by Jamie Beck
Suddenly curious about Grey’s condition, Avery asked, “Tell me, how bad was he hurt?”
“He tore his ACL. His doctor is waiting two weeks for the trauma to die down before he’ll operate.” Kelsey paused.
“Kind of ironic, isn’t it?” Emma chimed in. “What if you end up being his physical therapist? How awkward.”
“I’m sure he’ll prefer to use someone else.” When she considered what Grey’s penetrating eyes might look like when angry, she shivered.
“Um, I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Avery. There are four PTs in town. Only two of you have ortho specialties. With Richard Donner still in Florida helping his mother recover from her hip replacement surgery, you’re the only ortho PT in town for the foreseeable future.”
Awkward didn’t begin to describe how Avery would feel if forced to work with Grey. Plus, there were bound to be ethical conflicts, under the circumstances.
“I can’t think about Grey right now. I just need to get through today.” Avery rubbed her forehead. “Tomorrow I’ll face other people and their judgments.”
“You do realize you have nothing to feel guilty about,” Kelsey decreed. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Andy did. He made a huge mistake, and he’ll pay the piper. But he deserves compassion, too. He didn’t intentionally set out to hurt anyone. It was a terrible, terrible accident caused by a moment of bad judgment. Who out there hasn’t had a moment of bad judgment? No one, that’s who! Most of us are just lucky none of ours ended in tragedy.”
“I’m sure he’d appreciate your empathy and support, but the fact Andy’s not the first to get behind the wheel after one too many doesn’t excuse him or fix the fallout.” Avery sighed. “I’m sorry, guys, I can’t talk right now. I’m dead on my feet. I’ll call you later.”
Avery set the phone aside and rolled onto her side, hugging a pillow. She forced Andy’s troubles from her mind, including the recurring images of him lying bruised and beaten in his hospital room. How must Grey look? Her last coherent thought, as she drifted into the soothing peace sleep promised, was of Grey’s seductive eyes.
Grey lumbered out of the doctor’s office on crutches, carrying his presurgical instructions. Thankfully, Trip had pulled the Backtrax van up to the curb for him. After several clumsy steps, Grey handed his crutches to Trip and gently slid into the front seat.
“How’re you feeling?” Trip tossed the crutches in the back of the van and slammed the door.
“Shitty. Wish I didn’t have to wait another ten days for the surgery.” Grey shifted uncomfortably in the front seat and winced. Thankfully the painkillers helped numb the sharp twinges of bending and straightening the joint. But stuffing his leg into the car kinda sucked. “How were today’s treks?”
“Let’s get home and settled before we talk about business, okay?” Trip turned south out of the hospital driveway. “You need surgery. Maybe your first concern should be your health.”
“Don’t remind me.” Grey rubbed his thigh just above the knee with care. “I know it could be worse, but this damned injury screwed me during the final weeks of ski season.”
“Well, the driver got hurt, too.” Trip glanced at Grey from beneath the brim of one of his dozen cowboy hats. “I hear he’s looking at felony charges.”
“Should I feel bad about that? Seems he got what’s coming to him as far as I can tell.”
Trip shrugged. “Can’t blame you for those feelings.”
“Right? Not only am I out for the rest of ski season . . . this leg means I won’t be able to climb this summer. Puts a real crimp in my plans and bottom line.” Grey tapped his fingers against his thigh. “Maybe I can assist with some basic training by June.”
“You know, some of our friends feared the accident would do you in, but really, it’s gonna be stress that kills you.” Trip shook his head. “You need to get some perspective.”
Grey folded his arms across his chest, eyes on the windshield. He hated talking about the accident, but he really hated being lectured to by Trip. “Well, hello, Oprah. When did you arrive?”
“At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor.” Trip grinned then turned up the radio and whistled along with a Kenny Chesney song.
“Trip, I know I’m asking a lot, but what I need from you is help—with the business, not with me, personally.”
