Not because of the ankle. Because of everything else.
The smooth line of her calf.
The faint freckles on her knee.
Everything about her comes into my awareness, even the involuntary way she stiffens when I reach for the strap.
“Is it okay if I take this off?” I ask, catching myself just in time.
“Yeah. That’s fine.”
Her nod is small. Trusting. And, given the spark of want snaking through me, completely undeserved. If I thought she affected me at the hospital, it’s ten times worse here at my house, with all the boundaries of professionalism removed.
I focus on the ankle. Just the ankle. Not the soft skin. Not the muscular thigh or the skintight shorts.
Just the joint. Just the injury.
I ease the boot open and slide it off, fingers brushing warm skin as I check the swelling. Improved, but still puffy. Bruising lingers across the top of her foot, bleeding purple into the arch. The joint’s stable. Good.
I take longer than I should. Partly because I’m thorough. Partly because I’m stalling.
When I glance up, our eyes meet. Just for a second, but still too long.
Lucy looks away first and I remind myself why she’s here. This isn’t just any woman. Not just my brother’s childhood friend I’m doing a favor for. Not simply someone with eyes that hold too much fire for her age.
She’s a patient.
A young, impulsive,temporarypatient.
And I am a grown man with no desire for the chaos of the young, the impulsive, or the temporary.
“You’re healing,” I say, sitting back enough to feel in control again. “But you need to stop trying to outsmart your body. What in the world made you think you could rehabyourself?With something you found on the internet?”
Lucy’s back stiffens. “Some of us don’t have the kind of money that comes with a medical degree.”
Well, hell. She’s got me there. Remorse stirs in my gut.
“Lucy—”
“No,” she cuts in, hands raised. “If you can call me reckless and idiotic, then I deserve a chance to explain.”
I fall silent. Something in her voice makes it feel like a request, not a challenge.
“I quit both my jobs before driving out here to visit. That means no income and no insurance until this tour kicks off, which would have been fine except now I’m injured. And if I don’t figure out how to get back on my feet fast, they’ll fire me from the tour, which is not only a financial disaster, but also, I’ve worked way too hard to lose the first big break to come my way. I can’t even drive thanks to this ankle, so I can’t go home, and I’m sleeping on my best friend’s couch until some magical time when this foot is strong enough to press a gas pedal.”
She swallows hard but keeps her chin high.
“I wasn’t being reckless or stupid. I’m taking control, doing the only thing I can to keep my head above water in an impossible situation. I watched fifteen videos before I even set foot in the gym, then picked the gentlest exercises I could find. All non-weight-bearing stuff. Just resistance bands. Then I got on a stationary bike. Low resistance, just like the physical therapist in the video suggested.”
Her voice dips to a whisper. “I can’t sit here and do nothing until my life falls apart. I hate feeling helpless, Dr. Kincaid.Hateit.”
I’ve heard people scream about far less. Rage at nurses. Cry in elevators. But Lucy just sits here, spine straight, hands motionless. Fighting for a future that could still slip throughher fingers.
Somewhere along the line, I forgot how it felt to be young, broke, and desperate. But right now, I very much remember how it feels to be an asshole.
I scrub a hand over my jaw, something in me rearranging. “I get it,” I say. “Really. I hate feeling helpless, too. Sorry I called you stupid.”
Her smile is tired and wry. “Sorry you got my life story spewed out in your living room.”
