by Abby Brooks
I get so connected to my patients. I feel their successes as if they were my own. And the setbacks? Well they lead to more sleepless nights as I stare bleary eyed at my tablet well past my bed time, researching new treatments for them.
My exit is just a few miles up the road and I’ve done such a great job of being an asshole driver that I’m not quite as late as I thought I was going to be. I turn on my turn signal and make one last crazy maneuver, jerking across two lanes of traffic at a speed that has my chest getting tight. A glance in the rearview shows the guy behind me giving me the bird. I hold up a hand in apology and prepare to merge into the right lane to exit the highway when I see something else in my rearview.
Bright lights swirling.
And there’s the whirr of a police siren.
A cop car, right behind me.
Shit. My heart sinks and my stomach goes bitter.
I pull off to the side of the road and kill the engine. So much for making up for lost time. Hudson will never let me live this down. That man is a peacock, too proud for his own good. Somehow, he’ll take me being late as a personal offense.
I know I’m supposed to be doing something while I wait for the cop to arrive at my window. Get my license and registration. Proof of insurance. All that stuff. That’s protocol, right?
Considering that I’m all about protocol, it’s a little strange that I am very much not doing any of the things I’m supposed to be doing. Instead, I sit with my fingers drumming the steering wheel, tears building in my eyes.
I just don’t have time for this. My day is packed too full as it is. I’m tired. I’m overwhelmed. And I really, really don’t want a traffic ticket.
But if wishes were fishes I’d be rich, I guess. With a deep, calming breath, I pull out the required paperwork and sit quietly with them in my lap, waiting for the trooper to arrive at my window.
I wait.
And I wait.
And I wait some more.
What in the world is he doing? Is this normal? This is the first ticket I’ve gotten since I was a teenager, so I have no clue what to expect. I wait so long I get over being nervous and actually start to get frustrated. There’s a big part of me that wants to roll down my window and wave this guy over, but I know better.
Or at least I think I know better because the longer I wait, the more tempted I am to do just that. Finally, after what feels like an eternity in which I watch the clock tick past my start time with Hudson, the door to the squad car swings open.
Holy hell, this guy is huge!
Broad shoulders and powerful arms. Thighs that rival those of some of my biggest football-playing patients. He strides towards me, his hat pulled low, the brim covering most of his face. I see a strong jaw and a lush mouth pulled into a taut line.
I don’t know what it is about that uniform on that body. That belt. The gun at his hip. I can’t stop staring at him through the rearview mirror. The moment he’s close enough to the car that I can’t see him through the mirror anymore, I turn towards the window and practically spin completely around in my seat to get a better view of him.
Maybe this will make being late all worth it. Maybe striking up a conversation with Officer McHotty will wipe away the stress of the morning and I can show up for my first appointment late but happy.
Or … maybe not.
Now that he’s close to me, I can see the scowl he had hiding under the brim of his hat. The deep crease he keeps between his eyebrows, so deep it looks like a permanent feature.
His eyes are hard like steel.
Or maybe bullets.
I don’t know what color bullets are. Surely not this deep, dark blue. But his eyes don’t make me think about water or sky. Not of robins eggs or babies. His eyes make me think of weapons. I’m pretty sure bullet blue isn’t a thing, but for me, it will be from this point forward.
He leans down, obliterating the crease on his forehead by lifting his eyebrows. He looks expectant. Like I’m missing something. But I’m lost in the geometry of his features. Such a strong nose. Those dangerous eyes framed by dark lashes. High, sharp cheekbones. Rugged jaw with the hint of a dark beard speckling his thick neck and Adam’s apple.
This isn’t a man. This is a wall. A barrier. A hulking expression of anger and weapons that has this surge of emotion I don’t understand making its way through my body. You would think that a big man like this—all harsh and authoritative—would make me feel afraid.
But that’s not it.
I don’t have a name for what I’m feeling, but I think I like it.
He sighs. Shakes his head and taps on the window with one knuckle and I suddenly realize that I’ve just been staring at him through the glass. That when I decided not to stick my hand out and wave him up to the car that I just sat here and ogled him through the rearview. And then he appeared and instead of behaving like a normal person, I just went ahead and ogled him face to face.
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
This morning can go straight to hell.
I shake my head and blink my eyes, make an apologetic face, and roll down the window.
“I’m so sorry—”
The scowl deepens. “License and registration, please.”
His brusque response shakes me. “I’m really sorry, officer,” I say as I hand him the papers I have in my hand.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?” He hits me full in the face with those eyes and my heart stops. I can’t breathe under the power. The weight. The threat. I’ve never seen eyes used like a weapon before.
I swallow. Nod. Try to get a hold of myself. “I was speeding.”
He just grunts and somehow, his eyes get even colder. I mean, I actually shiver. Add a curl of his lip and a dash of condescension and I don’t quite know what to make of this encounter.
“I’m running really late to work.” I can’t stand all the judgement in his eyes. I am a good, law-abiding citizen. He has no right to treat me like a common criminal.
“Just because you have a reason doesn’t mean you get a pass.”
