by Lane Hart
“Nope, not offended,” she confirms. “More like…flattered.”
“Good,” I say in relief. “Because I plan to flatter the pants right off of you, or rather those minuscule shorts.” Now I can’t help but pinch the loose fabric on the side between my finger and thumb, imagining tugging them down her legs…
“Less to get off of me,” Samantha responds, and it takes all of my restraint not to strip her naked and fuck her right here, right now on the exam table.
“Four weeks. Twenty-eight days. Six hundred and seventy-two hours,” I mutter to myself.
“If I’m not busy on the fourteenth,” she says to me again, which is about as pleasant as a nut punch.
“Reschedule,” I tell her, making her giggle because she thinks I’m joking. I’m not. Whatever plans she has can wait. This can’t.
“So you never answered my question. Do you need a ride home?” I ask.
I’m torn because the horny, sex-deprived part of me wants her to say yes, but the other, logical thinking part wants her to say no to avoid the temptation.
“Yes,” she says, and my cock twitches in celebration.
“Okay,” I reply. “Just, don’t let me get out of my car when we get to your place.”
“Sure,” she says and tries to turn around to head for the door.
When she has trouble maneuvering on the crutches, I ask, “Need some help?”
“Nope. I’ve got to get used to them.”
I admire her tenacity, and her nice, round…assity when she’s able to spin around and hobble right out the door.
…
Sam
I proudly make it out to the parking lot without falling and stop by my car to throw on my purse and backpack before hopping over to the only other car in the lot, a new looking, blue Camaro that I assume is Dr. Scrumptious’s ride. By then, the good-looking doctor is locking up the front door and strolling over to me. He’s graceful and gorgeous enough to be a runway model; and for some crazy reason, he wants to go out with me. Not just go out with me, but he admitted he wants to fuck me. Which is slightly scary but incredibly gratifying.
“You look awfully happy for a girl who sprained her ankle and skinned her knees earlier today,” the Adonis says with a panty-meting smile when he’s standing right in front of me.
Feeling brazen after he expressed his desire for me, and not wanting to come across as an innocent little girl, I tell him, “If I had known you had taken over for Dr. Draper, I would’ve tried to fall sooner.”
Dr. Matthews laughs as he closes the remaining distance between us. The cool February air suddenly warms with his massive frame blocking the wind, just inches away. “You are adorable,” he says before brushing a loose strand of hair from my ponytail behind my ear. “And so damn tall. Have I told you how sexy it is to be eye level with you?”
I shake my head in response because I want to hear whatever he has to say.
“It’s sexy because I won’t have to slouch down to kiss you or bend my knees to fuck you. I’m almost certain we’ll line up perfectly in any position.”
Whoa. This man certainly doesn’t talk like the boys I go to school with. Most of my life they’ve called me bean pole, giraffe, Amazon. None of them have ever said they were attracted to me for my height or wanted to sleep with me.
“Then it’s a good thing I’m a runner and have an incredible amount of stamina,” I say because I can’t think of any other response other than please take me.
“That is a very good thing,” Dr. Matthews replies.
I think he wants to kiss me. His eyes keep lowering to my lips. It’s seriously hot, and I wish he would do it already!
“Now, where am I taking you?” he asks.
“Home,” I say. “Um, 1431 Fox Trail,” I clarify.
“Oh no,” he responds as his face falls.
“What? Is-is that too far?” I ask in concern.
“No. I only live like three streets over on Crestwood.”
“Okay?” I say in confusion.
“That’s just too close. There needs to be like twenty miles or a Great Wall between us because you’re too…tempting. Are you sure your ankle is hurt?” he asks, glancing down at my wrapped foot that’s hovering above the concrete and currently the size of a boulder.
“It’s not that bad. Can’t I just, like, ice it?” I ask.
“No,” he says with a shake of his head. “I can’t leave you untreated just because I’m a horny bastard.”
