by Abby Brooks
“Did you know? Did they call you or anything?”
“I’m as surprised as you are. I have no idea who told her I went to the cops. It had to be Hudson.”
“But why would he do that?”
I lean against the counter and hold the phone with my shoulder. “I don’t know! I even saw him today. You’d think if knew, he would have said something. Plus, he knows my name so it’s not like I’d be this big mystery to her. It’s all very strange.”
“She called you a hero.”
I smile as I pull a plate out of the cupboard. “I know. That feels pretty damn cool, let me tell you.”
“I bet it does.”
“I didn’t really do anything, though. I just walked into the bathroom. I don’t deserve to be called a hero.”
“You fought back. You pressed charges. Seems like those are things you did.”
I finish plating up my dinner and carry things to the table. “Yeah, but hero is a pretty strong word though.”
“Well, you’re a pretty strong woman.”
11
Five weeks of physical therapy and I am almost a new man. I even feel better than I did before the accident. Chelsea is an absolute gift. She has worked diligently on me, and I’m not talking about just on my knee. She found all these other little weaknesses in my body that helped contribute to the initial injury in the first place. I’ve followed every single direction she gave me. Done every single ‘homework exercise’ she prescribed. She’s a miracle worker, that’s what she is. I am not at all ready for our visits to be over.
But I’ve got more than one reason to feel that way. Not only is she some sort of angel with healing powers, she’s smart. Funny. Able to charm me out of a bad mood. I leave my hour with her feeling better than I have all week.
I crave her.
How crazy does that sound?
This morning I woke up with this worried little knot in my stomach, not knowing what I was going to do now that I won’t have an excuse to see her each week. But right now? In the last minutes of our last physical therapy appointment? I know exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to ask this woman on a date. There’s been plenty of flirty eye-contact. Plenty of that delicious energy between us. Plenty of her strong hands working on my thigh.
And that’s been the most delicious torture, having her hands on me, thinking about having them on other parts of my body. Wanting to reciprocate…
Damn. I need to divert my attention because right now, she’s got her hand awfully far up my thigh and I’m liking it more than just a little too much.
Her hands still for a moment and then she works her way back down to safer territory, closer to my knee. “What’re you thinking about?” she asks.
I have two options here. I could give her a non-answer and buy myself some time until the end of our appointment where I can just retreat to the locker room if she shoots me down. Or, I can just go balls to the wall and ask her out right now. Be honest about what I’m thinking. Pressing up on my elbows, I watch worry form in her eyes.
“Woah,” she says. “Is it that bad?”
Well now I’m confused. “What do you mean?”
“The look on your face is intense. It just … I don’t know. Is everything okay?”
She takes her hands off my knee and moves in towards me, closer to my face. I both miss the contact of her skin against mine and love the fact that she’s close enough that I catch a whiff of her perfume. Or maybe it’s just her skin that smells that sweet.
“Things are more than okay,” I say. “I’ve really enjoyed these last couple weeks.”
“And that has you looking so intense?” She smiles and that’s the last little ingredient I need to push me over the edge. I want to see that smile more often. Claim it as mine.
“Would you want to grab some dinner sometime? Maybe Friday?”
Her smile fades and I panic. It’s been a long time since I asked a woman out because I actually wanted her company. If she says no, it might just devastate me.
But then her hand goes to her hair and her smile returns and I know I’m in the clear.
“I don’t date patients.”
“Bullshit.” I know very well she dated that football player. That’s how she ended up being in the wrong place at the wrong time and getting hurt.
“Okay, so I dated a patient once, and look what that got me.”
“A chance to be called a local hero?”
Chelsea grins and a blush works its way up her cheeks. “You saw that, did you?”
“I think just about everyone in the area saw it. The news ran the story enough.” I saw the first news story a couple days after she came down to the station. The one where the other woman—the one Sloan Anderson initially attacked—gave Chelsea all the credit for coming forward and for giving her the courage to speak up. There were several other stories after that. An interview with Chelsea alone, another with the two women together, and then a bunch of official releases from Sloan Anderson and his lawyers that basically said nothing and verged on calling the women liars.
“I almost didn’t do the interviews.” She bites her bottom lip. “Honestly, I really didn’t want to. I did it because I felt like it was the right thing to do.”
“How so?” I’m not sure how we got from me asking her out on a date to us sitting here in the middle of Cincinnati Orthopedics talking about the ethics of TV interviews, but here we are. I’m not typically known for my patience.
“Well,” she says, furrowing her brow. “For one, I felt like it was my duty to show women that it’s okay to speak up. You know, so many are carrying around hurt and guilt from an attack like that and never feel comfortable saying anything at all. I thought that if they saw me being strong up there with June, it might help them find their own kind of strength.” She swallows. “Plus, I didn’t want that jerk to feel like he had gotten away with anything.” There’s a fire in her eyes that makes me respect her.
I nod. “Sounds like good reasons.”
“I guess so. A lot of people seem to think I did it for the publicity. Which couldn’t be farther from the truth. I’m not the kind of person who likes the spotlight.”