My jaw drops. I can feel it. I mean, he’s right. But, I just … I never … I’m Chelsea London, for God’s sake. I don’t get in trouble. I go out of my way to be the best at being good. And now, the one time I speed on the one day I’m late to work, I get pulled over by Captain Jerk Face and he’s going to get all condescending on me? I just can’t … I mean …
Ugh!
He scribbles something in his notebook. “I clocked you going eighty-two. The posted limit is sixty-five. Late to work or not, this is not going to go well for you.”
I know I should be quiet. Just accept the ticket gracefully and move on because this guy isn’t worth my time. Plus, he’s right. I broke the law, I got caught. I deserve a ticket. It’s a one plus one equals two situation. But, I’m not feeling very gracious this morning.
“Really?” I ask in a very un-Chelsea-like manner. “I mean, really? You’re giving me a ticket? You can’t just give me a warning or something?”
The cop lifts one eyebrow and shoots me in the heart with his eyes. “Yes, Ms. London. I am giving you a ticket. Consider that your warning.” A weary teacher instructing an unruly kindergartner.
I sigh. One short puff of air that has more frustration in it than this situation warrants. It’s official. This day blows. I’m all for making the best of everything but as of this exact moment I have officially run out of shits to give. The officer finishes writing me the ticket and passes it to me through the window.
“Have a better day, Ms. London,” he says before he saunters back to his squad car.
I resist the urge to say exactly what’s on my mind and stare at the citation. One hundred and eighty-five dollars. Great. This day just keeps getting better.
The rest of the drive into work is uneventful and when I finally race through the doors into the large open area where we all work on our patients, I take a moment to collect myself. The morning was bad, but that doesn’t mean the rest of the day has t
o keep on being bad. After a deep breath in through my nose and out through my mouth—probably a bad idea since no matter how hard we try to get rid of the sour sweat smell, this pace just keeps on smelling like a thousand-year-old gym—I scan the place, searching for Hudson Knox, my football patient with the ruptured Achilles.
“Hudson’s over on the treadmill,” Mina Turret, another PT says, pointing to the long row of exercise machines. “Although I’m not sure how you can miss him. He’s huge.”
Mina’s new and not all that seasoned, yet. She hasn’t had the privilege of working with the professional athletes and still gets star-struck whenever they’re in here.
“He is big,” I say. “But he’s got an ego to match. It’s no bueno.”
“If you say so.” Mina’s tone says that she really doesn’t believe it’s anything but bueno.
I spend the short trip over to Hudson giving myself a mental pep talk. So what if the morning was shitty? I am in control of my thoughts and feelings and I choose to make a better day for myself. Plastering a huge smile on my face, I study Hudson’s gait. He’s still walking a little flat-footed on that injured ankle.
“You still aren’t leading with the heel,” I say as I come up beside him.
Hudson looks down at his foot and then over at me, lifting an eyebrow just the way that awful cop did this morning. I am getting so tired of that look. “Maybe I’d rehab better if, you know, my therapist was actually here to help me.” He smiles, clearly trying to joke with me but I prickle anyway.
“One time, Knox,” I say, holding up a finger. “I’ve been late one time.” I adjust the speed on the treadmill, pushing him a little faster. “I don’t think you can blame that limp on my bad morning.”
He hits me with an incredulous look. “I haven’t limped in a week.”
“You keep saying that and I’ll keep telling you that you need to lead with your heel more.”
I smile up at his handsome face. He has the entire female staff here at Cincinnati Orthopedics all aflutter with his wide grin and boyish charm. I don’t know why, he just doesn’t do it for me. I like the guy. He would make a great friend. I’m just not at all interested in anything more.
I guess I’m more about guns and creased eyebrows than cheering fans and dimples, I think and get distracted by remembering the way the cop’s gun hung at his hip this morning as he sidled up to my car.
What the hell? I’m most certainly not ‘about’ Officer Jerk Face. Not at all. I don’t know if I’ve ever instantly disliked someone the way I instantly disliked him.
Besides, I know what I like and it’s not grumpy cops or cocky athletes. I want a man in a business suit with a 401k and a five-year plan. I want safety and security and a kiss on the cheek every morning when he leaves for work. I want predictability. My sisters say it’s boring, but I’ll take that over stress and worry and all the things that come hand in hand with a man who lives outside the confines of perfectly normal, thank you very much.
Hudson finishes up his treadmill time and I lead him through the rest of his exercises, keeping a close eye on the way he moves. He’s really coming along quite nicely; we just have that slight limp left to get rid of before I’m ready to call him cured. A quick check of the time while I’ve got Hudson up on the massage table working on the scar tissue around his ankle shows that I’m already five minutes late for my next appointment.
For the briefest of moments I consider rushing through the massage, especially given how well he’s healing. But as much Hudson tires to hide how much he worries about his progress with all kinds of bravado and brave words, I know he’s really stressing about getting himself put back together in time for the season to really get started. And since I’ve promised him he’ll be ready, I refuse to skimp on him now. I call Mina over.
“Hey,” I say and wait for her to drag her eyes off Hudson’s dimples. “Would you please get my next patient started for me? I won’t be too much longer with my favorite Bengal, here.” I give his foot a pat and assume that the blubbery affirmative sound coming from Mina—who still hasn’t taken her eyes off Hudson—means that she’ll help me out.