Opening the passenger door, he takes the crutches from me and then gestures for me to climb in. Once I’m settled in the seat with my purse and backpack on the floorboard, and my seatbelt is fastened, he slides the crutches in between the two front seats and closes the door.
When Dr. Matthews sits down and starts the engine, golden oldies come pouring out of the speakers. “Hungry Eyes” specifically, a song that always reminds me of Dirty Dancing.
“Aren’t you a little young for…”
“They’re called classics for a reason,” he says defensively as he reaches for the knob to turn down the volume. “None of them used crap with synthesizers or were caught lip-syncing. This was the age of the real deal musicians. They had heart and soul, honest to goodness depth in their lyrics. Real emotions, not just a cash in on another shitty pop song.”
After his speech, I actually listen to the words of a song I’ve heard a hundred times because of how many times I’ve seen the movie. It’s about a man telling a woman he wants her, is hungry for her, and can’t hide it whenever he looks at her. That there’s something between them that can’t be ignored. He wants to hold her and show her what love is all about. It’s an oddly appropriate song based on the flirting and tension I feel between Dr. Matthews and me.
Too soon, we’re pulling up in front of my dark house. My mom is still at my little sister’s school Valentine’s dance, and my dad is a second shift production manager at the local furniture plant, so…it’s empty.
I gather my things from the floorboard and reach for the door handle. “Well, thanks for the ride, Dr. Matthews.”
“Please, call me Grant,” he says. “It was nice meeting you, Miss Elliott.”
“Samantha,” I insist. “Or just Sam.”
Clearing his throat, he says, “Well, Samantha, I should probably help you get inside.”
“But I thought you said not to let you get out of the car.”
“I forgot you would need some assistance with the crutches, and I’m not gonna sit here and be a dick when I could easily help,” he argues.
“Okay,” I agree.
“Just don’t let me in your house,” he adds before getting out.
Trying not to imagine what would happen if he came inside but failing, I open the door and haul myself to my feet, or foot, before Grant gets around the car and pulls out the crutches.
He holds an arm out at the ready to catch me if I start to tumble, but I make it up the sidewalk and front steps without falling on my ass or face. Grant even holds the crutches steady while I dig around in my purse for my keys.
“So, I guess you live here with your parents while you’re in school?” he asks.
In school?
It takes me a few seconds to understand what exactly he means by that. Of course, I still live with my parents. Why wouldn’t I?
Oh shit!
That’s when I quickly make the decision to tell a teeny, tiny fib.
“Yeah,” I reply simply.
“Do you commute to one of the universities in Greensboro, or are you enrolled at the community college?” he asks.
Sheesh. What’s with all the questions? Here I go, piling on another lie.
“Community,” I say since that’s more believable. Besides, universities won’t ever happen for me unless I get an athletic scholarship. I’ve been offered a few academic ones from different schools for my 4.0 GPA, but none will even begin to cover all the living expenses.
“What’s your major?” Grant asks, making me have to qui
ckly think up another lie.
“Undecided,” I say since I honestly have no idea what I want to do with the rest of my life besides run. “I’d like to get enough credits to transfer to State or Carolina in a few years, though.” There, mostly the truth. I do have some college credits, enough for almost the entire freshman year, and I do want to go to a good school, but if I can’t land an athletic scholarship…
“Well, good luck,” Grant says. “You seem like a smart girl who can do anything you want.”
“Thanks,” I reply, twisting the doorknob open. The small, routine activity now has my heart racing, wanting to invite this amazing man inside, but too scared to ask him. I’m not sure which I’m more afraid of, him saying yes, or no. “Oh, and thanks again for the ride home.”
“No problem,” he says. “Can someone bring you by the office tomorrow so I can check your progress and you can give driving yourself a try?”
“Sure,” I quickly agree, excited at the thought of getting to spend more time with him so soon.
“Can I see your phone?” he asks. “I’ll put my number in, you know, just in case something comes up or if your ankle worsens.”