“I get that.”
I nod, just kind of bounce my head and lift my eyebrows. She doesn’t respond and the silence starts feeling awkward. I did just ask her out and she did just turn me. So now what? Do I shake her hand, hop of the table, and bid her goodbye? That sure sounds like the safe thing to do. But since when do I ever do the safe thing?
When it comes to women. That’s when. When it comes to things like ‘relationships’ and ‘family’ and anything that could end up with things like ‘attachments’.
Or dead eyes staring at you while you hide under the table. Too young to understand why the blood won’t stop.
And there you go. All the reason in the world why I won’t be pushing Chelsea London to go out to dinner with me. With that bit of history hanging out in my genes, I just can’t risk it. I can’t risk love and all the things that come with it.
Disappointment swirls in my stomach and resentment for a man who died decades ago seethes in my chest. “Well,” I say as I hop off the massage table, trying desperately to keep my face light despite the darkness gathering in my heart. “You’re a miracle worker, you know? Never felt this good.” I look down at my knee because it’s easier than looking at her. And that’s that. I turn my back and head towards the locker room.
“Hey,” Chelsea calls after me. “I didn’t peg you for a quitter.”
I turn, the rage-burned memories almost too thick to see through. “You’re right about that. I’m not a quitter.”
“You gave up awfully easy just now.” Her face is pursed in confusion. Her voice shakes.
“Saw the writing on the wall.” I shrug. Even though I know I should turn and go and put Chelsea London out of my mind, I don’t. I stand there, waiting.
“You always this sure you’re right, even when you’re wrong?”
I glare at her; I ca
n’t help it. I know what she’s about to say and as much as I want her to say it, I feel like I should turn and walk away before she does. Chelsea London is about to accept my invitation to dinner and I’m pretty damn sure I should just go ahead and rescind the offer.
“You saying I’m wrong?” I ask.
She steps towards me and nods, her blue eyes wide and locked on mine. “Very.”
Walk away, asshole, I tell myself.
But, probably because I’m an asshole, I don’t. “Will you go to dinner with me on Friday?”
And damn it, as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I smile like an idiot.
12
So here’s the thing. I have never in all my life been more excited about a date than I am about this one with Max. And that’s confusing as all hell because for one thing, the last time I went out with a man I met at work, well, it didn’t turn out very well, now did it? But the other thing? I swear, after he asked me out, he regretted it.
But in very typical Chelsea fashion, I wasn’t in the mood to be ‘not wanted.’ And I had already made up my mind to say yes because there’s something between us. Something good. He’s nothing like the kind of guy I thought I wanted, and that scares me a little. It really does. Especially with those dark moods that come over him. The ones that have his jaw pulsing and his nostrils flaring. What goes on in his head that gets him so worked up?
And should I be afraid of him because of it?
My intellect says yes and my instinct says no and somewhere in between my heart is beating in its silly little excited way. I never listen to my instinct. I always override my heart with my head, so the fact that I’m going out with Max has me a little off-kilter. I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately. But I do know this. If I stop thinking and start feeling, I’m really, really, really looking forward to tonight. Max is picking me up at six and he told me to wear a dress. Actually, his exact words were:
Something sophisticated. With heels.
Well, let me tell you what. If it’s sophisticated he wants, then he has found the right woman because I know how to pull off sophisticated. I put on a little black dress that hugs my body and highlights my shoulders and neckline. Put on a pair of killer heels. And I mean killer with a capital K. Max is tall enough that I don’t have to worry about how tall they make me, so the sky’s the limit, baby! I curl my hair, skipping the volume I went for at Aura with Hudson and go straight for something soft and feminine. As far as makeup goes, I apply black liquid eyeliner and a bright red lip and I’m not going to lie, I feel pretty damn beautiful.
And then immediately wonder if I went overboard.
I mean, Max is a cop. And I’ve never seen him in anything other than the workout pants and a t-shirt he wears to physical therapy, and the uniform he wore the morning he pulled me over. What if his idea of sophisticated and my idea of sophisticated are two entirely different things? And in that moment of absolute horror, my doorbell rings. I check the time on my phone.
He’s early.
Of course he’s early.
One more panicked look in the mirror and I race downstairs and fling open the door without even taking a moment to slow down and take a breath. Which is probably fine because what I find standing on my doorstep takes my breath away completely. Any breath I had taken would have been completely pointless. Max stands there, his broad shoulders filling the space, his blue eyes glittering in the setting sun. He wears a suit like he was made for it. Or rather, it looks like it was made for him.
“Hi,” I finally manage. “Wow. Look at you.”
“Can’t,” he says with a wry twist of his lips. His perfectly full and totally kissable lips. “I’m too busy looking at you.”
I giggle. An honest to goodness giggle. “You look very nice.”
“That’s it? I put all this effort into cleaning up for you and all you have for me is very nice?”
Another giggle and a heavy blush and, damn it, I don’t have anything witty to say in response. Max offers me his elbow—which just about does me in, I do love a gentleman—and leads me to his car after I lock up the house.
