Page 80 of Get Me to the Starting Line

“You could’ve seriously hurt yourself. You should’ve asked me or had someone do the stairs with you if you’re too stubborn to stick to the protocol Mateo has laid out.”

I let it slide that she’s also terrible at asking for help. Or accepting it.

“Mateo knows.”

“Bastard,” she hisses. I have to hide my smile. I just called Mateo the same.

It’s then I notice she’s carrying a large bag.

“What’s that?”

“If you’d been waiting in the apartment, you would’ve found out, but now I’m not sure if you even need it.” She looks down at the stairs again. “How many did you do?” she asks again, more contemplative this time.

“All of them.”

She lets out a breath, nodding, calculating and recalculating in her head. It’s an expression I’ve seen many times before. She’s gone into Dr. Harrison mode as she assesses me.

“Stand up,” she orders.

Wincing, I bring myself to my feet, using the railing for support. There’s a flash of concern on her face before she’s back to being angry.

“And you call me stubborn,” she says under her breath. “Can you make it back to the apartment?”

When I move my legs, I can’t disguise my sharp inhale from the pain. I’m in so much shit. She surprises me, though, coming to help me move farther away from the stairs.

“Where does it hurt?” she asks. I gesture to the outside of my hip and around the front. She nods like that’s what she was expecting, putting her bag down.

Avoiding my eyes, she asks, “Is it okay if I touch you?”

My mind whirls. Yes. Please fucking touch me—touch me everywhere. Of course, I don’t say that out loud, opting to nod instead. I suck in a breath when she places her hand on the outside of my thigh and begins kneading the muscles. The pain is deep but holy shit that feels good.

She continues her massage, one hand on the front of my hip flexor and the other on my glutes. I have to close my eyes and breathe in and out through my nose. My body reacts to merely the sight of her, but her touch? Fuck. It’s becoming apparent how much this is affecting me, but if she notices (and how could she not) she doesn’t say anything.

“Better?” Her eyes are guarded, hands still in precarious places on my body.

I can only nod, which I regret immediately because she takes her hands away. I want to yank her back and drown in her.

She reaches to grab her bag, opening it and pulling out a brace.

“Is that—”

“Yes, it’s just the prototype though,” she answers before I can ask.

It resembles the awful brace I already have, but there’s a stabilizing bar on the front of the brace as well. She doesn’t ask before starting to attach it to me. When her arms come around me, I have to help her since she can’t quite reach.

She’s practically hugging me, my hands grazing hers when I take the straps from her and secure the belt myself. Is it just me or does she linger a little longer than necessary?

Probably just me.

Then she’s on her knees in front of me and holy fuck I might pass out. There’s no blood left in my brain. I attempt to angle myself away from her, but her hands stop me from moving. My loose gym shorts are no longer loose.

She helps guide the cuff up my leg and then hooks in the stabilizing bars, cinching and pulling until it’s where she wants it, still saying nothing about the raging erection I’m sporting.

There’s literally no possible way she’s not aware of me.

Holyshit,he’shuge.

I felt him through our clothes when we kissed, but he was wearing jeans. I’m having a hard time focusing on the task at hand when I’m on my knees, his shorts tented in front of me. To avoid looking at him, I have to concentrate extra hard to do up the final straps on his brace. My finger grazes his inner thigh and he jerks almost imperceptibly.

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