“Yeah, Cole?”
“You may want to head over here to old man Tillis’ place. Seems Sarah Denby’s milk goats got into his garden again, and he’s threatening to roast them on a spit. Over.”
Olivia lifted her hand to cover a laugh, and Zach scowled. He didn’t see anything funny about this interruption. He winced in discomfort as he shifted his weight away from her.
“On my way.” He bent to taste her one last time. “This isn’t over,” he promised. “And neither is the discussion about the performance.”
Turning on his heels, he called over his shoulder, “Don’t stay too late. And lock your car doors on the way home.”
Later that night, he drove past Carly’s, relieved to see the van parked in the driveway, and the lights on upstairs, the taste of Olivia’s kiss still on his lips.
Chapter Fourteen
“Dammit.” Olivia set her phone down on the café table with a thunk, causing the coffee in her cup to ripple.
“Problem?” Kristen asked, walking by with a tray of dirty plates and coffee mugs.
Olivia groaned. “The van is in the shop, and they just told me it won’t be ready until tomorrow—something about parts—and I have to leave soon for my PT appointment in Atlanta early this afternoon.” Olivia hated to ask, but . . . “Can I borrow your car?”
Kristen rounded the bar and began unloading the tray. “Sugar, only if you don’t mind living on the edge. And by living on the edge, I mean breaking down on I-85. My car’s a clunker.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders slumped. She’d been faithful about keeping her appointments, determined to reach her maximum potential. “Guess I’ll have to reschedule.”
“Wait.” Kristen held up a finger, her smartphone pressed to her ear. “Can you take Olivia to PT? Yeah—Atlanta.” She paused to listen. “Great. See you in a few.”
“Who’s that?” Olivia asked with a sneaking suspicion.
“Zach,” Kristen stated, as if it should be obvious who she was calling.
“Zach? No, no, no. Call him back. Tell him no.”
“Why?”
“Fine. I’ll call him back.” Olivia had just tapped his number in her contacts when she heard a phone ring. Her head snapped up, and she saw Zach in the doorway pulling his phone out of his pocket. She groaned and hit end.
“Hey,” he said, frowning at the missed call. “Did you just call me?”
“Yeah. Never mind,” she muttered. “How’d you get here so fast?”
“I was across the street at the station.” Wearing jeans that hugged him in all the right places, a blue Oxford, sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscular forearms, his aviator sunglasses perched atop his head, she wanted to climb him like a tree.
And therein lay the problem.
He clapped his hands together once, looking between her and Kristen. “So, PT? You ready?”
“Um, sure.” What choice did she have? But she didn’t have to like it.
Zach perched on one of the vacant therapy tables watching Olivia.
The therapist put her through her paces, first warming her up on the bike, then focusing on stretching and flexibility, followed by proprioception exercises and some light running on the treadmill.
She worked hard, impressed again by her physical and emotional strength. But, then again, she always had.
Her beautiful body, with its long, lean muscles, displayed to perfection in running shorts, sports bra, and T-shirt, drew his attention and held him enthralled.
The treadmill beeped and slowed to a walking pace, finally winding down. Olivia picked up her towel and, mopping sweat from her face, moved back to the therapy table. Picking up a water bottle, she held it to her mouth and took a couple of healthy gulps.
Zach leaned in and whispered, “I’m kinda turned on right now.”
Olivia’s eyes rolled heavenward, and she groaned. “Men!” she exclaimed, making Zach chuckle.
After stepping into her pointe shoes and lacing them up, she joined Leslie Murphy, the therapist, at an abbreviated ballet barre in one corner of the room. Turned out, Leslie had been a ballet dancer in a previous life, and, at the conclusion of her career, had gone back to school to become a physical therapist specializing in dancers’ injuries.
Maybe Olivia could benefit from more than just Leslie’s PT protocol. Maybe she could see that there was life after dance.
