by Brisa Starr
But I just stand there.
Like an idiot.
“Are we doing the therapy out here?” he asks and nods his head to the waiting room. He knows I’m squirming under his gaze, and he doesn’t mind one bit.
“No,” I croak and then clear my throat. “No. Right this way, Luke,” I say and open the door more, stepping aside so he can walk past me. Which was a bad move because, as he passes, that delicious star-dusty, snow-covered pine tree scent hits my nostrils. Unconsciously, I inhale sharply, drawing it deep into my lungs.
He turns to face me as he passes. “Are you OK, Ash?” he asks and raises his eyebrows. Both this time.
I like the way he says my name.
My eyes grow wide, and I plaster my big, professional smile back on my face. “Oh yeah. Totally. Everything is great.” I wonder if he has a girlfriend back in California. He must.
He steps aside, unsure where I’ll take him, and I step past him. Great... I get to walk in front of him and he’s going to see my butt. I walk on ahead and he follows. Are my scrubs too tight on me?
He clears his throat, so I stop and turn around. I catch his eyes flick up to meet mine. Holy hell! He was looking at my butt. I swallow and turn back around, my eyes huge in surprise. But then, a tiny grin tickles my lips. I slow my pace to ensure I don’t stumble again, and I’m walking slow as a snail on a tightrope. We finally arrive at the exam room, and I let out my exhale.
“You can sit on the exam table,” I say and point to it. He gets up on the table and lies back, the hygienic paper crinkling beneath him. I walk over to the sink and wash my hands, even though I don’t need to because I already did. I need a moment with my back to him so I can convince myself to relax.
We’re about to get close. For his exam. And that’s fine, because... I’m a professional. I am a professional. I repeat the mantra in my head, because, like I said, I am a professional.
OK.
Ready. Set. Go.
I turn around and walk to his table. “So, Luke, how is your groin feeling?”
Phew — so far, so good.
“It’s better,” he says and smiles. “I’ve been icing it, which helps. Walking is easier, too, but I’m still having pain when I try to bring my legs together.” He demonstrates to show me at what point the discomfort starts.
“And, of course,” he adds with determination in his voice and leans up, “I’m eager to get back to working out.”
“I understand,” I say. “I’d go nuts if I couldn’t run or work out, too.” I smile, naturally this time, though, it’s short-lived because... “I’m going to examine you now, so I’m going to touch you.” Why did I just say that? “I mean, I’m going to proceed with the exam, OK?” I say, more robotic this time, and he raises that eyebrow at me again.
“I’m ready,” he says and lies back, clasping his hands behind his head. “I’m all yours. Have at me.” He winks at me when he says it, and the room gets ten degrees hotter.
“OK. I will.” That’s professional, right?
I reach down and touch his inner thigh, and he inhales a scraggy breath. Thinking I hurt him, I withdraw my hand like I touched a razor blade. “Oh my gosh, did I hurt you?”
“No,” he says. His eyes burn green with wicked fire, and the air thickens between us. Stifling. I feel like my mouth is full of cotton.
We both swallow, and I drag my eyes away from his face and back to his leg to continue the exam.
A moment later, I take a quick peek at his face again, and I see he’s closed his eyes. My heart melts like ice cream on a hot summer day. He looks so peaceful, and I just want to lean down and kiss his full, sexy lips.
I’m a professional, dammit.
I return my attention to the exam and touch his inner thigh again, mashing around to see where he’s tender. His legs are muscular and solid, like a Viking. Ooh — or a gladiator! The physical therapist in me appreciates them. The woman in me, well, I’ll think about that once he’s gone because... I’m a professional.
I grab the stool on wheels, and as I roll it over to him, his eyes open. I sit down on it. “Well, Luke, you’re in great shape. Fortunately, your athleticism helps protect you and typically reduces recovery time for injuries. And if you avoid the foods I suggested the other da…”
“Yes,” he interrupts me. “I’ve been eating tons of fish, which is great because I love salmon burgers. Those are my favorite. But I’m eating them without the buns,” he says and flashes a stately smile at me. “I’ve been avoiding all the other white things you mentioned, too.”
“That’s great!” I’m proud he took my advice, and my nervousness takes a break. Excited that I feel like myself for once, I continue, “Let’s do some exercises to stretch, and then I’ll hit you with the cold laser for ten minutes, to help with the pain and inflammation. It’ll increase your healing speed.” I stand up and push the stool out of the way. “Patients usually feel better after one or two treatments with it.”
“Sounds good,” he says, his voice husky and strong. It threatens to undo me again, so I sing the first couple of lines from Mary Had a Little Lamb in my head.
I work Luke through some exercises, and I maintain my professionalism throughout the whole thing. We talk, and I learn more about what he does for a living in Long Beach. Of course, he’s doing well; he was always a smart guy and graduated at the top of his class in high school. I tell him more about my physical therapy experience and getting my degrees at Northern Arizona University.
I bring the laser equipment over to where he’s lying on the table, and I put on a pair of protective, yellow-tinted glasses while I tell him a little about my situation. “Yeah, so my dad is starting to show some early signs of dementia. I’m doing everything I can to forestall it. I feed him healthy food and load him up with supplements every day, because there aren’t any good drugs for it yet. At least, not anything I trust that doesn’t have sucky side effects.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says.