“Um, okay,” I reply, excited about him giving me his phone number. I grab the device from my purse and offer it to him. As soon as Grant swipes the screen to unlock it, he says, “Who is this?”
“Oh,” I reply after looking down at the selfie of my best friend since the summer before Kindergarten when my parents and I moved to town. “That’s Hunter.” I nod in the direction of the enormous brick house next door. My parents aren’t wealthy, but we were lucky enough to find an older home for sale in one of the nicest neighborhoods in the city.
“He’s your neighbor?” Grant asks.
“Yeah.”
“But not boyfriend?”
“No. We’ve been friends forever. He’s like a brother,” I explain.
“Does he only think of you as a sister?” Grant asks with narrowed eyes.
“What?” I ask in confusion, but then I realize…is he jealous? If so, I enjoy his reaction a little too much, knowing that even though we just met, he doesn’t want to see me with anyone else. The possessiveness is hot. “Well, yeah. Of course. Hunter and I have never been anything but purely platonic.”
“Good,” Grant says with an exhale, and then he hands me my phone back. “Now you can call me if you need anything.”
“Thank you.”
“So, I guess I should go.” His statement sounds almost like a question. I want to shout No, stay! But I don’t. It’s too soon; and despite how sexy he is, I’m not ready for that big of a step. “See you tomorrow?” he asks.
“Yeah, around three or four when I get out of class?” I suggest.
“Sounds good. Bye, Sam.”
Leaning forward, Grant holds both sides of my waist and brushes his lips over my right cheek. I remain standing there frozen as he jogs down the porch steps and then strolls over to his car. With a wave of his hand, he climbs inside and drives away. And if it weren’t for the crutches underneath my arms, I’d swear he was just a beautiful, mythical creature.
Chapter Five
Sam
The next morning, I get up with my alarm at six-thirty and quickly shower and dress to try to catch Hunter for a ride to school before he leaves. I wrap my ACE bandage back on as best I can, noticing the swelling has gone down on my ankle after icing it and elevating it last night. Drying my long hair to create natural waves and running my fingers through it one last time, I grab my crutches and hobble into the kitchen, now really glad that my room is on the first floor.
“Morning,” I say to my mom, who has her back to me, fixing my little sister Stacy’s lunch in her fluffy, blue robe. “How was the dance?”
“Good morning,” she replies. “It was just great! Stacy had a ball. You should’ve seen her…” When she looks over her shoulder at me, she gasps. “What the hell happened, Sam? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a sprain.”
Tossing down her knife, Mom spins around and approaches me for a closer look at my wrapped ankle.
“Just a sprain!?! When did you sprain it?”
“Yesterday afternoon I went to the track and slipped on a patch of black ice,” I tell her. Thankfully, my jeans cover my shredded knees. “I drove myself over to The Rehab Center, and they confirmed it’s not broken.”
“I was wondering where your car was, but you were in bed asleep when we got home. I just assumed you and Hunter had carpooled somewhere.”
“Yeah, and I need to hurry up and catch him before he leaves.”
“Okay, but I can take you to school if you miss him,” she insists. “I’m sorry you hurt your ankle, but I told you it was still too icy yesterday.”
“Yes, you did,” I agree before snatching a cinnamon Pop-Tart from the cabinet and tossing it into the purse on my shoulder.
“Do you need lunch?” Mom asks.
“Nope, I’ll grab something in the cafeteria.”
With a kiss to my cheek that makes me smile because it reminds me of Grant, I tell her goodbye and make my way out the front. Going down the porch stairs is tricky, but I make it, right as Hunter comes out of his house, his curly, dirty blond hair disheveled, like always, with his backpack hanging over one shoulder.
“Hunter!” I yell. My best friend comes to a stop in front of his black Mustang when he sees me.
“What the fuck happened to you?” he asks and walks over to meet me at the property line, also known as the row of shrubbery between our parents’ houses.
