CHAPTER ONE
Nash Bennett didn’t mind living out of a suitcase, but Quinn Valley had nothing on Nashville. Okay, the small town in Idaho with its quaint shops and restaurants was charming despite the loads of tourists visiting in June. Not that he blamed the vacationers. The setting of mountains as one backdrop and farmland as the other defined picturesque. And the famed hot springs were helping his torn muscle heal.
But he was tired with a capital T.
Not the exhaustion he’d suffered during the first leg of his world tour, which led to his leg injury during a concert in Seattle and his making unwise—okay, stupid—decisions the past few months. This time, hiding out and doing physical therapy had worn him out.
“You’re slowing down.” Travis Quinn, his physical therapist, AKA the punisher, loomed over Nash like a guard on death row. “Keep going.”
A sweat-soaked T-shirt clung to Nash. A pair of gym shorts, too. He’d been here for thirty minutes. Dying appeared to be the only option to keep from continuing at this point. His therapist would never allow Nash to quit. “I’m trying.”
“Don’t make me go all Jedi Master on you about do versus try.”
Nash gritted his teeth. “You wouldn’t.”
Travis kneeled. “I hope you’re not a betting man because you will lose.”
So much for being in top physical shape. But then again, Nash felt older than thirty-three. He hadn’t been taking care of himself. That had been part of his problem. Buying into the hype. Ignoring common sense. Proving his bad boy of country music moniker—as deemed by the media—had been well-deserved.
That was why he’d earned a one-way ticket to Quinn Valley, Idaho. His manager, R.J., claimed the record company wanted this, but the label executives blamed his manager. His producer had said shut up and go. So Nash had. Now all he wanted was out of this middle-of-nowhere town and especially out of this office.
Sweat dripped from his forehead. “How much longer?”
Travis studied him with an exasperated expression. “If you stop watching the clock, you’ll be happier.”
“I’ll be happier when I get released and can return to rehearsals.”
“Stop.”
Nash blew out a breath. “So I’m done.”
“Not quite.” Travis handed him a foam roller. “Some quadriceps rolls, first.”
Another groan escaped. Par for the course when Travis added a new method of tormenting patients to his cache of treatments. At least this one wouldn’t take long.
“On your stomach,” Travis ordered. A drill sergeant would have been nicer.
Nash rolled over on the mat-covered floor. His hands supporting his weight, he lay on his stomach with his thighs on top of the foam roller.
“That’s the correct position.” Travis sounded like he might be smiling, but Nash didn’t glance up. He’d brought this on himself with his joking around and not paying attention some—okay, most—of the time. “Roll from the hip to the knee. If it hurts too much, stop. This should be a good pain.”
“No such thing.” Still, Nash did as instructed, but the therapist’s latest torture device sucked. “Do you sit around with your siblings thinking of ways to torment patients?”
“No, but that’s a great idea. Only Joel is a vet so his patients rarely talk back.”
“Unless they bite,” Nash joked.
“Please tell me that’s not part of your bad patient repertoire.”
“You’ll have to wait and see, but if it’s any consolation, I’m housebroken.”
Travis laughed. “How about you imagine pretty women at a concert screaming your name? That will keep you going.”
Yeah, right.Nash wasn’t supposed to date while he was here. Too much of a liability according to his team. Shea, his personal assistant who was taking care of everything while he was stuck here, had sided with everyone else. “You’re the worst.”
“Best compliment you could give me, because that makes me the best when it comes to patients like you who’ll take any shortcut they can.”
“That’s not… Okay, it’s true.” A groan ripped from Nash’s throat. “My motto used to be ‘only the strong survive,’ but this is killing me, man.”
