by Emma Renshaw
I turn fully toward him, taking two steps back. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a disgusted face. Even the way he says my name sets me on edge. Most of the other girls I work with steer clear of him as well, but I’m the only unlucky one he asks out, blatantly ignoring my outright rejections. He’s never said anything overtly lewd, but it’s everything else about him. His tone of voice, his endearments, the way he stares and licks his lips. The silent stare after I reject his date requests are the worst.
“Simon,” I return dryly, barely hiding my grimace.
“I need a favor, babe.” He steps closer again, speaking softly in a conspiratorial whisper.
I step back, not bothering to hide my annoyance. Taking a large sip of my now-watered-down coffee—just a symbol my day is going down the gutter—I wish the start of my great day stayed that way. “Can’t wait to hear this.”
I can tell he doesn’t get the sarcasm when he grins at me, eyes lighting up and sweeping over my face before dipping down to my chest.
“Don’t call me babe.” Rolling my eyes, I angle my body so it’s half hidden behind the counter. He gives a little shrug as if to say he can’t help it and his sheepish eyes snap back to mine. I can’t hide my disgust, even if I wanted to.
“I need you to take over my patient.”
Oh boy, this could be ugly. We typically don’t make a habit of switching patients. Each of us have different philosophies when it comes to our therapy regimens, so switching can set a patient back. Simon has passed a patient off on me in the past, though. A pretty girl in her early thirties hated working with him so much, she asked for a trade. It wasn’t until she’d been working with me for a while that she was honest about it. He creeped her out. Same, girl. Same.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say carefully, thinking of any way I can get out of this without getting our boss involved. Simon is his nephew, and in our boss’s eyes, the shining star amongst all the therapists.
“One of my long-term patients needs to change when they’re coming in. Their schedule is so tight. Otherwise I wouldn’t even ask. The patient I’m asking you to take has only been coming for a few weeks and only needs an additional few. Basic muscle movement type stuff. Please, I’ll owe you one.” He reaches out his hand to brush over my arm.
I masterfully step out of the way just in time to avoid contact. “When?”
“Right now,” he says, grinning, trying—and failing—to be charming. “I owe you.”
Holding up a hand, I stop him. “Right now? Why are you just asking now? And I haven’t agreed yet.”
“It’s the end of his session, just thought you could meet him right now, walk through the chart with him. He’s great. You’ll like him.”
I don’t have a patient for another hour, so I could run through his chart, find out from him what he’s done and how he feels. I’ve seen Simon work with his patients. I don’t understand his philosophy when it comes to physical therapy and attaining a patient’s goals and needs. If I needed to come to a therapist, he wouldn’t be my choice, so I don’t trust his assessment. Learning from the patient is the best way to go.
“Fine,” I mutter, reaching past him to grab the rest of my croissant and iced coffee. The day started out so well, but conversing with Simon and having an unexpected patient that I’ll need to work into my already rigorous schedule definitely dims my happy mood a bit. Hopefully Simon is the worst that will happen today. At least he didn’t ask me out.
“Great,” Simon says, pulling his tablet from the large pocket on his white coat. “I’ll share the file with you now.”
I don’t respond as I walk toward the locker room to grab my tablet.
“Tatum?”
I stop, not bothering to face him.
“Ready for that date?”
“No,” I spit out icily, resuming my trek to my locker and picking up the pace. An alert sounds from my cubby as soon as I step into the locker room. I reach for it and my notepad, getting ready to meet this new patient.
A file has been shared with you.
I swipe open the file and glance at the name while walking toward the physical therapy room. James Harris. Thirty. I lock the screen before reading any further, preferring to gather the information from the patient before forming an opinion about the treatment needed.
My eyes sweep over the large area. Everyone is with a therapist except for one man—one extremely large and good-looking man. He’s leaning against the wall with a scowl on his face, staring at the door I just walked through, looking right through me like he doesn’t even see me. His frame is huge, with broad shoulders that look like they’re about to burst out of his shirt. The thin material leaves nothing to the imagination; every defined muscle can be seen clearly, all the way down to his tapered waist. His thigh muscles are like tree trunks, so strong, he has to have an ass just as strong.
