One of a kind, that girl. She was more than a physical therapist. Beyond a personal trainer. Even better than a nutritionist or chef. She was all of those combined into one extraordinary woman. She was also a good friend, not only to him but to his buddies. She was fun and confident and intelligent. She was everything he’d never had in a woman, everything he’d never even known he wanted. Until now.
Unfortunately, he’d damaged something between them that day he’d kissed her in the kitchen. She’d been subtly different since then, keeping a strict professional distance, which he hated.
He made his way to the therapy table on wobbly legs while the others continued stretching taxed muscles. He lay down with a groan and covered his eyes with his forearm. As his synapses kicked to life again, Noah thought about his plan to tap through her invisible barriers tonight. He continued to waffle between the hope of reaching her and the dread of losing her.
“Here you go.” Noah turned to Julia’s voice. She handed him a plastic tumbler, and he pushed up on his elbow to guzzle the recovery shake.
“Is this getting harder?” Finn asked from the floor where he pressed his shoulder muscles out on a foam roller. “Or am I getting weaker?”
“It never gets easier,” Julia said, unlacing Noah’s left running shoe. “You just get better.”
“Then why do I always feel worse?” Jake asked, releasing a resistance band to take a long drink of the shake.
“Because you’re a pussy?” She punctuated the tease with a bright smile, and all the guys laughed.
“Oh, harsh.” He lowered his head, shaking it in dejection. “So harsh.”
Chuckling, she dragged off Noah’s sock and started stretching and massaging the muscles and fascia of his lower leg and foot. Instant relief flooded Noah’s ankle, wiping out the stress accumulated from the workout. He groaned, set his empty tumbler on the floor, and lay back on the table.
The guys continued to stretch and talk among themselves, and Noah’s mind drifted to the night ahead. Did he have everything in place? Was he forgetting anything? Was there something he could do to ensure her acceptance that he hadn’t thought about?
The sting of anxiety annoyed the shit out of him. This whole situation was ludicrous. Never, ever had he attempted to sway a woman like this. He’d never had to. He’d never wanted to.
And look at him now.
“What’s that frown for?” she asked with her thumb riding a sore tendon in his ankle. “This was one of your best workouts.”
Noah hadn’t realized he was frowning but tried to lighten up. “Yeah?” He lifted his arm from his eyes, tucked it behind his head, and looked down at her, enjoying the feel of her hands on him. “Definitely the hardest one you’ve put together so far. You really do have sadist tendencies. You know that, right?”
She just grinned. But as soon as his smile faded, she asked, “Are you hurting?”
“After what you just put me through, yeah, I’m hurting, but my ankle feels good.”
Her worry faded. “You’ll thank me when you’re floating on top of Snowmass.”
“I have no doubt.” He paused a beat and brought up step one of his grand plan. “So, about dinner…”
She glanced up, then darted a look at the other guys. “Don’t you dare say you want the guys to stay again. I didn’t get to the grocery store today, and I don’t have enough food for all of you.”
“No.” He laughed and rubbed his face. “I’ve seen enough of them for the week.”
She straightened and gave his leg a tap. “Roll over.”
He held his thoughts on dinner as the other guys wandered toward the hallway on their way out. After all the good-byes were done and the front door closed behind them, Noah said, “You’ve been here, what, a month now?”
He knew exactly how long she’d been there, thirty-three days and thirty-two nights. And thirty-one of those nights, she’d been in the wrong damn bed.
“Why? Are you counting down the days until this torture is over?”
More like counting the days he had left to get her back into his bed.
She pulled out one of her favorite metal hand tools and went to work on his calf.
“You haven’t had any time off,” he said. “If you’re not working on me, you’re shopping or cooking or picking up equipment or planning to work on me.”
“That’s the job. I’m used to it,” she said with a little one-shouldered shrug. “I worked sixty-hour weeks at Performance.”
“Well, it’s not right. You do a lot for me, and I want you to have some time off.”