Arthur sits on the edge of his desk, eyeing me with concern. He’s probably worried I’m about to puke on his very nice rug.
When I no longer feel like I’m going to either faint or vomit, I find my voice. “Those were the wrong cookies.”
He shows no signs of surprise. Maybe he doesn’t even believe me. “Explain.”
“It was an order for a bachelorette party. I always make more cookies than I need to in case I mess them up. Sometimes they break when I’m decorating them. Or more likely, I forget about them when they’re in the oven and they burn. But the cookies were all perfect yesterday.”
“Perfect penises,” he deadpans.
“Yes.” My face is on fire. “I don’t like food going to waste, so I always decorate the extras. You’d be surprised how many different designs you can make with a penis cookie cutter, but my go to is rocket ships. I brought the extra rocket ships and the penis cookies into work today. I must have mixed up the boxes when I got here. This has never happened before.”
“So, before today, you’ve never presented a bunch of penis cookies to a group of professional male athletes and told them to ‘shoot for the stars.’ Is that what you’re telling me?”
I want to die. I nod. “Yes. That’s what I’m telling you.” This is the most mortifying thing that’s ever happened to me. “If I made any of the players or staff uncomfortable?—”
He huffs out the closest thing to a laugh I’ve heard from him. “The boys think it’s hilarious, Elliot. It’s the highlight of their week. They’re having a dick tasting contest as we speak.”
I groan and bury my face in my hands. “I’m so, so sorry.” I can’t bring myself to look at him. It’s too humiliating.
“Apology accepted.”
“I’m just—what?”
His expression is flat, but not unkind. “You made a mistake. You said you were sorry. It’s fine.”
“You’re not going to fire me?”
“Fire you?” One brow lifts, deliberate and slow, like he’s weighing how much amusement to show. “No, Elliot. You’re a good physiotherapist, and we’re already short staffed. Firing you would hurt the players, which would hurt the team, which would hurt me. I have no intention of letting you go.”
I stare at him. Was that a compliment? A compliment. From Arthur Stetson. Someone check on Hell. They might need sweaters and mittens.
“While we’re on the subject of apologies…” He clears his throat. “I owe you one as well. It was not my place to talk about your financial situation. I was completely out of line. I wasn’t trying to insult you, but I realize that I did. I’m sorry.”
A complimentandan apology. If he starts smiling, I might actually pass out.
“Do you have room in your schedule for another patient?”
The change in topic snaps my attention back to him. “Um…yes, of course. Which player would you like me to work with?” I’ll take on as many patients as he wants to keep my job.
“Not a player, Ms. Baker. Me.”
I blink. He blinks back. Neither of us moves.
“But… you don’t like me.”
“You’ve been highly recommended. In your short time here, you’ve had excellent results,” he says, ignoring my declaration.
“But you don’t like me.”
His jaw works from side to side, a flex and release that draws my attention to the cut of his cheekbones. “I don’t dislike you. Your initial assessment of me the day we met was…accurate. So accurate it pissed me off. I’m used to people telling me what they think I want to hear. When you pointed out the problem everyone else ignored, it was jarring. I think…maybe I could use more of your honesty.”
“So…you want me to work with you in between my sessions with the players?” Can I do that? Work this closely with this man and not get myself fired?
He shakes his head. “Not here. After hours. I have all the equipment we’d need in my home gym.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stetson?—”
“Arthur, please.”
