“Better,” I say, because it did. “Worse when I think about you.”
Her eyes flick up. We both heard what I didn’t say. We both decide to pretend it meant something else.
She moves into my space without hesitation. The scent of her hits me—clean skin, faint shampoo, that hint of eucalyptus from the room—and for a second my body forgets it’s supposed to behave. She brackets my knee, slides my leg where she needs it, and the contact is pure electricity through muscle and memory. I keep still. I let her work.
“Breathe,” she says.
“Yes, ma’am.” I say it on purpose. Her jaw ticks. Tell two.
She tests rotation, flexion, the sticky spotwhere I guard. I grit my teeth, waiting for pain. Instead, she wheels a small stool to the head of the table, sits, and her hands shift—light, barely there—settling at the base of my skull. Fingers cradle me, steady and warm. Unexpected. Intimate, if I didn’t know better.
Her face is so close, all it would take is one lift of my hand to pull her mouth to mine. Instead, my eyes snap to hers. “Thought this was about my hip.”
Her mouth curves, faintly. “Just…breathe.”
I close my eyes, her scent brushing against my skin, and try. In. Out. The minutes stretch, and little by little, the tension I’ve been carrying bleeds away. My hip still throbs, but the rest of me feels loose. Lighter.
And when she’s fully in the driver’s seat, I tap the brake—not more than a shift of my palm on the table, my head turning to find her again.
“You ever think we stopped talking because we were both cowards?”
Her hands tense. It’s half a second, maybe less, but it’s a lifetime if you know her. She doesn’t look at me when she answers. “We stopped talking because life happened.”
“Life happens to everybody,” I say. “You disappeared on me.”
“You left for training. I went to school. Graduated. Worked. Lived.” She takes her palms from underneath my head and finally meets my gaze. “And today, I treat your hip.”
I let a slow smile touch my mouth. “Ok. Treat me.”
The air tightens by a degree. She rounds the table and reaches for lotion. Her hands find my adductor, firm pressure, precise intent. My vision blurs at the edges in a way that has nothing to do with pain. A quiet sound slips out of me.
Her lashes flicker. Tell three. Proof I’m not a ghost to her, no matter how much she pretends otherwise.
That’s all I need right now. Not a confession. Not a crack in her armor. Just those little betrayals her body can’t hide. Because if she still feels me, I can lean until the door opens.
11
NO SUDDEN MOVEMENTS (EDEN)
This is fine. Everything is fine.
But, not really. The second Nate shrugs out of his T-shirt, I know I’m in trouble.
“Bit warm in here, isn’t it?” he says casually, folding the shirt and tossing it onto the chair. “Don’t want to sweat through the table.”
Oh, okay. That’s considerate.
Except it’s not. Because his chest is broad and cut, abs forming a perfect ladder that disappears into low-slung shorts. His shoulders stretch wide and powerful, arms corded with muscle and veins that map out very poor decisions.
This is so much worse than I could have ever imagined. My mouth opens before my dignity can stop it.
“Oh. You’re…so much bigger.”
His head snaps up, and he smirks as if I just poured him top-shelf whiskey and promised a lap dance.
“Well damn. You sure know how to boost a man’s ego.”
Fire floods my face. “I meant—uh—broader. Taller.”Stop talking, Eden.“You’ve filled out.”
