Love Is Beautiful (Chelsea & Max)

by Abby Brooks

  Love Is Beautiful

  Max & Chelsea

  Abby Brooks

  Little Bird Publishing, LLC

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Connect with Abby Brooks

  Also by Abby Brooks

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Also by Abby Brooks

  Copyright © 2016 by Abby Brooks

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For Bill. My everything.

  Connect with Abby Brooks

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  Also by Abby Brooks

  The Moore Brothers Series

  Blown Away (Ian and Juliet)

  Carried Away (James and Ellie)

  Swept Away (Harry and Willow)

  Break Away (Lilah and Cole)

  Love Is…

  Love Is Crazy (Dakota & Dominic)

  Love Is Beautiful (Chelsea & Max)

  1

  I never speed. Like never, ever. I am such a serial rule follower that the idea of breaking even a simple law like the speed limit makes my eye start to twitch. So, the fact that right now I'm flying down the highway going just a little too fast…

  Okay. A lot too fast.

  And the fact that I’m swerving in and out of traffic like I think I’m a professional race car driver or something … well … let’s just say I’m white-knuckling the steering wheel. Clutching it so hard I might pull it right off. People honk at me as I change lanes like I own the highway and normally I would be totally offended, but this morning I just hold up my hand in apology and grimace each time they do. I know I’m being a complete asshole.

  But I'm late for work. And just like I never speed, I’m never late for work.

  Like, never ever.

  And of all the days for me to be late, it had to be this one. Today is too busy for me to be dealing with any of this. While I live in a small town out in the middle of nowhere, I work for a large sports medicine and orthopedic center in Cincinnati as a physical therapist. Well, kind of the physical therapist.

  Well, wait.

  That came out wrong.

  I’m not the only one working there. God, no. There are tons of us. But I am the one who gets all the big names. You know, people like injured athletes from the Bengals and the Reds and the dancers from the Cincinnati Ballet. I’m also the one who gets the most requests from new patients and I have a waiting list a mile long.

  My sisters say that I excel at excelling and while I always laugh and try to brush it off, deep down, I love that they feel that way about me. They think it just comes easily to me, being as successful as I am. They have no idea how hard I work for what I have. But that’s okay. Well, let be honest. It’s okay most days, anyway. Some days I’d like a little recognition for the extra effort I put in. But, for the most part, knowing they think so highly of me makes all the long nights kept awake worrying about the millions of things I have on my to do list a little more tolerable.

  Anyway, last night I was up for hours worrying about today because it’s a busy one, that’s for sure. By the time I fell asleep, I would have been better off just staying awake until my alarm went off. Maybe then I would have realized that my phone wasn’t on the charger and had died at some point during the night. Maybe then I wouldn’t be late for work. Maybe then I wouldn’t be speeding.

  But I am late.

  And I am speeding.

  And at this point, the only thing left for me to do is admit that the morning is shot and focus on making the best of the rest of today. My first client is one of those big name clients of mine. Hudson Knox, an up and coming pro-football player, recruited by the Bengals only to rupture his Achilles tendon early in the pre-season. I know I can get him rehabbed and back on the field better than ever. I’ve made it my mission to make sure this injury isn’t a career ender. Hence the late nights, researching the latest and greatest information on the most successful Achilles tendon rehabilitations.

  My second client? A newbie. Just some guy with a knee injury—a meniscal tear that shouldn’t be too hard to get patched up. And after him? A stream of long term clients that I want to get back on their feet and back into life. 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 with a lead
foot 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. My eyes widen in shock because the guy getting out 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 help. Maybe it’s the stress of the morning, but I can’t stop staring at him through the mirror. The moment he’s close enough to the car, 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 hides 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 and 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. 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?”

  The cop lifts one eyebrow and shoots me in the heart with his eyes again. “Yes, Ms. London. I am giving you a ticket.” 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 to 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 reliable 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 what it is, 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 eye
brows 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 think about 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. “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.