

  “Oh, a letter went out to all of his patients at the end of last year. Dr. Draper retired, and I’ve taken over his practice,” the gorgeous man answers with a grin so stunning I almost swoon right off the edge of the table.

  “Good for him, I guess,” I mutter while continuing to stare at the young doctor like he might disappear if I look away. He may not insist on the doctor title but I can’t just call him “Grant.” That’s way too casual for the sophisticated man standing before me.

  “So, you had quite a bad fall today?” he asks the obvious while glancing down at my bare and bloody knees.

  “Uh-huh.” The ability to speak in complete sentences eludes me.

  “Twisted your left ankle?” he asks, and I nod. He reaches for the grapefruit size body part; and as soon as his warm fingertips touch my chilled skin, my body gives an involuntary shiver. Goosebumps ripple up and down my arms and legs and all of my body heat seems to be suddenly gathering in my clenching stomach.

  “Cold?” Dr. Matthews asks, raising a dark eyebrow as his curious eyes sweep over the shorts and sweatshirt I’m wearing. I must have hit my head because I swear his gaze lingers a little longer on my breasts. Hopefully, my erect nipples are hidden behind the thick, pink cotton.

  “I wasn’t cold when I was running,” I reply to explain my wardrobe. Looking down at my legs, I wonder if my shorts shrunk while I was waiting. I know they were more than three inches from where my thighs meet just a few seconds ago. “Now I kind of wish I was wearing pants,” I blurt out. “I mean, I wish I would’ve been wearing pants when I fell.”

  The doctor clears his throat and nods. “Well, the good news is that the x-ray didn’t show any fractures. I believe what you do have is a moderate, grade two sprain.”

  “Oh, thank goodness,” I say on an exhale of relief. “So how soon can I run again?”

  “We’ll have to see how you do with therapy, but I would guess that you could probably lace up your sneaker’s again in about three or four weeks.”

  Our first track meet is in five weeks, so maybe this season won’t be a wash after all. I’ll be rusty, but I can hopefully get back to competition level within a few grueling practices.

  “Just tell me what I need to do, and I’ll do it,” I assure him.

  “Good to hear,” he replies, flashing me another smile. “I’ll give you some crutches to use for a few days to keep most of your weight off of the ankle. Before you leave today, we’ll do a little electrical stimulation, and I’ll show you how to ice it and wrap it to reduce the swelling faster.”

  “Awesome,” I reply.

  “First, let me clean your knees for you and work some of the swelling out of your ankle.”

  Turning his back to me, Dr. Matthews runs water full blast in the sink to wash his hands. He then grabs a few things from the various counter drawers while I admire his khakis that look painted over his firm ass and muscular thighs the entire time. If ever there was a finer backside, I’ve never seen it. Even the cute little cowlick he has going on doesn’t distract from his sexiness.

  “So,” he says when he faces me again and snaps on latex gloves over each hand. Returning to the exam table, he neatly lines up his supplies beside my leg. “I hope you don’t have any plans tonight, because you’re gonna need to keep your foot elevated for the next few hours.”

  “Nope, no plans,” I say, wincing at the sting as he uses an alcohol swab to wipe away the dried bloo
d and random debris lodged in my knees.

  “No valentine?” he asks as a follow-up, sucking on his bottom lip like he’s concentrating hard on coating the scrapes with a Neosporin-coated cotton swab. His other hand is wrapped around the top of my bare leg to keep it steady. My breath catches at the light pressure of his thumb on my inner thigh, the most intimate touch I’ve ever experienced.

  “Ah, no,” I respond when my hazy brain slowly processes his question. “No valentine. Haven’t had any since, like, the third grade.”

  How young does he think I am?

  And does he have any idea how hot he is? Of course he must know that, but can he tell that I’m getting more aroused than a dog in heat?

  “A beautiful girl like you doesn’t have a date on Valentine’s Day? I find that very hard to believe,” he says with a quick peek at me from underneath ridiculously long, black lashes before he places a bandage over my right knee and starts to work cleaning the left.

