Page 7 of Wild For You

Chapter Three

Erin

According to my file, Cash Boyd is twenty-eight years old and was in perfect health up until his accident, which left his shoulder and hip dislocated, his collarbone shattered, and the bones in his right leg broken in several places. He spent a few weeks in a hospital, undergoing three surgeries that left him in pain but with excellent prospects of making a full recovery.

The swelling retreated quickly, but with no physical therapy, he’s made no progress.

That doesn’t come as a surprise. Given his age and the hostility he showed earlier today, it looks like he’s someone who’s accustomed to always having his own way. I’ve seen it before. I’ve worked with patients like him. He’s rejecting everyone’s help because he thinks he can do it alone, on his own terms.

In this respect, he’s stubborn as a mule.

The trouble is, the more time passes, the harder it gets to regain full mobility.

“How’s the new job?” Debra asks.

“Fine.” My voice sounds a bit too high-pitched as I sit down on my bed, cradling my phone between my chin and my shoulder blade.

The truth is, Cash Boyd in real life is even worse than on paper. If I don’t change the subject soon, Debra will pick up on it. The last thing I want is to admit to my sister that she was right when she warned me not to take this job. “The house is great. And the weather’s great.”

“How’s your new patient?”

I cringe.

Of course.

Shehadto ask.

How to describe Cash Boyd in words that don’t include ‘jerk,’ ‘jackass,’ and ‘arrogant prick?’

And definitely leave out ‘fuck, he’s hot.’

“I think he’s a hermit. Very private.” I settle against the pillows and tuck my legs beneath me, unsure whether to smile or groan at the realization that that’s not the only thing Cash Boyd is.

Cash Boyd is more like the kind of eye candy you invite into your bed to fuck your brains out. And then you tell him to chuck his phone number into the nearest dumpster because guys like him aren’t called ‘heartbreakers’ for no reason.

Trust me, been there, done that.

Never again.

“Oh? In what way?” Debra’s voice betrays none of her emotions, which is a sure sign that she’s listening intently, ready to make up her own mind and judge the hell out of you if you reveal too much.

“Well.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear as I choose my words carefully. “He’s not exactly the kind who wants the help of a therapist. The next few months will be a bit challenging. But don’t worry. I know what I’m doing. This is going to look great on my résumé. And I need the money.”

Not to mention the thousands of air miles between Chicago and Montana.

“Erin.” Heavy pause. Thick waves of tension carry down the phone line, bringing with them all the guilt, accusation, and turmoil I thought I had left behind back home.

“I’m fine,” I whisper and draw a silent breath, wondering whether my statement could be further from the truth.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Another sharp breath.

I can do this. Madison Creek is the right place for it. No one knows me here; no one will try to dig up my story.

“Okay.” Debra’s voice betrays her doubt. If I were back home, she wouldn’t let me off the hook so easily. But thousands of miles, even for her, is too big of a distance to keep being pushy. We both know it. “You’ll call if you need anything?”

“Yes,” I say, even though that’s a lie, too. Debra has her own family and set of problems. I could never add to her plate.

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