Olivia performed a series of movements, including some en pointe. She grimaced as she rose up onto her toes, right ankle wobbling just a bit, then lifted her arms over her head to balance.
Lowering into a plié at Leslie’s words, Olivia sprang to the tip of her right toe, other leg lifted in front, and attempted another balance. Reaching for the barre, Olivia righted herself as she lost her balance.
Leslie knelt at Olivia’s feet and, pointing in the mirror, had Olivia rise to her toes once more, the PT’s hands gliding over Olivia’s injured ankle.
Olivia nodded and followed Leslie back to the table.
“Have a seat,” Leslie indicated the table and flipped through Olivia’s chart.
Zach didn’t have a good feeling about this, and apparently neither did Olivia, given the crease between her brows.
“You’ve made remarkable progress,” Leslie began.
“But . . .” Olivia prompted.
Zach had anticipated the same ‘but.’
“But I think you’ve met maximum medical improvement, or pretty close to it.”
Lifting his gaze to Olivia’s face, what he saw there—the pain, the loss, and the fear—backed his breath up in his chest.
Holding Olivia’s foot in her hand, Leslie flexed it at the ankle. “Depending on how and where the Achilles is ruptured, when the rupture is repaired, the Achilles is shortened somewhat. Because your Achilles is shortened, you have less dorsiflexion in the ankle, so while you have no trouble standing en pointe,” she pointed to Olivia’s foot then flexed it again, “achieving a deep enough plié to spring to relevé is difficult, especially when that relevé is en pointe. And achieving a deep enough plié in order to jump is even more difficult. Especially a jump as high as yours.”
Olivia nodded, her lower lip pulled between her teeth.
“Now, that doesn’t mean that with time, patience, and continued hard work you won’t gain more dorsiflexion in that ankle.” She sat back on her heels, sighing and looking up at Olivia. “But based on my own dance experience and my physical therapy training, I can’t see you performing at your pre-injury level. I’m sorry.”
They’d endured a silent, tense ride home.
When Zach turned left, instead of right into town, Olivia knew where he was taking her. They’d spent more than a few nights up on Miller’s Ridge, Northridge’s highest point, when it was too cold to make love in the Hastings house. Zach would leave his dad’s truck running for the heat and they’d uncover just the essentials.
She felt her cheeks flush at the memory.
Zach pulled the truck into the clearing, beneath a stand of elm trees. Below, the lights of the next town over glittered in the cool, clear night.
“Now, talk,” Zach said, as he shut off the engine.
Olivia shot him an angry look.
She didn’t feel like talking. She wanted to go home, crawl into bed, draw the covers over her head, and forget everything. Forget that she’d been told her career was over. Forget that she’d agreed to put on the dance recital. More importantly, forget that her mother was gone and that she’d never be able to apologize for the things she’d said to her.
No, she didn’t want to talk. Only to forget. And Zach could help with that.
She’d felt his eyes on her during her PT session, seen the lust there when she’d returned to the PT table, sweaty from her exertion. She unbuckled her seatbelt, climbed over the console and straddled a surprised Zach. Before he could respond, she’d clicked open his seatbelt.
“Olivia, what are you doing?”
She plunged her hands into his hair and pulled his mout
h up to hers, kissing and biting.
He responded with a ferocity that matched her own, and his hands found their way to her hips, squeezing, his fingers digging into her flesh, making her moan with pleasure.
Kissing her way along his jaw, she reached his earlobe and nipped. He sucked in a breath and reared his hips against hers. Inhaling his spicy cologne mingled with his own warm scent sent her over the edge.
“I want you, Zach. Here. Now.”
Groaning as if in agony, he snared her ponytail in his fist and tugged her mouth back down to his, coaxing her lips open with his tongue.
Her hands went to work on his fly, where his erection pressed against her hand. Panting and breathless, he broke the kiss long enough to unzip the sweat jacket she wore then buried his face between her breasts. She arched her back, giving him easy access, and his teeth toyed with her hardened nipples through her T-shirt and sports bra—first one, then the other.