“You have a nice place,” he says as he holds open the passenger door for me. “Very you.” He closes the door and crosses in front of the car to the driver’s side, leaving me to wonder what about my house he finds so much like me. I’m busy with work, which doesn’t leave me a lot of time for landscaping. So, while my flower beds are neat, they’re sparse. Just a few perennials that I can set and forget. The house itself is small, but I’ve done my best to keep it welcoming by keeping the porch swept and the windows clean.
Max laughs as he fastens his seatbelt and brings the engine to life. “What’s got you thinking so hard?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re staring at your house like you think you might find the secret to life etched in that pretty white trim.”
“That’s not far from the truth, actually.” I shrug and glance at him and almost forget to breathe again. He’s such a stunning man in that suit. How did he know that I had such a thing for men in suits? “I was trying to figure out just what exactly about my house is very me.”
Max grins at me and puts the car in reverse. The engine sounds throaty and aggressive when he hits the gas and I realize that I was so flabbergasted as he led me out of the house that I have no idea what kind of car I got into. It does have leather seats and too many bells and whistles to be practical on a cop’s salary. Oh no… Please don’t tell me he’s irresponsible with his money.
Or, let’s try this again.
Since this is only our first date, maybe I should stop worrying about whether or not he’s good with his money. That is absolutely none of my business and a little crazy to worry about the implications on our financial future when I don’t even know what kind of kisser he is.
“So tell me,” he says as he flicks on the turn signal. “What does the beautiful Chelsea London like to do for fun?”
“For fun?” I pause and frown. “Well, work keeps me pretty busy. I don’t know that I do a lot of anything just because it’s fun.”
Max looks surprised. “Surely you can’t be that busy.”
“You’d be surprised. I put a lot of extra time into learning about the specific injuries of each patient. I typically get home from work, cook some dinner, do some research into the latest and greatest in the physical therapy world and then head to bed. Rinse and repeat until the weekend.”
“What about the weekend?”
I think hard, looking really seriously into my life, trying to find the bits and pieces of me that are interesting. “I clean up the house. Work in the flower beds…” I scrunch up my nose, looking for something, anything that sounded remotely like fun. “Last weekend I painted the trim.”
Wow. I sound like an absolute loser. What happened to the me that used to do things? When did I become such a homebody?
“What about you?” I ask, eager to get the conversation pointed away from me. “What do you do for fun?”
Max smiles. “I’m not a complicated man. I live a pretty simple life. I like to take my dog out to the park and throw the ball for her. Listen to some music in the evenings. Work out. But the real high point of my week is hanging out with Charlie.”
I wrack my brain, trying to figure out if he ever mentioned a Charlie before. Oh no. Please don’t tell me Charlie is short for Charlotte. Please don’t let me be one of many women. Please let this be a serious date and not fling.
I inwardly roll my eyes. There I go again, worrying about future-stuff and the serious factor of this evening and we haven’t even gotten out of my neighborhood yet. What in the world is that all about?
“Charlie?” I ask, hoping I sound at least hallway nonchalant.
This look of absolute adoration flickers across Max’s face, erasing the deep crevice he normally holds between his eyebrows “Yeah.” He glances at me and some of the stress comes peeking back into his eyes. “You know the Big Brother Big Sister program?�
�
I nod, dumbfounded. “Are you a Big Brother?” He doesn’t seem like the type to have the patience for kids.
“Sure am. Charlie’s my Little. Absolutely adorable.”
“How old is he?”
“Ten. All knees and elbows. A passion for sports that I’m not sure he’s going to be able to back up.” There’s that look again. I absolutely love it.
“Oh yeah?” I ask, crinkling my brow. “Why not? Not built for it?”
Max laughs and shakes his head. “If he grows into that body, he’ll be a force to be reckoned with, but as of right now, he’s a little lacking in the muscle department.”
Max goes on to talk about Charlie and I just love how much enthusiasm he has for the kid. “For a guy who made it pretty clear a couple weeks ago that he didn’t do the family thing, you seem incredibly attached to this little boy.”
“I am. Attached. And I don’t.” Max waves his hands and glances at me. “The family thing.”
And that, my friends, is that. If there was ever a clearer sign that a topic was officially not up for discussion, then I don’t know what it would be.
“You have a dog?” I ask, attempting a conversational hard right turn into safer territory.
“Yep. Reagan. Got her from the pound the day before she was scheduled to be euthanized. Pretty much the only reason I got her. She was a disaster, all fearful and mistrusting. It’s been a lot of work to get her to where she is, but she’s a good girl now. Enough that I’ve trusted her in the park with Charlie while I wasn’t allowed the use of my knee.”
“You were allowed the use of your knee.” I stare at him while he laughs at me.
“Oh, no. You made it very clear who held all the power in that relationship. What was it that happened during our very first appointment? You threatened to call my boss and tell him I wasn’t cooperating?”
“Well, you weren’t! What was I supposed to do?” I’m somewhere between shocked and flabbergasted.
He laughs at me. “I was being kind of a jerk, wasn’t I.”