I’m average height for a girl, but this man towers over me, making it seem like I’m short. Having the hots for a patient is frowned upon, but I can’t help the immediate reaction I have upon seeing him.
“James?” I ask, smiling and extending my hand. “I’m—”
“No,” he snarls.
I glance over my shoulder, looking around the room again, confused. Simon said James would be waiting for me to speak with him before he took off. Maybe I took too long getting here, and he left? “You’re not James?” I ask.
“Yep.”
Okay, now I’m officially confused. My eyes search his face, but the only emotion I see is annoyance.
“You are James?”
His jaw ticks as he grinds his molars and glares at me. His incredibly handsome face deepens its scowl as he looks me over from head to toe. Twice. “Incompetent prick. He really sent you?”
“Simon?” I ask, utterly confused by what is happening. If Simon didn’t already repulse me, I’d surely dislike him now. He lied. He said this would be an easy patient. Nothing about this giant who can’t stop glowering is going to be easy. No wonder my morning was so great, the universe was preparing me for this. Giving me just a bit a sunshine before sending this thundercloud my way.
“Yeah, Simon.” James’s tone is clipped and frustrated.
“He asked me to take over your therapy because your schedule conflicts with another patient of his.”
James shakes his head, still glaring. “Played you.”
“I’m getting that,” I murmur.
James and I continue to stare each other down. I curl my hair behind my ear and flick my gaze to the wall behind him, trying to compose myself before I speak. The longer I stand in front of this silent giant, the more annoyed I’m getting.
“Let’s start over. I’m Tatum Rothschild. Call me Tate. Why don’t you tell me why you’re here for physical therapy?”
“Are you as incompetent as the other one?”
I bite my tongue. “Simon is not incompetent, but we definitely handle patients in a different manner.”
“Everything is on the chart.”
I run my free hand down the soft material of my scrubs covering my thighs. Once my hand stops shaking, I plant it on my hips, mustering up every ounce of attitude I have. “I prefer to hear it straight from the patient. No one knows your body better than you.”
James’s eyes rove over me from head to toe, twice, just like earlier. His jaw hasn’t stopped ticking since I walked over here. When his steely eyes meet mine, a tiny flicker of annoyance flutters away.
“Got shot.”
I suck in a sharp breath, looking over his form as if I could see the holes through his clothes. Woah. I’ve treated patients with a wide range of injuries, but I’ve never actually met someone who’s been shot. I want to ask so many questions, none of which are necessary for our sessions.
“Chest and shoulder. Range of motion issue in the shoulder. Been here three weeks, no improvement. Simon is incompetent. Constantly late, having me do nothing but bullshit exercises while his eyes stay glued to all the tits
and ass in the room.”
“Ew,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
James doesn’t respond, just watching me, waiting for me to speak. His lips are shut tight. I wonder if he’s ever spoken that much before. He gave me all the information as quickly and efficiently as possible.
“How limited would you describe your range of motion?”
“Not too much, but enough that I can’t do my normal routine. That’s unacceptable.”
“Do you mind spending a few extra minutes here so I can see your baseline and map out a strategy for our next session?”
“If you ask me to do a shoulder roll, I’m walkin’ out that fuckin’ door,” James warns in a tone that invites no arguments.
My lips twitch as I rein in my laughter. He is definitely not a fan of Simon. He’s not really a fan of mine, either, but I will make sure by the end of all our appointments he’s seeing improvements and getting to where he wants. I love watching a patient transform, gaining even the slightest movement back.
“Duly noted,” I say, flashing him a smile, hoping we’re going to start to form a bond to make these sessions easier. His scowl turns into a sneer as he motions for me to walk in front of him. Most of the other appointments have cleared out, so the room is almost empty.