“Believe it or not, I understand what’s at stake for you. You’ll have to trust I’ve got your back.” Trip shot him a look of pure challenge.
“You’re right. Sorry.” Grey’s shoulders eased a bit. He stared at the yellow center line of the winding country road for a minute, trying to drown out the twangy music. “Hey, can we at least agree on some other station? Anything but this sappy, sad country stuff.”
Grey had been surrounded by music his entire life. His mother, a music teacher, had gifted him with both an appreciation of music and a natural talent for playing the piano. His talent had propped him up when he’d felt defeated by his dyslexia. He’d habitually turned to his piano in times of trouble or stress, which meant his keyboard would be getting a good workout in the upcoming months. Despite his broad tastes, however, country music had never quite captured his interest.
“Driver controls the radio, pal. Suck it up.” Ten minutes later, Trip parked the van in the paved lot adjacent to the office building and retrieved the crutches. “Do you need help?”
“I think I’ve got it.” Grey took the crutches and hobbled toward the entrance to the upstairs apartment. The skyrocketing costs of real estate—a downside to the town’s popularity—forced him and Trip to bunk up in the small apartment above the office. Not ideal, but the one-flight commute made up for the lack of privacy, at least for now.
“Damned ice everywhere is a menace.”
“Can’t live in a ski town without running into snow and ice.”
“I know.” Grey lumbered up the narrow steps, and his golden lab, Shaman, bounded toward him as he entered the apartment.
“Whoa, whoa, boy.” Grey struggled to balance himself on the crutches while preventing Shaman from hurting his knee further or knocking him over. He scratched under his dog’s jaw and accepted a sloppy kiss, ignoring the shock of pain piercing his knee. “Good boy. I missed you, too.”
Shaman’s tail wagged, but he quickly became distracted when Trip tossed a dog biscuit in the opposite corner.
Once Shaman settled with his treat, Grey went directly to the sofa. “Hey, Trip, can you grab me a bag of ice?”
While Trip filled the blue rubber ice bag and got a dishrag, Grey twisted his neck to alleviate the remaining strain in his shoulders.
Home.
Better than some places he’d lived, but not particularly warm and cozy. Just a small beige living area, sparsely decorated with used brown leather furnishings and a square oak table with four chairs.
No drapes. No pictures or paintings. No personality or style.
Nothing but Shaman’s dog bowls and the Yamaha piano keyboard in the corner to suggest Grey Lowell lived there. He’d lived a nomadic life for so long—always running, as if distance could make him forget her—he’d never accumulated the possessions or normal friendships most other men his age had in their lives.
At thirty-three, he craved something more, but had neither the time nor money now. Hell. He shoved aside his maudlin thoughts.
“How’s Jon working out?” Grey laid the towel across his leg and placed the ice bag on top. “He did his first solo gig yesterday, right?”
“He’s okay. Clients seem to like him.” Trip grimaced, tugging at the brim of his cowboy hat. “Poached him from ski patrol. He likes the tips.”
“I hate not being able to get out there to check out his skills.” Grey pulled a bag of Dum-Dums out of his jacket pocket and stuck a grape sucker in his mouth.
“He’s certified, Grey. PSIA, AIARE, yada yada.” Trip sank into th
e chair across from Grey, removed his cowboy hat and placed it, upside down, on the table.
“Certifications don’t mean shit if the guy doesn’t have the right combo of personality and restraint on the mountain.”
“He’s seasoned and mature. Available on short notice. Definitely good enough to get us through the rest of ski season.”
“Every time I think about the extra salary expense, let alone my personal loss in tips, I could strangle Andy Randall.” Grey locked his hands behind his head. “But I appreciate the way you’ve been picking up the slack these past couple of days.”