“It’s hard because I worry about him all the time. Like, will he remember to turn off the stove? If he goes out for a walk, will he find his way home?” I put a pair of the tinted glasses on Luke. “I mean, it’s not that bad yet, but I’m paranoid about it, and I don’t ever want it to get to that point.”
“That would be hard,” he replies, compassion in his voice.
“I bought him a smartwatch, and it annoys the crap out of him because it allows me to track whether he’s getting up during the day and moving around enough.” I laugh. “He sucks at that!”
Luke chuckles. “Old habits are hard to break.”
“You’re telling me.”
Getting back to the therapy, I ask, “Are you ready for the laser? It won’t hurt. I’m going to push up your shorts so I can access your skin, OK?”
I’m a professional.
“No problem, you’re a professional,” he says.
Holy shit, he read my mind!
I take a deep breath. I can do this! I push up the left leg of his shorts and start the laser treatment. He’s lying back, and I can see through his yellow glasses that his eyes are closed, and I’m gazing at his face again when he cracks his eye open and catches me. Busted! I look away after my face flushes as red as a radish.
Eager to learn more about him, and to distract him from catching me peeking at him, I change the subject to talk about him.
“So, any idea when you’re leaving for California?”
“I had hoped to leave right after the funeral, but now I’m not sure. Some things came up, and I might need to stay longer,” he says, and the light dies in his eyes. “As soon as possible, though.”
All the better, my mind thinks. Not that anything would happen between us.
“I’d like to finish with my treatment though, so I don’t have to pick it up in California,” he adds.
Well, I guess that means he’ll be here for at least another week. My traitorous heart lifts at the thought.
While focusing on t
he laser, I say, “The funeral was nice. How are your mom and sister doing?”
He doesn’t answer me, so I look at his face, and he’s staring at me, but he’s lost in thought, and I don’t think he heard me. A shiver of nerves shimmies up my spine.
Then, I wonder — crap! — do I have something on my face? Is there a booger in my nose? Oh man, I can’t rub my nose in front of him, that would be unprofessional. And I’m holding a laser. So I wiggle my nose instead, and he squints his eyes at me, no doubt wondering what I’m doing.
“Is there something on my face?” I ask.
“No, why?”
Relief washes over me, but it doesn’t solve the mystery. “You were staring at me, and I thought maybe I had something on my face.”
“I was staring at you because you’re beautiful.”
I drop the $14,000 laser, and it falls on the floor. My eyes widen, and I step back like I came upon a rattlesnake in a bush.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “I probably shouldn’t have said that. You’re my therapist.”
I think he’s being sincere, but then he winks at me, and his lips curl into a flirtatious grin.
Desperate to regain control of the situation, I bend over to pick up the laser and say, “Um. Thank you. And you’re right. It’s probably not appropriate. I mean, it’s definitely not.” I fiddle with the laser, and it still works, thank god. Maybe I won’t get fired today.
He takes off his laser shades and looks straight at me.
“Forget I said it,” he says, but his eyes look at me like they’re commanding me to remember it.
“OK then! Well!” I say in an overzealous tone. I take off my yellow glasses. “We’re done for today, and I’d like to see you again in four days this time. I think you’re already improving, so there’s no need to come in before that.” I say it all just a little too fast, but my nerves have hijacked my brain again.
I notice disappointment on his face, so I add, “Of course, if you need to come back earlier, then by all means, you should definitely come in. Most definitely.” I nod my head with more enthusiasm than is necessary. He must think I’m crazy.
He swings his legs over the edge of the table and hops off. “OK, sounds good. Thanks for your help, Ash. See you soon.” His eyes bore into me when he says my name, and it makes me feel tingly inside. He waits a beat, looking me over from head to toe, before turning and walking to the reception area. I don’t follow him out today. He knows where he’s going, and I need to sit down and recover.
Wow. He was flirting with me. Why would he do that? He doesn’t even live here, and he’s leaving soon.
I go to my office and sit down at my desk. I take a big swig of my iced green tea, wishing it had vodka in it. The coolness goes down my esophagus and into my belly, which quenches the heat exploding in me like a grenade.
I have to put a stop to this. He is my patient, and I’ll set him straight if he gives me any more compliments in the future. Again, I’m a professional. It’s my job, and I’ll nip that shit in the bud.
But I sure liked it. I am totally writing this in my journal.
But what if?
Ahhh... who am I kidding? I don’t need any heartbreak or crap in my life, and he doesn’t live here. He doesn’t even want to live here.
Luke is not an option.
But god damn, is he ever handsome.
7
Ash
I’m in desperate need of girl talk. I grab my phone and fire off a text message to my best friend, Reese. I can’t process this Luke stuff on my own.
I met Reese in undergrad in Flagstaff, and her bubbly energy and blond pixie hair made me instantly befriend her. She reminded me of Tinker Bell. We studied together, shopped together, and cried over boys together. She’s my best friend, through and through.