“Is there anyone else?” he asks in a gruff tone.
I bristle and turn on my heel to face him, cutting his long stride short. He stares down at me as I step even closer, glaring up at him, poking a finger into his chest. There’s not even a little bit of give, it’s hard as a slab of granite. “You don’t have to like me, but you will respect me. I’m the best. You want someone else? Sure, I’ll get them. You won’t get what you want from them, though.” I raise an eyebrow, daring him to ask for someone else.
His eyes move slowly over my face before he leans down, getting into my personal space, my finger that’s still pressed into his shoulder bending back at an uncomfortable angle, and growls, “Prove it.”
Chapter 3
James
I arrive early at the Cellar. I need a drink. My fuse has been close to blowing all day. No one has set me off like my new physical therapist, Tatum, in a long damn time. My control is usually better—evidence being the jackass Simon. Tatum, though, she sets me on edge. The moment she walked into that room, hips swaying, a tiny, knowing smile on her face, she pissed me off. Her mass of dark, red hair contrasting against her creamy, white skin, a fuckin' sight to behold—just like when I saw the anger flash in her eyes when she tried to put me in my place.
Not gonna happen.
Tatum. Asking to be called Tate. That ain't going to happen, either. It's rare I'll call someone by a nickname. Just use your damn name. It ain't that hard, and names fucking mean something.
Tate. The insistence on that nickname was just another check in the column for reasons she annoys me.
If she is the one Simon approached, I'm not real hopeful about her skills. I didn't get to see much today. She took notes and asked me question after question while babbling in between throwing jabs when she thought necessary.
I'm surprised my molars aren't dust by now after grinding them so much. Usually, when this much extra energy is pumping through me, I get rid of it by beating the shit out of a bag or working my muscles until I'm close to collapsing. Middle of the night, when the gym is closed, is my favorite time—just me, my music, and the sweet echo of my fists hitting the leather.
With the fucking wounds in my shoulder and chest, I can't do that, though. Being shot hurts, but it's afterward that's the worst. Takin' it easy. I'm not a man who likes to take anything easy.
The only way I can find release tonight is beer and sex. I scan the bar while sipping on my beer, my eyes darting past any redhead in the place. Not goin' there. Not tonight.
"What's going on, man?" Hudson asks, taking the seat next to me and raising his hand to get the bartender’s attention. "Three fingers of whiskey and whatever local beer you have on draft tonight."
I raise an eyebrow at him.
He grins, shrugging. "Feel like getting a little wild tonight."
I shake my head. Hudson gets wild almost every night. I spend my time with plenty of women, but Hudson makes me look like a damn monk. He's also more showy about it. I like to be discreet with the women I bed, often waiting for my friends to leave the bar before finding the woman I'll spend the next few hours with. Just hours, never the night, and never at my place. Tonight will be one of those nights.
Hudson swirls the whiskey in his glass before taking a large gulp and turning his head toward me. "How's physical therapy?"
"Shit," I mutter.
Hudson chuckles. "Going that well?"
"Ditched Simon."
Hudson grins, laughing harder. "You aren't going to get back in the gym if you ditch your physical therapist."
I shake my head and take a gulp of beer. Three wasted weeks. I hate wasting time. Every moment needs to count; it could all end at any second. Sitting on my ass for weeks while I heal isn't my idea of a good time.
"What happened?" Hudson asked.
"He was too busy checking out the women in the room to help me. He threatened to find another therapist if I didn't follow his bullshit plan. I made him find me someone else."
Hudson throws his head back, laughing. "Of course, you did. Probably scared the piss out of the fucker, too. And you can't blame a guy for being distracted by a beautiful woman."
My head shakes slowly. "Not normal. He's the kind of guy that if you saw him on the news being described as a predator, you wouldn't be surprised."
"Damn," Hudson says with a disgusted look. "I’m shocked it took you three weeks to be rid of him."
I grunt. "If I'd known it was an option, it would have happened after the first session."
