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He motions for me to lie face-down on the table. The act of moving from vertical to horizontal nearly rips my spine in half, but I swallow my pride and a whimper and do as instructed.

Dr. Lawson prods, pokes, and presses his way up and down my back, pausing every so often to make a “hmm” sound like a mechanic discovering fresh horrors under the hood of a totaled car.

“You’re locked up pretty tight,” he says, more to himself than to me. “Some inflammation in the sacrum. Feels like you’ve been carrying a lot of stress lately.”

I snort into the paper. “You have no idea.”

He keeps working, making small talk that I ignore, then tells me to roll onto my side and curl up. The motion is humiliating and instantly aggravates every muscle in my body.

He explains, “We’ll do a quick adjustment. You might feel some pressure and hear a few pops.” He pauses. “It’s all perfectly normal.”

Sounds like pure fucking torture to me, but I just lie back and pray I don’t leave here paralyzed.

Dr. Lawson plants one hand on my hip, the other on my shoulder, and tells me to exhale all the way. I do, and then—CRACK. The sound is explosive, like someone snapping celery right next to my ear. The pain is sharp, then suddenly dull, and I find myself gasping for breath.

“Jesus Christ,” I hiss.

Dr. Lawson chuckles. “Most patients say they feel immediate relief.”

He has me flip to the other side, and the process repeats. Another monstrous crack, this time so deep it’s agony and bliss, all rolled into one.

When he’s done, he has me sit up, slowly. I’m still seeing stars, but I can move without wanting to murder someone. Memories of the goddess walking down the road tease the edge of my mind, but I push them away and concentrate on listening to the doctor as he goes into his post-game wrap-up. “You’ve got textbook overuse and tension, Mr. Carrington. I’m prescribing muscle relaxers, some high-dose ibuprofen, and a week of reduced physical activity. Avoid lifting, sitting at your desk for more than an hour at a time, and definitely no more furniture moving.”

He gives me a stern look. “Ignoring your body’s signals is just going to make it worse. You have to listen to the pain.”

I nod, but inside I’m already rewriting my to-do list for the next week. There’s no universe in which I “rest” for seven days. The ranch will catch on fire if I’m gone that long. Plus, I have a goddess to find.

He wraps up with a brochure for stretches and a business card in case I want a follow-up. “Make an appointment for a follow-up next week. And you might want to try something for stress relief. Like maybe yoga or Pilates.”

Over my dead fucking body.

Maggie follows me out of the office, and we head back to the Land Rover. I manage to settle myself as she starts it up, the air blasting cold and artificial. I close my eyes for a second, letting the engine vibrations thrum through my bones.

“Ready to go home, Grandpa?” she teases.

I snort. “Just don’t hit any speed bumps, Evil Knievel.”

She laughs, pulls away from the curb, and for the first time all day, I can breathe deeply without pain lancing straight through my body.

The drive home is different. No snark, no pointed commentary about Maggie’s inability to maintain a consistent speed or the fact that she merges onto county roads like she’s in a Fast and Furious reboot. I just watch out the window, taking in the wide sweep of pastures and the blurred green edge of the river where it cuts through the valley while the blonde goddess fills my thoughts.

The A/C is cranked up, making the hairs on my arm stand at attention, and Maggie’s got both hands on the wheel, knuckles pale with concentration. I’m tempted to ask her about the mystery woman, but I know that will open up a whole new can of worms.

Every time Maggie approaches a speed bump, she slows to a crawl, shooting me a glance like she’s afraid I’ll shatter on impact. I want to roll my eyes or make a joke about her sudden conversion to “defensive driving,” but the truth is I’m grateful. My whole body is one long raw nerve, and even the smallest jolt makes it zing.

We hit my driveway, and the Land Rover glides up to the house, smooth as velvet. She puts it in park and just sits there, engine ticking, as if letting the moment settle.

“You good?” she asks, like the last hour didn’t just happen.

I nod. “I’m alive.”

She snorts and climbs out, then hustles around to my side before I can even get the door open. It’s not that I don’t need the help—I do, but I hate that I do. I force myself to swing my legs out, planting my boots on the gravel. She reaches for my elbow, and I almost push her away, but I catch the look in her eyes and let her do it.

“You know,” she says as we shuffle to the porch, “you can take a few days off. We will survive.”

“Tell that to Hudson,” I grumble.

“I have,” she says. “He’s worried, too, you know.”