The door opens. Griffin walks in and stops dead when he sees me.
I see him. More of him than I expect.
The asshole is shirtless.
Sweet mercy.
My brain short-circuits. Every clinical thought I’d carefully prepared evaporates like morning mist. His chest is a landscape of hard muscle, golden skin stretched taut over ridges and valleys that my hands remember tracing in the dark. His shoulders are broader than I remember. His abs are more defined. A trail of dark hair disappears beneath the waistband of his athletic shorts, and my eyes follow it before I can stop myself.
I know exactly where that trail leads. I’ve had it in my mouth.
Get it together, Jess. You’re a professional. You’ve seen hundreds of shirtless athletes.
But none of them were him. None of them made my pulse hammer against my throat like it’s trying to escape. None of them made heat pool low in my belly, made my thighs clench together, just by existing.
I force my gaze upward, and that’s when I see it.
SUNSHINE
The word is inked just below his collarbone. Bold script across golden skin. The nickname he used to whisper against my hair when he thought I was sleeping. And beneath it, so small you’d miss it if you weren’t looking...
My signature.
The one I traced on his skin with a Sharpie the night before he left, laughing about how it would wash off in the shower.
He made it permanent.
My breath catches. My chest squeezes so tight I can’t draw air.Why would he do that? Why would he brand himself with my name and then leave me with nothing but three sentences on a Post-it note?
“Jess.” His voice is rough and uncertain. Nothing like the confident quarterback I remember. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually be here.”
I force my eyes away from the tattoo. Force myself to look at my clipboard instead of the way his chest rises and falls with each breath. Instead of the way his sweatpants hang low on his hips, that V-cut pointing down like an arrow to everything I’m trying not to think about. Instead of the way my body is screaming at me to close the distance between us and find out if he still tastes like mine.
Professional. Distant. Clinical.
“Dr.Hartwell,” I correct him, pulling my shoulders back. My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “We’re keeping this professional, Mr.Callahan. Sit on the table.”
He sits. The table creaks under his weight. He’s still massive, six-four, two-thirty, built like the Greek god statues we used to laugh at in that museum in Atlanta. I remember pressing my body against his in the sculpture garden, giggling, his hands sliding beneath my sundress, his fingers finding me wet and ready while he whispered that none of those marble gods had anything on me.
Shit. Stop it right now.
“Let’s look at this knee.” I step closer, pulling on gloves with more force than necessary. The latex snaps against my wrists. A barrier. A reminder. “I’ve reviewed your surgical report. The ACL reconstruction was textbook, but the meniscus damage was significant. You’ve got a long road ahead of you.”
“I know.”
“Twelve weeks minimum. Possibly longer. No shortcuts, no pushing too hard, no trying to prove something to yourself or anyone else.”
“Whatever you say, Doc.”
I cut my eyes at him. Then my hands touch his knee.
Electricity jolts through me. Sharp and immediate, even through the gloves. His muscle tenses beneath my palms, and I hear his breath catch. He feels it too. After all this time, the current between us hasn’t faded at all.
I grit my teeth and focus on the joint. On the swelling. On anything except the warmth of his skin beneath my palms. Anything except the way touching him feels like coming home after years of wandering lost.
His thigh is solid under my fingers. I remember how these thighs felt bracketing my head while I took him in my mouth. How the muscles flexed when he thrust. How he’d groan my name like a prayer when he let go down my throat.
No. Dammit, I’ve got to get it together.