“Sweet Jesus,” he muttered, when she wrapped her hand around him.
She lifted her hips, tugging her running shorts aside. “Inside. Now.” Her breath came in ragged gasps, not even thinking about protection in her desperation.
A bright light shown in the cab of the truck, then came a knock on the window that had Olivia swallowing a scream of alarm.
“Fuuuuck,” Zach growled and laid his head back against the seat. Before he rolled the window down, he tugged Olivia’s shorts back into place and zipped his own fly, wincing when the zipper made contact with his throbbing erection.
Hitting the electric window switch, he lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the blinding light of the flashlight.
“That you, Chief?” Officer Lewis asked.
“Goddammit. Yes, Cole, it’s me. And I’d appreciate it if you’d turn off that flashlight.”
Cole peered into the interior of the cab, then nodded and redirected the flashlight beam toward the ground. “Evening, Olivia. Everything okay in there?”
“Everything was just dandy, Cole,” Zach responded through clenched teeth.
“I thought you might be broke down.” Cole gestured toward the truck’s hood.
“No. No, we’re not broke down, Cole. But thanks for checking.” Zach tightened his grip on the steering wheel to keep from wrapping his hands around Cole’s neck.
“’Cause I knew you couldn’t be parking, since parking on Old Miller’s property is trespassing,” Cole continued.
Olivia snickered then covered her mouth to stifle a giggle, and Zach sent her a fulminating glare.
“Yes, Officer Lewis, you’re right.” Zach nodded. “We were just leaving.” He gave Cole a pointed look.
Since Olivia had yet to climb off his lap, she gazed up at Cole, her face dead serious. “Zach had something in his eye, and I was trying to find it.” She bit her lower lip, holding back a smile.
Cole nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Well, if you’ve got everything under control, Chief, I’ll just . . .” he pointed in the direction of his police car, “be on my way. Have a good evening.”
Zach watched Officer Lewis make his way back to the car then rolled up the window.
No sooner had the window closed than Olivia burst out laughing. The sound was so beautiful, so welcome, that he swallowed his chagrin and chuckled right along with her. Even if it might have been at his expense.
“Oh my God! The Chief of Police busted for trespassing and lewd and lascivious behavior.” She pressed her forehead to his, and he squeezed her hips in response, their bodies still shaking with laughter.
“Thank God Cole is the soul of discretion,” Zach muttered. “Any of the other officers would have had a field day with this.”
Zach strode into the office the next morning, coffee cup in hand, the day’s to-do list on his mind.
He’d been up half the night, unable to shut off his brain. The vandals, the budget, Olivia’s career, his sexual frustration—you name it, he’d been thinking about it. Even non-urgent problems like whether it was going to be another hot summer suddenly demanded his brain’s attention in the middle of the night.
“Morning, Chief,” Officer Sheldon said in greeting. “How was your, um, evening?”
Something in the man’s tone drew Zach up short. When he looked up, the other officers were peering over their cubicle walls waiting for his response, mouths struggling to remain impassive. Not so with the dispatcher, Trudy Glendale, who wore a big grin on her round face.
Ah, fuck. So much for the soul of discretion. Should he play it cool or own up to it?
Since the evening didn’t end with, er, a bang, he decided to play it cool. “It was nice, Sheldon. How about yours?”
“I’m thinking not as nice as yours, Chief.” He’d barely finished his statement before he broke out in a guffaw.
The rest of his officers joined in, and Zach felt a flush creep up his neck and into his face. “Ha ha.” He rubbed his hand along the back of his neck. He’d pay for that little adventure for a while. “Don’t you have laws to enforce?” He eyed them all, staring them down.
“Right, Chief,” Officer Anita Masters said, with absolutely no shame. “On it.”
He shook his head and proceeded to the back of the station and the sanctuary of his office, where his assistant, Gabby, wore the same sly grin that had infected the rest of his office staff.