“No problem. But don’t micromanage the money for the next few months. It’s a setback, but you gotta focus on the big picture. Take a long-range view.” Trip stared at Grey’s sucker and then motioned for one with his hand. Unlike Grey, he immediately began crunching on the candy after shedding the wrapper. “Just get through surgery and start with therapy right away. I’ve heard it takes seven to twelve months before you can ski.”
“Don’t worry.” Grey pushed up his sleeves and started sifting through the mail on the coffee table. “I’ll recover quickly.” He stopped at the hand-addressed yellow envelope.
A card?
Curiosity spiked, although he suspected it might be from Kelsey. She’d texted him a couple of times since the accident, offering to help out. He wished she’d take the hint and stop trying so hard. She was nice enough, just not really his type. Still, he didn’t know how to shake her off without hurting her feelings.
He pulled the get-well card from its sleeve—a girly card with a picture of a branch with pink flower buds. At least the text was in a large, clear font. “Wishing you a quick and complete recovery.” However, the handwritten note gave him some trouble.
Using his index finger to track the words, he concentrated his best on the feminine, loopy scrawl. Two minutes later, he tossed it on his desk, surprised and frustrated.
“What’s that?” Trip asked.
“Best I can make out, it’s an apology note from Randall’s sister. You know how hard it is for me to read cursive. I can’t read her name.”
Trip picked up the note. “Avery Randall.” Apprehension edged Trip’s voice, which made no sense.
“Avery,” Grey repeated.
“This is either a real nice sentiment,” Trip began, setting the card back on the table, “or the cunning work of a woman trying to get on your good side so you won’t sue the shit out of her brother.”
Grey toyed with the TV remote and frowned. He’d never been a big proponent of litigation. Seemed like the only sure winners in any lawsuit were the lawyers.
But now everything he owned hung in the balance. He couldn’t work. He was bleeding money. He had a lot more medical bills to look forward to in the future. And God forbid this injury truly sidelined him from the demands of safely skiing the backcountry in the future.
His new lawyer, Warren Adler, advised him to hold off on accepting a payout from Andy’s auto-insurance carrier because Andy had only carried the minimum policy limits. Adler needed time to investigate Andy’s assets, and to determine Grey’s “maximum medical improvement” in order to accurately assess damages. He’d said it could take up to six months to determine the MMI. Six months! Grey just wanted the whole thing to be settled quickly so he didn’t lose everything in the process.
“You’re right about one thing,” Grey said, tossing the remote aside. “I need a good therapist.”
Trip wrinkled his nose. “Well, I asked around about the local PTs, but I doubt you’ll like what I have to say.”
“Why not?” Grey sat forward, grimacing when his knee accidentally bumped the edge of the table. “I thought there were good orthopedic therapists in this town.”
“There are two. One’s an old dude who’s temporarily living out of state with a sick parent.”
“So what’s wrong with the other one?” Grey crunched on the remaining bit of lollipop then tossed the tattered stick on top of last month’s Powder magazine. “Is he some kind of freak show?”
“She is not a freak show and has an excellent reputation.” Trip sat back with a smirk on his face.
“You think I can’t work with a woman?”
“Maybe not this woman.” Trip leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s Randall’s sister, Avery.”
“Get the fuck out.” When Trip nodded, Grey picked up the get-well card again, studying her handwriting as if that would make the situation more tolerable. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“’Cause after the accident, I dreaded giving you more bad news.”
“Well, isn’t that just peachy?” Grey scrubbed one hand over his face, using the other to tap the edge of the card against his thigh.
“It’s thorny. But honestly, Grey, she’s not to blame for her brother’s screw-up.”
“You think I don’t know that? Still sucks. That drunk asshole screwed with my future, and now I’m going to have to work with his sister each week?” He shook his head in disgust. “God, this is an unholy mess. Watch her blame me for her brother’s injuries. I bet she thinks he wouldn’t have swerved and hit the lamppost if I hadn’t been on the road.” Grey frowned, shaking off his own niggling feelings of guilt.
“You know it’s not your fault.” Trip sank deeper into the chair and crossed his legs at the ankles. “He’d been drinking.”