  Shit. I must’ve busted my head too. His compliment just pushed our conversation into the surreal. I reach up to my ponytail and feel around my skull for knots.

  “Does your head hurt?” Dr. Matthews asks when he glances up and notices my exploration for brain damage. “Did you hit it when you fell?”

  “I must have,” I respond.

  Peeling off his gloves, Dr. Matthews tosses them in the trash behind him and then moves to stand in front of my upper body. When both of his hands reach for my head, turning it toward him, his broad chest moves up and down within inches of my face. I also get a whiff of the most scrumptious, manliest scent ever. My mouth waters, wanting a taste of the ginger and citrusy flavor. As his fingertips massage my scalp, my eyelids droop closed, and an actual, embarrassing moan somehow escapes from my lips. I cringe as my cheeks warm before my eyes squint open to see if he noticed.

  “That hurt?” he asks, holding my gaze hostage with his beautiful blue one.

  I give a brief shake of my head since I’ve now completely lost the ability to speak.

  “I don’t feel any swelling. Have you had any dizziness or severe headaches since you fell?"

  “A little dizzy,” I reply softly, although I’m pretty sure it’s him and not the fall.

  “Here, lie back,” he suggests, lowering my upper body down to the table. “Just rest while I finish cleaning your knee and fix up your ankle, okay?”

  “Okay,” I easily agree. He could ask me to do anything, and I’m fairly certain I would agree.

  Chapter Two

  Grant Matthews, PT, DPT

  My wayward eyes keep roaming over the girl’s supine form without my permission while I massage her swollen ankle between my hands. The two bastards are obviously in cahoots with my overeager cock. That fucker has been swelling ever since I walked into the exam room and saw Samantha’s mile-long legs stretched out on the table and smelled her delicious coconut scent, reminding me of the beach, my most favorite place in the world.

  It doesn’t help that from my rolling chair’s position at the foot of the exam table, I can see all the way up her tiny black shorts to the bright pink panties peeking out of the leg hole. The color of her intimates matches her sweatshirt that’s now riding up her flat, toned stomach.

  How is any man supposed to resist such temptation?

  I’m mentally calculating the date of which I can release her from my care. What is four weeks from now? March fourteenth? God, that’s a really long time to wait to ask her out, but there’s no gray area in the Code of Ethics for Physical Therapists. Thou shall not fuck patients is one taken very seriously, and there’s no way I could date her without fucking her, so March fourteenth it is. Well, if she even agrees to go out with me. She doesn’t have a date tonight, so if she has a quick recovery, and is still single in a month, maybe I can work a yes out of her. Followed by my name being shouted in gratitude.

  Samantha Elliott is definitely unlike most of the other women in this small town who are either married or cougars; there’s no in between. I guess most single ladies flee the area as soon as possible in search of men who have wardrobes that consist of more than camouflage and flannel and don’t chew tobacco.

  “Mmmm.”

  God, the sounds coming from her mouth are eating away at my already weakened self-control. I wonder if she’ll make the same sounds when I’m between her legs.

  Get a fucking grip, Grant!

  I’ve only been licensed as a physical therapist for thirteen months after working my ass off for six long years in school, and two more in a fellowship. A third of my life has been spent trying to get to where I am now, having my own practice, even if it is in a small town. And there’s no way anyone, especially some random nineteen-year-old small town college girl (according to the birth date listed on her chart and occupation stated as “student”) is going to be worth it all going up in flames.

  One month.

  Twenty-eight days.

  Four short weeks.

  That’s nothing compared to how long it took to get my doctorate.

  Too bad there are no other PTs in this shitty town, or I’d refer her out today, and then maybe I could get her naked and underneath me tonight. I swallow down a groan at the mental image and try to remind myself that she’s too young and innocent for me. My cock strongly disagrees after he’s been dry now for almost six months, while I applied for jobs and traveled the country for interviews.

  “You doing okay?” I ask, getting nothing in response. “Miss Elliott?”