After Cole’s timely (or untimely, depending on your point of view) interruption, he’d driven Olivia home, prepared for a pep talk. And maybe something . . . more. But her mood had taken a turn for the morose, and she’d muttered her thanks then fled like a felon under pursuit.
Directing his attention to work, it was sometime later when there was a knock on his door. Expecting more razzing from his staff, he glanced up with a glare to find Olivia standing there.
“I’m sorry. I should have called. Am I interrupting?”
He rose from behind his desk, a grin splitting his face. “No. Just thought you were one of my staff.” He took her hand and pulled her into his office, closing the door behind her.
She offered him a cup of coffee and a little brown bag. “I didn’t properly thank you. For taking me to PT yesterday.”
He winked. “You definitely tried.”
She blushed, making him feel warm and fuzzy inside.
“Yeah. About that.” A frown creased her forehead. “I should also apologize for . . . attacking you last night,” she finished with a shrug and a look of chagrin.
“Never apologize for that.”
“It was a rough day . . . well . . . you know.” She surveyed his office, shifting uncomfortably.
Yeah. He knew.
“Eat,” she said, pointing at the bag.
He peered inside. One of Kristen’s everything bagels with a side of cream cheese. He lifted the bag. “Thanks!”
“You’re welcome.” A tentative smile replaced the frown.
Zach took the bagel and cream cheese out and set them on his desk, as Olivia took a seat in the chair across from him.
“If memory serves, someone has a birthday next week.” He perched on his desk, slathering cream cheese on the bagel.
Olivia winced. “Don’t remind me.”
“It’s only one more year.”
And one more year was everything in her world. Even if she refused to believe what the PT had said, she couldn’t lie to herself. The last two years she’d noticed a difference in her body, its endurance, and notably, its ability to recover. Not only the Achilles rupture and surgery but the little annoyances like pulled muscles, sore joints, and longer recovery time.
“Earth to Olivia. Come in, Olivia.”
Her gaze snapped back to Zach’s.
“Where’d you go?”
“Sorry. What were you saying?”
“Well, I was saying we should celebrate. Go to dinner—in Atlanta. Maybe catch a show.”
“Atlanta? Why?”
“Because it’s the closest big city.”
“I mean, why would you want to take me out?”
<
br /> Zach rose, drawing her to her feet, and stepped into her space, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Because, Miss Olivia James, I like you. And, if last night was any indication, you like me too.” He kissed her on the nose, his lips sweet and warm.
Oh, she liked him all right. Far more than she should. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to.”
At her hesitation, he continued. “I’ll pick you up around four thirty—to give us time to get to Atlanta.” He released her with a grin. “And wear something nice.”
“I gotta get some work done.” He took her by the hand and walked her out front. “See you tomorrow.”
Whispers followed in their wake until Zach barked, “Zip it.”
Olivia turned and watched as Zach sauntered back through the police station, his more causal uniform khakis hugging that fine derrière lovingly. God. He was trouble with a capital ‘T.’ Had been at sixteen. And even more so at thirty-five.
But, as she climbed into the van, the memories of her last birthday with Zach jockeyed with yesterday’s painful news for first place in the misery category.
Chapter Fifteen
(Seventeen years earlier)
It had been Olivia’s eighteenth birthday, every year a reminder that Olivia didn’t know who her father was. Another birthday, another year gone without knowing who her father was. Every year since she was eight years old, when asked what she wanted for her birthday, her response had been to know who her father was.
This year was no exception. But for some reason, her eighteenth birthday lent more urgency to the request. Maybe this year would be different. Maybe now that she was officially an adult, her mother would treat her like one and reveal her father’s identity.
Other than her talent, she bore little resemblance to her mother. Olivia had dark hair, whereas her mother’s had been a sandy blond. Then there was Olivia’s olive skin and dark eyes to her mother’s pale skin and blue-gray eyes. This difference in appearance had even prompted her to ask on her tenth birthday whether she’d been adopted.
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