“I fell,” I admit. “Can you drive me to school and then over to The Rehab Center this afternoon to get my car?”
“Can you even drive with those things?” he asks, nodding to my crutches.
“I think so. It’s my left ankle that’s sprained.”
“Running yesterday?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You should’ve waited for me to get home from the gym,” he bitches. “But nooo.”
“Oh, whatever. Can you open the door for me?” I ask, hobbling in the direction of his car.
“Do you want me to carry you too?” he jokes. “I can’t believe you fucked up your ankle a month before the season starts.” He unlocks the doors with his key fob and holds the passenger one open.
“Gra-Dr. Matthews said it should be healed in a few weeks.”
“Yeah, but it’ll take time to get you back to your record-breaking four-hundred,” he says.
“Thanks for the encouragement, Debbie Downer,” I tease, sliding the crutches inside before I plop down in the seat.
“Seriously, can you get to all your classes like that?” Hunter asks when he climbs into the driver's seat and cranks the engine.
“Yeah. I’ll just take the elevator up for English.”
“If you’re sure,” he says. “I was wondering where the hell your car was last night. I texted you and never heard back.”
“Sorry,” I tell him while digging my cell phone out of my purse. “I was worn out. I laid down to prop my foot up; and before I knew it, I was out for the night.”
When I try to power on my phone I realize it’s out of juice. Holding it up to show him, I say, “And my phone’s still dead since I forgot to charge it.”
“So what are you doing this weekend?” Hunter asks while driving to school, also known as the ninth circle of hell on Earth. “I’ll take pity on you and take you to see the new Channing Tatum movie if you want.”
“Maybe,” I reply.
“Maybe?” he repeats, keeping his hazel eyes on the road. “Since when do you say maybe to Channing Tatum?”
Since I met Grant Matthews, who is even sexier than the actor.
For some stupid reason, I want to keep my options open just in case I need…therapy this weekend.
Chapter Six
Grant
“That’s it, Mr. Williams. Give me three more, and I’ll let you have the rest of the day off,” I tell my total knee replaceme
nt surgery patient as he finishes up his standing knee bends.
Through the panel of glass windows in the therapy room, I see a dark colored Mustang pull up in the mostly empty parking lot. A young guy with an unruly mop of sandy blond hair gets out and walks over to help the passenger out of the car. I instantly recognize her even with her long, sepia-colored hair down today. Like a picture, there are lighter and darker tinted strands, creating thick, beautiful, breast length waves. She’s moving quicker and more comfortably on her crutches today; and after tossing her backpack over her shoulder, she thankfully shoos her “friend” away and starts for the front of the office.
There’s something about her. Seeing her...I’d almost swear the sun shines a little brighter, the sky looks a little bluer, making me feel a little bit lighter, happier.
Ever since yesterday, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her. I even got up in the middle of the night to reread the Board rules to see if it strictly forbids kissing and making out or if it only specifically says sex. Unfortunately, the exact wording said disciplinary action could be taken for “soliciting or engaging in any activities of a sexual nature, including kissing, fondling, or touching any person while the person is under the care of a physical therapist.”
To say I was disappointed is a drastic understatement.
“Good job, Mr. Williams,” I tell my seventy-year-old patient. “Jenny will schedule your next appointment on your way out.”
“Thanks, Grant,” he says before using his walker to help him get to the receptionist’s desk.
Instead of waiting for the slack receptionist at the front desk to take her sweet ass time checking Sam in, I walk up to meet her and end up holding the front door for her to get through.
“Thanks,” she says before she even realizes it’s me because of the wind whipping her beautiful mane of hair around in front of her face. “Oh, hi,” she mutters after she smooths the locks behind her ear to see.
“Hi,” I repeat, unable to help my smile. “How are you feeling?”
“Good,” she says with an answering smile. “I kept my ankle elevated last night, so most of the swelling’s gone down.” She winces before lifting the hem of her pants leg, and we both look down at her ankle.
