“Seriously?” she whines. “You’re really going to make me go alone?”
“Go with Lala.”
“She’s out of town.”
Great, I wasn’t even her first choice of party partner.
“I really have to go, Amanda. I’ll call you later.” I end the call before she tries any more convincing arguments on me.
This time, I shut off my phone before shoving it in my pocket. I grab my wool coat, peering closely at the sleeve, and sigh. Is that a threadbare patch on the elbow? Damn, that doesn’t look very professional. Too bad it was the best the local thrift shop had to offer. Once a few more paychecks are deposited in my account, maybe I’ll be able to afford something without holes.
Swedish meatballs, here I come.
I open my office door and almost run smack into my boss.
“Oh! Serena, I was just looking for you.” Slightly flustered, Trish steps back and pats her cloud of dark, springy curls.
My stomach clenches. I recognize that determined look on her face. Dreams of meatballs and noodles fly away as my resolve crumbles. I’m too new at my job to say no to whatever she’s about to ask.
“I have a new patient for you,” Trish says.
Disappointed about my thwarted lunch plan, I accept the file she holds out to me and paste on an eager, team-spirit smile. “Sure.”
“Older male. Shoulder injury. Had some treatment…well, you’ll see.”
Patient reports pain, stiffness, and loss of motion in right shoulder. I scan the SOAP notes but with Trish watching me so closely, I’m too nervous for the information to sink in. “Is he here now?”
“Unfortunately, yes. He was referred by Doctor Michaels, and I hate to say no to him.” Her eyes take on a dreamy quality at the mention of her doctor crush.
I study the file again, this time concentrating on the words in front of me. “Uh, there seem to be a lot of details missing. Who treated him last?” There should be a lot more information about his progress throughout the course of whatever treatment he’s received.
Her face puckers like she’s trying to locate the source of a fart. “He got treatment in prison,” she whispers.
“Oh.” I’ve encountered plenty of monsters who’ve never seen the inside of a cell, so an ex-con doesn’t scare me. If anything, I’m more eager to assist. While he might not have had the best care before, maybe I’ll be able to help him heal and return to a productive life.
“You’ll take him?”
“Sure.”
“You’re a saint,” she praises before spinning on her heel and marching away.
Feeling more positive about the situation, I duck inside my office and hang up my holey coat and peek at myself in the mirror on the back of my door to tame any frizzy hairs.
Armed with my clipboard, file, and polished ponytail, I walk down the hallway.
I stop dead as my gaze lands on the silver fox in the waiting area.
So not what I expected.
Thick, black hair streaked with silver. Neat and tidy gray beard. Tight, rigid posture. Intelligent eyes, constantly scanning the room. His gaze strays to the door, like he’s about to bolt.
I clear my throat. “Grayson Lock?”
His gaze swings my way, and I’m nailed to the floor when our eyes meet. Haunted. Hard.
I step back, clutching my clipboard to my chest as if it will protect me.
He unfolds himself from the faux-leather chair.
He’s so tall, easily over six feet. Lean but muscled. There’s an obvious stiffness on his right side, but otherwise, his movements seem fluid, if not cautious.
“I’m Serena Cargill. I’ll be treating you today.”
I’m met with stony silence.
Huh. I’m sure he expected someone older. Or a male physical therapist. Too bad. I harden my voice and wipe the smile off my face. “Leave your coat here and follow me.”
He eyes our coatrack warily.
“Or bring it with you if you prefer,” I suggest.
Finally, he slips the coat on a hanger and leaves it. My heart throws itself against my ribs as he steps close, towering over me. I’ve always had a weakness for tall men.
He raises an eyebrow, silently pointing out that I’m standing there staring at him like a hormonal schoolgirl.
“Right this way.” I duck my head and march through the clinic, leading him to a private area. The quick walk helps me regain my composure.
“Let’s see what we’re dealing with.” I set my clipboard on a desk and ask him to sit on a stool in front of me.
He remains quiet as I prod at his muscles. Grits his teeth when I manipulate his arm.
I try not to stare at his swollen biceps covered in faded tattoos. He obviously doesn’t sit in front of the television pounding beers every night.
He just got out of prison. He probably worked out to stay alive.
My gaze snags on the faded skull and crown tattoo on his forearm. A skull wearing a crown is a pretty common design. It’s the words underneath that make my blood run cold.