"Is this dude better?"
My jaw clenches as I think about Simon’s replacement. I don't know why he picked her. Tiny little thing with delicate curves that could entice any man. Not sure what she's going to be able to do for me. If Simon and Tatum are friends, or their methods are similar, I'm done. She annoyed me the second I knew she was there for me. She's too small. Too beautiful. Too happy. Too everything.
"It's a chick," I state dryly.
Hudson raises his eyebrows and smirks. "Oh, yeah?"
Rolling my eyes and popping him on the back of the head, I firmly eliminate any ideas he's getting. "No."
"You're not fun."
I ignore that and steer the conversation back on track. "Not sure she's better. If she's who he recommends, my hopes aren't high."
"Don't count her out before she even tries," Hudson says, clapping me on the back.
If Tatum can help me toward my goal, I can ignore the overly chipper attitude she has. A few weeks with an immensely annoying, excessively sunny, too beautiful girl who talks too much will be easy. I clear my head of her, clinking my bottle against Hudson's. "What's going on?"
A crease forms between Hudson's eyebrows as he looks away. "Same as usual. Work, women, whiskey."
"How's your mom takin' Harper's engagement and pregnancy?" Hudson and Harper were never together—not even close, just friends. Hudson used Harper, though, to keep his mom off his back about settling down. He let her think they were together. She has five boys, none are married or seriously dating and she’s chomping at the bit for grandkids, trying to marry her sons off to anyone who will take them. All his cousins are married with kids; her boys are the last in their big family to settle down. It ain't going to happen to Hudson anytime soon, if he has any say in the matter.
"She's sad. Wants me to make sure it's not mine."
The edges of my lips twitch. "Still won't admit to her that y'all were never a thing?"
"Nah, man. Don't want to break her heart. She's already hard at work setting me up with someone for some event. My attendance is mandatory, apparently." Hudson's hand jerks through his hair as he blows out a breath. "Damn, Harper was a good cover."
"I was a good cover for
what?"
Hudson and I turn toward Harper who is standing behind us with Roman, his arm wrapped around her stomach.
"My mom. You broke her heart when you got pregnant by another man. You little harlot, you." Hudson and I laugh as Roman growls, pulling Harper closer.
Harper shakes her head and licks her lips to control her amusement. "Well, her heart wouldn't have to be broken if you would meet a nice girl, instead of only bringing home girls from the bar."
"Where's the fun in that, Harp?" Hudson asks, cocky smile in place. "It'd be a disservice to take myself off the market. The ladies would riot."
Harper’s lips press together before she bursts out laughing, her head falling back on Roman’s shoulder. "Right," she replies sarcastically, her laugh turning into softer chuckles. "Please give your mother my condolences."
Hudson lifts his gaze to Roman's. "Wanna share Harper? Have split custody with the baby?"
"Fuck you," Roman says wrapping his other arm around Harper’s chest and molding her to him even more. Harper giggles quietly. "No one would believe the kid would be yours, anyway. He’s going to be handsome and badass, two things you aren't." Roman spins Harper with a smug smile before they walk away to the table where we normally sit.
"Shut up," Hudson says, looking at me, picking up his beer as he gets up from the barstool.
"Didn't say anything," I say, raising my hands in front of me before doing the same.
"You don't have to. You may not laugh out loud, but I know when you're cracking up on the inside."
"I like Roman," I state. "Nice addition to the group. Keeps your head from getting too big."
I walk away, leaving Hudson to trail behind.
Hudson sits next to me, glaring at Roman across the table. "Should y'all even be here? Harper is pregnant."
"I'm not drinking, dork," Harper says, smiling and running a hand over her belly. Watching the gorgeous smile stretch across Harper's face every time Roman looks down at her makes these physical therapy sessions bearable.
Just then, the rest of the group arrive—Savannah and Liam come rolling in, hand in hand, Gabe, with his arm around Valerie, and Kiernan brings up the rear.
