Page 27 of Mother Pucker

Her surprise for my agreement is evident on her face. “That’s exactly what I’ve been saying! So, you don’t think I’m being crazy? I could have sworn you would have said what almost everyone I live with tells me–that I’m too overprotective of him.”

Everyone she lives with?How many people does she live with, exactly?

“What if you put him in a one-on-one class with an instructor who could focus solely on him?”

She twists her mouth, her eyes drifting away while she contemplates my question. “Yeah . . . maybe.”

“I know you’re worried, but as a physical therapist, you know the benefits of it, too–muscle strength, balance, and coordination. Plus, it helps build confidence. You wouldn’t believe it, given how sexy and strong I am now, but I used to be a scrawny kid.” That pulls a smile out of her. “I know you’re shocked, but I wasn’t always this smooth-talking, panty-melting, Viking on skates you’re secretly obsessed with.”

She laughs, the sound of her soft voice hitting me in the chest like a swarm of butterflies. “You’re obsessed with yourself enough for the both of us. Not sure there’s any room left for me to be.”

I look at her through hooded eyes. “Oh, there’s definitely room for you.”

A shy smile plays on her lips. “You don’t give up, do you, Mr. Parker?”

“Rowan. And, admit it, you like me.”

She huffs out a laugh. “It’s debatable. Most of my thoughts about you are peppered with visions of strangling you.”

I throw back my head, laughing. “If that’s what it takes to get your hands on me again, Doc, then I’m not opposed to it.”

She shakes her head before the two of us sit in silence for a moment, staring at each other. “What are you doing, Rowan?”

She’s not asking me specifically about this moment, with me sitting in my car. She’s asking what the hell I’m doing flirting with her. It’s a question I’ve asked myself incessantly since I met the woman, so I’m not going to act obtuse and ask her what she means.

I run my thumb over my bottom lip, weighing my words on my tongue. “Around you, I don’t seem to have a clue.”

She turns away from me, before coming back to face me again, and I’m happy to see she hasn’t lost that soft smile. “Goodnight, Rowan. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Doc. I’m looking forward to it.”

nine

shay

“So,is there anything else besides your hamstring that’s giving you trouble?”

“Well!” Mr. Howard yells, making me jump. “If I turn like this . . .” He swings one frail and wrinkled arm behind his head, looking up at it so his also-frail and wrinkled neck is in an awkward tilt. He twists his wrist so his palm faces out before trying to grab his lifted arm with his other hand, unsuccessfully. Basically, he looks like the beginnings of a human pretzel. “I feel pain in my shoulder and my neck.”

A part of me wants to slam my face into my palm because I’m so exhausted, while the other wants to burst out into a fit of giggles. It’s been that kind of a day.

Between overbooking myself with back-to-back patients, and managing a damn leak over my bed in the middle of the night, I’m in need of a glass of wine, a very overdue bubble bath–seeing as I haven’t had access to a bathtub in quite some time–and one of those fucking cathartic screams Dylan suggests that release the bad juju into the wild.

I firmly believe the universe has a rule that all terrible and urgent things have to happen in the middle of the night, preferably while people are asleep.

One minute I was dreaming about being in a shower with an arrogant and overbearing hockey player, and the next, I was being splashed with disgusting–and probably highly toxic–water from the old pipes inside the rafters.

Needless to say, I wasn’t going to wake up the whole house in the middle of the night, so all I could do was find a bucket and dry bedding to sleep on the floor. I even skipped my usual five-mile run and weight training this morning because I was so tired.

“Are you hearing me, chickadee?”

Mr. Howard’s bushy gray brows reach his hairline when he shouts. The man refuses to believe he needs hearing aids. And between the fact that he practically screams his words and is somewhat of a hypochondriac, I’m on the losing side of this battle.

I clear my throat, speaking louder for his benefit. “I understand that you’re experiencing pain when you twist like that,”like a damn contortionist, “but Mr. Howard, when would you possibly be in that position during your day?”

“It’s not aboutwhen, goddammit! It’s aboutif!” Mr. Howard yells. “IfI wanted to be in that position, I couldn’t! I should be able to be if I damn well decide to be! What if I wanted to start doing gymnastics?”

Oh, boy.

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