Reese was born and raised in Flagstaff, so when she graduated, she opted to stay there, but she’s close, less than two hours away. We might only see each other once a month, but we stay in touch with text messages and FaceTime. We’re overdue for a girls’ night out, and this time, it’s her turn to drive to me. We need to hit up Whiskey Row for a night on the town.
Me: Hey darlin’ what’s up?
Reese: Hey babe! I miss you! How are you?
Me: Not much going on. I have a hot new patient and I’m unprofessional because when I examine his injury, I wish I could examine more of him. ;)
There, I confessed. That has to count for something.
Reese: Oh my god! That’s funny. Give me the deets!
I giggle.
Me: He used to live across the street from me growing up. I crushed on him hard. You should see the number of times his name appears in my journals. He left Prescott after college, and never moved back. I haven’t seen him in ten years.
I leave out the tragic part of Luke’s history. I don’t want to get into it over text.
Reese: What does he look like?
Me: Mega hot. Imagine a sexy surfer with sandy blond hair, green eyes, and a hard body worthy of Sunday worship.
Reese: Damn girl. LOL So what’s he doing in town?
Me: His dad died. He’s home for the funeral.
Reese: Oh, that’s sad. :(
Me: Yeah, I know. Anyway, there’s nothing else to say because he’s a patient, and I’m a professional. And he’s leaving soon!
Reese: Sounds perfect to me! A sexy guy only in town for a short while. Maybe I should swing down there. J/K!
Me: LOL. You better not!
Reese: Hey, my students are coming in. I gotta go. I’ll text you later so we can make Whiskey Row plans!
Me: Definitely! That’s why I was touching base. I need a girls’ night out. Have a great class and give your students hell!
I put my phone back in my pocket and look at my patient caseload for the rest of the day. My schedule is light, and my three regulars are coming in before lunch, so there’s nothing in the afternoon. Today is Wednesday, which is farmers’ market day, and I would love to go.
I walk down to Kurt’s office and knock on his door.
“Come in,” he calls from inside.
I open the door and pop my head in, smiling. “Hey Kurt.”
“Hey! What’s up Ash?” He smiles back.
“I don’t have any patients from noon to 2:00 p.m., and I wanted to make sure that you’d be in the office in case someone drops in. I’d like to go to the farmers’ market over lunch.”
He stands up to file some paperwork. “Sure. No problem. I’ll hold down the fort.”
“Awesome, thanks.”
I go back to my office and open my latest non-fiction book to read until my next patient arrives. It’s all about how to treat dementia naturally. I have a bunch of pages tabbed, and I grab my highlighter and get back to reading. There’s promising research on more supplements Dad could try.
I’m in the middle of highlighting a passage when my smartwatch alarm goes off, letting me know my next patient, Sheila, will be here soon. I close my book and go to the bathroom to wash my hands before heading over to reception.
Sheila is a real gabber. Sometimes I think my job as a physical therapist goes beyond the physical and touches upon the mental, too. People sure like to talk!
As usual, it’s a sunny and beautiful day in Prescott, and being at the farmers’ market fills me with joy. The tree-lined, historical town square is colorful, and the surrounding streets are lined with fun restaurants and quirky little shops. Summer here also means it’s more crowded now, as tourists drive up from Phoenix to escape the heat, but the town appreciates the extra business.
The farmers’ market is one of the best parts, and I practically skip my way around. I pass a vendor adding fresh loaves of sourdough bread to his wicker baskets under the white tent. I can’t resist, so I buy a loaf before moving on to the fresh and vibrant, just-picked vegetables. This week, I’m making giant salads every day, so I need romaine, carrots, radishes, tomatoes, and red bell peppers.
One of the best parts of
the market is getting to talk with the people who grow the produce. I’m chatting with one of my favorite vendors about his heirloom tomatoes when, suddenly, there he is. I see Luke, shopping with his mom three stalls down. I do a quick mental checklist on my appearance… yep, all is good. I pay for my tomatoes and step away from the booth to let the next person in line make her purchase. I look at my watch, trying to decide how much time I have left to get lunch before heading back to the clinic.
Luke steps next to me. “Why, hello, Ash.”
I shuffle back a step and drop my phone on the grass. Lord, help me.
He bends over to get my phone, and once he’s upright and facing me, he flashes a friendly smile, which makes my heart quiver like a dog shaking water off its back.
It’s strange… I saw him earlier today, but seeing him here in the sunshine, away from the therapist/patient context of the clinic, his presence has a more natural, easy-going vibe. He’s extra sexy in his surfer T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. I like this style on him. It makes him appear relaxed, even playful, which balances the dark tones I’ve seen cloud his face.
“Hi, Luke.” I return the smile, and, remembering my manners, I turn to face Luke’s mom and say, “Hi, Rhonda.”
“Hi, Ash. Thanks again for coming to the funeral,” Rhonda says.
“Of course,” I smile.
I switch my bulky produce bag to the other shoulder and say to Rhonda, “By the way, if there’s anything you ever need, please don’t hesitate to call me, or my dad. I know with Maggie about to deliver her baby any day now, and, well, everything else, I want you to know we’re here for you if you need anything.”