  Releasing her ankle, I stand up from my stool and find her head lolled to the side, her small, perfect red lips parted in her sleep. I can’t help but smile, wondering how long she’s been out. Since she’s sleeping so peacefully, I continue my regimen. She doesn’t flinch when I apply the electro pads to her skin and turn on the nerve stimulator, or fifteen minutes later when I wrap up her ankle with an ACE bandage. I watch Sleeping Beauty a little longer before I go to the supply room and look for some crutches, and to maybe take an ice-cold shower to cool my overheating hormones before I return.

  Chapter Three

  Sam

  Still groggy from the best dream ever featuring Superman saving me from falling off a cliff, I blink my eyes open and swipe away the drool from the corners of my mouth.

  Oh, God!

  Using my elbows to push myself into a sitting position on the cushioned table, I realize I must have fallen asleep in the freaking doctor’s office! My knees are now bandaged, and my ankle is all wrapped up. A pair of crutches is propped against the counter.

  How long was I out? And how freaking embarrassing! I wouldn’t have given a shit if I had passed out on Dr. Draper, but doing it in front of Dr. Scrumptious is probably the epitome of loser moves.

  I need to get out of here fast before I make more of a fool of myself.

  Swinging my legs around to the side of the table, I slowly slide down off it, careful not to put any weight on my left foot. Now, to get over to the crutches standing about five feet away. In two unsteady hops, I’m there and reaching for them, right as the exam room door swings open and surprises me. To add to my resume of epic dorkiness, my hands are gripping the crutches that slowly start to slide along the edge of the counter. It happens so fast that I’m left with no choice but to ride them both to the ground in a loud clatter while holding one foot in the air.

  “Oh, shit!” I hear behind me, making me cringe. “Are you okay?”

  Nope, definitely not okay. I probably look like I’m playing some fucked up version of Twister with my hands down, ass in the air, foot hovering like I’ll lose the game if it touches the ground. I sort of wish the aforementioned would just open up and swallow me whole, so I can escape without facing him.

  Going down to my knees in an effort to look slightly less idiotic, I belatedly remember I just lost a layer of skin on them until the bandages touch the cool tile. “Ow,” I groan and hang my head while I catch my shaky breath, breathing through the pain.

  If things weren’t awkward enou
gh, the doctor is suddenly pressed up against my ass, apparently in an effort to try and help me up.

  “I’m gonna pull you up, okay?” he asks, and I nod.

  When his arm wraps tightly around my waist to assist me to my feet again, well…that has to be a banana in his pocket or…

  “One, two, three.”

  He yanks me to my feet or foot, and as soon as I grab onto the counter, he lets me go. I miss the weight of his arm holding me to his warm, hard body. Hard in more than one way.

  I keep my back to him, unable to face him after all the humiliation. But then I have no choice when he walks around and picks up the fallen crutches, offering them to me.

  “Thanks,” I say, sticking one under each armpit.

  “It might take some time to get used to them,” Dr. Scrumptious informs me.

  “You don’t say,” I mutter, keeping my eyes on the floor.

  Dr. Matthews chuckles softly, the deep, husky sound exacerbating the warm pressure in my lower belly.

  “You’re really tall and…so damn cute.”

  “What?” I ask, looking up at him to watch his mouth move because he couldn’t have just said I was cute. The movement of his hand pressing against the bulge at the front of his pants pulls my attention lower. So that wasn’t a banana. That was his…

  “Yes, that was my cock you felt. I’m sorry. It’s extremely unprofessional, but it seems to be a constant occurrence around you.”

  “Oh,” I mutter, completely taken back hearing him say the word cock. I force my curious eyes to hold his and to not lower to his crotch again, but of course, they go rogue. Wow, that’s an impressive bulge!

  “So, is there any way I could convince you to go out with me March fourteenth instead of reporting me to the physical therapy board?” he asks, drawing my attention up to his face again.

  My jaw comes unhinged as I stare unblinkingly at the gorgeous man in front of me. Man, not boy like the idiots I go to school with. A man who just asked me out after admitting that I caused his massive arousal.