Grey pitched the card across the table. “I know. But if I hadn’t been out there on my bike, he might’ve made it home without hurting himself or anyone else.”
How many times had he replayed the events of that evening? Five minutes either way would’ve avoided the whole thing. Fate chose to test him instead. At least a physical test was one he had a chance of passing.
“We could look into PTs elsewhere. It’ll probably involve a thirty-mile drive or farther each way. Could be a problem until we get through the snow season.”
“No. This could work in my favor. Maybe I’ll learn something about Randall that could help move my case along faster. Besides, I want the best so I can get back on the mountain as early as possible.” Grey drummed his fingers on his thigh. Shaman trotted over and rested his head on the sofa cushion, waiting for affection from Grey, which he promptly received. Grey petted Shaman’s head, gazing at nothing in particular. “If she’s the best, then that’s the end of the discussion. I’ve dealt with tougher situations.”
“Of course, she might not want to work with you.” Trip cocked one brow.
Grey’s voice hardened as he glanced at the card on the table. “She’ll work with me. It’ll be her way of making up for her brother’s mistake.”
“That’s harsh—and unlike you.”
“I’m feeling pretty harsh right now.” Grey rubbed at his thigh again. “I’ve got very little in savings and a three-hundred-thousand-dollar loan hanging over my head. I could lose everything in a New York minute if I’m not looking out for myself. I can’t take any chances. And if I have to apply a little pressure to get what I need, then so be it.” Grey sighed at Trip’s shocked expression. “Don’t pull a face. You know I’ll be nothing but polite—compassionate, even—but Avery Randall will agree to work with me.”
Chapter Three
Grey exited the cab on crutches and lumbered toward the rehabilitation center, bracing for a confrontation with Randall’s sister. During the past twenty-four hours, he’d felt like two wildcats were wrestling inside his chest.
Working with Randall’s sister was either brilliant or plain stupid. Guilt over her brother’s actions could spur her to work harder, or make it uncomfortable and awkward. Gripped by indecision, he knew only one thing was certain: aggressive therapy.
He drew the crisp mountain air into his lungs before opening the door of the bustling clinic.
Inside, sunlight flooded through the large windows, bouncing off the wall of mirrors lining
the spotless exercise area. State-of-the-art gym equipment filled the airy space. That and the citrusy-clean scent improved his mood considerably, although his muscles still twitched in anticipation of their introduction.
He trudged to the receptionist area, pleased to discover a candy dish filled with Jolly Ranchers set upon the station’s counter. After fishing around the bowl for a grape piece, he tossed it into his mouth. Lollipops were preferable to Jolly Ranchers, which always stuck to his teeth, but honestly, he’d never met a grape candy he didn’t like.
“Good morning.” A chipper young lady smiled at him. “Are you here to see Dr. Randall, Mr. White, or Ms. Hastings?”
“I’ve got a four-thirty appointment with Dr. Randall,” he replied. “Grey Lowell.”
“Super,” she said. “Did you print out and complete the paperwork?”
“I’m not a patient yet. I’m just here to meet with her.” He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out folded-up papers. “I did fill out these forms in case we end up working together.”
“Okay. I’ll hold on to these for now.” She took them and then pushed out of her chair. “Let me show you to the conference room.”
Grey followed her into a small room. He leaned his crutches against the small table and sat in one of the plastic chairs with his back to the door. “Thanks.”
“She’ll be here in a minute.” The receptionist smiled and left him alone.
While waiting, he scrolled through his email, then texted Trip with a reminder to pick him up at five.
“Mr. Lowell.”
He looked up at the source of the soft voice.
“Bambi?” His ears burned as soon as the word flew from his mouth. Bambi was Randall’s sister? Good God, another stroke of bad luck—or maybe not. Damn, she was just as pretty as he’d remembered.
Despite his discomfort, her confused expression made him smile.