“So.” Hudson props himself up on his elbows and stares down the table at me where I’m still working on his ankle. “Do you realize that you’re the only woman here who doesn’t give me the goo-goo eyes whenever they get near me?”
“The goo-goo eyes?”
“Yeah, you know.” He jerks his head towards Mina as she heads off to get my next patient ready. “The look that means I could have them with just one little crook of my finger. Probably right over there in the bathroom if I wanted to.”
“Hudson Knox.” I try to make it clear how much I utterly disapprove of that statement. “You better not.”
He shrugs. “I’ll do what I like, thank you very much. Especially, if the woman who has captured my interest is even slightly interested in return.”
Alarm bells are going off like crazy. I give his ankle all my attention, barely lifting my gaze to meet his only to drop it down again.
“And just who has captured your interest?” I murmur the question, more out of a need to be polite rather than any kind of need to know the answer.
Please don’t let it be me. Please don’t let it be me.
“You.”
Damn it.
“Hudson. I…” How do I tell him that I’m just not interested in what he has to offer without making our visits awkward from this point forward?
“Don’t tell me no, Chelsea.”
“You’re my patient.”
“That’s right. And I have to repay you for all your brilliance. I’ll be back to full speed in no time and that’s all because of you, my friend.” He flashes that boyish grin at me and damn if I don’t feel part of my resolve melting away. It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything fun. And an even longer time since I did anything fun with a good-looking man.
“You’re so not my type,” I say.
“And you’re not mine.” He shrugs as I frown. “But we can at least go out and have a good time together.”
“Relationships aren’t my thing.”
“I’m not proposing, London. Just go out with me and have some fun.”
I stop working on his ankle and look up at him, considering. A night out sounds good. Really good. Dancing, drinking, conversation…
Sensing victory, Hudson smiles. “You seriously look like you need to unwind. And, friend, I am officially the master of unwinding.”
I take a deep breath and prepare myself to say no.
“You know what?” I say instead. “Sure. I’ll go out with you.”
Hudson beams and I can’t help but smile back. We exchange numbers and I give him my address while he promises to pick me up Friday night at eight before he hops off the table, drops one eyelid in a ridiculous wink and heads back to the locker room.
“You’re still not leading with that heel,” I call after him.
He turns around, smiles at me and flares his hands and damn if I don’t feel just a little excited about seeing him on Friday. After all, he is handsome. And, since he’s brand new to the team, he’s not famous or anything, but he will be. I can feel it. He’s got that kind of drive. How many chances will I have to go out with a guy who’s on the fast track to fame?
So, he’s not my dream guy? A girl can have a little fun, right?
“Chels?” Mina sidles up beside me, sounding worried.
I turn to her, a huge smile on my face. “What’s up? My new patient ready?”
“That’s the thing,” she says. “He didn’t want me. He said he wasn’t going to be passed around like leftovers. He’s right over there waiting for you and he doesn’t seem pleased. Like, at all.” She widens her eyes and points to a table behind her where I catch a glimpse of a large man with dark hair and massive arms folded over an even bigger chest. He’s staring after Hudson, so I can’t quite see his face.
“What’s his name again?”
“Max. Max San
toro.”
“Okay, Mina. Thanks for trying. I guess it’s time to turn on all the charm and make him feel like a superstar instead of leftovers.”
“Good luck with that. This one is a real beast.” She rolls her eyes and stares after me as I head over to greet Mr. Santoro. He turns as I approach and I stop in my tracks, eyes wide, eyebrows raised.
The man perched on the edge of one of my massage table glares at me with his bullet blue eyes and I take a deep, gym-scented breath. Standing right there, looking just as big and scary (and sexy!) in a black t-shirt and low-slung sweatpants as he did with a gun on his hip and the brim of his hat hiding those weapons for eyes is the cop from this morning.
And his mood doesn’t seem even a little bit improved.
Chapter Two
The last place I want to be right now is this giant ant hill of a room filled with gym equipment and strange machines that look more like torture devices than anything remotely therapeutic. If I had any choice in the matter, any at all, I would be out on patrol, giving my knee the time it needs to heal while I sit in my squad car doing my damn job. Some ice at night, some ibuprofen during the day, and bam. Good to go.
But no. I spend one day limping through the office and wouldn’t you know it, I have orders to get my ass to physical therapy or I’ll be riding a desk until Bossman thinks I’m all better.
To make matters worse, not only is my therapist late, but she’s also the nincompoop I pulled over for driving like an idiot this morning. The one who was blatantly speeding and swerving recklessly through traffic and didn’t even act surprised or sorry when I pulled her over. She’s probably one of those women who think that just because she’s blonde and beautiful, the world owes her everything. That she gets a pass with a bat of an eyelash and a cute little smile.
I get the feeling she’s spoiled rotten. Daddy’s Little Girl and Mommy’s Perfect Angel and the pampered life that comes along with dumbass nicknames like that. I bet she’s never had to work for anything in her whole life. I glare at her as she walks my way, chin up, eyes bright, hips swaying.