My cheeks catch fire so fast they might qualify as a second injury. I can feel the flush creeping down my neck, heat prickling at my collarbone…
Great. I’m blushing. And I can’t even blame it on embarrassment this time.
“Fair warning, though,” Nash begins—and wait, hold on now…tell me that’s not a smolder—“no one’s as stubborn as me.”
If Stella were here, she’d be smirking so hard her face would cramp.
“We’ll see about that.”
A ghost of a grin flashes across hisface as he hands me a band. “Hook this around the ball of your foot. Not too tight. Just give me steady resistance.”
I follow his directions. My ankle protests at first, then settles into something tolerable. Nash watches every movement with quiet focus, occasionally adjusting the angle of my leg or the placement of the band. He doesn’t talk much. Just watches. Corrects. Watches again.
There’s something intimate about it.
Which is weird, right?
With a real physical therapist, in a hospital with other patients doing their thing, I wouldn’t think twice. But here, with Nash, in his home, there’s a level of care that unnerves me.
He guides me through a series of exercises designed to rebuild my poor shredded tendons. The mechanics of it fascinate me—the whys, the hows—and I ask a million questions he patiently answers. It’s also harder than I thought. The ankle is weak, unstable. I tell it to move the way he instructs and it responds, but not the way I’m used to. All my blind hope and optimism strips away and, for the first time since the accident, I recognize the extent of the damage.
“I’m both disheartened and determined,” I say, watching my ankle quiver with effort.
“Disheartened is normal but let it go. Well, maybe use it to set more realistic expectations andthenlet it go.” Nash gives me a knowing grin—wowhe should smile more—then continues. “Then we can focus on that determination together. Humble perseverance will get youback on your feet. Maybe even stronger than you were before.”
“Humble perseverance, huh?”
“That’s the name of the game from here on out, kid. Humble enough to admit where you are. Strong enough to push through and persevere.” He stands and offers a hand to help me up. “Let’s move to the pool.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Lucy
Nash and I head back through the house, and he gestures toward a guest bathroom for me to change. I hesitate for half a second before ducking inside. The swimsuit I packed isn’t anything special—plain black, athletic cut—but suddenly it feels too revealing. Too something.
When I step outside, the Florida sun kisses my shoulders. The pool glitters under a perfect blue sky, and Nash is already there, crouched to check the temperature, then rising to his full, unfair height.
I pause on the patio, gripping my crutches a little tighter.
And… promptly forget how to use them.
Because he’s wearing the world’s most ridiculous pair of swim trunks—navy, low-slung, and clinging in all the places polite people aren’t supposed to notice. His chestis bare, lean muscle and sun-warmed skin, a single rivulet of water sliding down from his collarbone.
He catches me looking and grins like a man who knowsexactlywhat he’s doing.
His mouth tips into a smirk. “You planning to join me, or just observing?”
“Just, uh, just getting my bearings.”
I inwardly cringe—What is that even supposed to mean?? Getting my bearings??—then lay my crutches down near the edge and carefully lower myself into the pool. The water bites at first, cool against my skin, but the relief is instant. Weightlessness wraps around me like a hug. For the first time since the accident, I don’t feel like a broken puppet being dragged around by crutches and tape.
Nash swims toward me, his muscles flexing with each stroke. “Let’s start with walking. Slow strides, heel to toe. Use the water’s resistance and buoyancy to take weight off the joint.”
I nod and take a step. My ankle sends warning signals to my brain, but the water supports me. I try again. And again. Each time steadier. Nash walks beside me, close enough that our shoulders nearly brush. Every now and then, his hand ghosts near my back—not touching, just hovering like a safety net.
“You’re doing great,” he says.
I glance up, surprised to find him watching me with something warmer than approval. Admiration, maybe.
