Dear Reader,

Liam and Grace are the first characters I’ve written about who haven’t come from the void of my own subconscious. They came to me as part of a massive outline the editors unleashed on a gaggle of us writers to give life to. So I didn’t make them, but I do believe I made them into the twisted little monkeys I do so love writing about.

I dearly love an ‘older brother’s best friend’ storyline, and all the angst that comes along with it. But I also got to run with another favourite combo of mine: girl-next-door and super-unattainable and damaged hero. Or, as it actually is here, girl-next-door and junior high crush becomes high school first love, becomes subject of the most humiliating night of her life, becomes the celebrity crush whose image she can’t avoid, becomes… You get the picture.

Hope you enjoy the ride—and if you like the glimpses of secondary characters who’ve made it into these pages check out their books in The Hollywood Hills Clinic series!

Amalie Xo

AmalieBerlin.com/Contact.html

Facebook.com/Amalie.Berlin

Twitter: @AmalieBerlin

AMALIE BERLIN lives with her family and critters in Southern Ohio, and writes quirky and independent characters for Mills & Boon Medical Romance. She likes to buck expectations with unusual settings and situations, and believes humour can be used powerfully to illuminate truth—especially when juxtaposed against intense emotions. Love is stronger and more satisfying when your partner can make you laugh through times when you don’t have the luxury of tears.

Taming
Hollywood’s
Ultimate Playboy
Amalie Berlin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the awesome and lovely writers who populate the #1k1hr hashtag on Twitter. Without you this book would’ve never been done by deadline.

And to the other awesome and lovely writers at the Harlequin Writers’ Circle forums. Without you guys I maybe wouldn’t have needed Twitter to make deadline. But I’ve never had so much fun or felt so helpful and productive while procrastinating

Xo

Contents

COVER

Dear Reader

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

TITLE PAGE

DEDICATION

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

“NOW FOR THE hard part...” Liam Carter muttered, hauling himself out of the deeply comfortable chair in James Rothsberg’s office at The Hollywood Hills Clinic.

“The hard part?” James asked, politely rising in tandem with him.

Why had he said that? James didn’t need to know how shaky his plan was.

“Walking,” Liam said, offering an explanation he knew James would believe.

“I can get you a wheelchair and have you wheeled down to the treatment rooms...”

“No.” He raised a hand, laughing a little. Limping and still upright, even with pain, trumped being wheeled around. “No, I can make it.”

Liam hadn’t seen Grace in six years, and he’d damned well make her re-acquaintance on his feet. No matter how much it hurt.

He tested his balance and found it before he found the appropriate expression to conceal the pain.

James rounded his desk, hand outstretched to shake. “Don’t be surprised if Grace insists on crutches.”

Even without his desire to save face with Grace, if anyone saw him in a wheelchair or on crutches, word would travel, and the people he spent ninety-five percent of his life making happy would begin to question his suitability for the project.

Liam mustered a smile and shook the offered hand, then turned toward the door. “I’m sure we’ll work something out. Grace always was good at creative problem solving.” In their amicable past, the one that had ended for them that one night. The one he’d never have James know about, the land where nothing ever suddenly exploded. One terrible...and amazing night.

There had been plenty of great years before hormones had become involved, but the punctuation on that sentence assured their first meeting in years would be anything but normal.

For someone who lied for a living, doing so off script always left a bad taste in his mouth, so he left it at that. It had to be Grace...

Minimizing his limp as much as possible, Liam exited the office and made his way to the elevator he’d been directed to. The Hollywood Hills Clinic lived up to its reputation of clean, modern elegance, not that he could really appreciate it right now.

Two days and the best splint money could buy hadn’t even put a dent in the pain that radiated up his leg with every step. Liam would swear his ankle hurt more now than the day he’d sprained it. But despite the pain and the all-looming discomfort, the prospect of seeing Grace Watson again still had him moving a little faster.

How would the years have changed her? Would he find her still the slender, athletic girl she’d been, light on curves but with quiet, supple strength? Maybe he was nervous for no good reason, and time apart could’ve extinguished that youthful spark between them. It might not even come up.

Through Nick, he knew that Grace had worked in professional sports, helping athletes keep fighting fit. She could help him. He just had to convince her. Pretend their last meeting had never happened. They were both fully adults now, and adults ignored unpleasant things all the time in order to keep things cordial.

A short ride down and he stepped off the elevator. The more he walked, the more the spark of anticipation grew in his gut, and the faster he hobbled.

He just had to pretend. Pretend the image of her in that flimsy black lingerie wasn’t still etched crisply into his mind...six years later.

Hard to believe it had been that long.

By the time he’d reached the treatment rooms, the buzz on the back of his neck was enough to drown out the constant pain grinding through his ankle, or at least enough to distract him from it.

He stepped through the door of the treatment room, and before he’d even looked over the various equipment and exercise areas, he knew she wasn’t there. It felt empty.

Back in the hallway, he could see double doors at the end marked for the therapy pool. If she was anywhere, she’d be there.

Pools were as common as palms in Southern California and, while growing up, anytime she’d had a few minutes to spare, she’d spent them in the Watson family’s pool.

He approached the edge of the pool just in time to see her turn underwater and push off the side. He knew from the way she moved that it was Grace even through the shimmer of water. Sleek and fast, she powered through the water toward the far end.

Mermaid. He shook his head and felt himself smiling despite the nerves in the pit of his stomach. At least that hadn’t changed.

Maybe their reunion would be exactly like those old times. Maybe she’d reach the edge of the water and pretend to want a hand out, only to jerk him in with her.

Another underwater turn and she swam far enough before surfacing to speak of impressive lung power, then cut a path through the water toward him, straight as an arrow despite an unmarked lane.

Taking advantage of the seconds it would take her to reach his end of the pool, Liam ambled back toward the doorway to give her some space to exit the water, and avoid the urge to play with her. This wasn’t the old days, and he wasn’t seventeen anymore.

He saw her hand reach for the edge of the pool and heard her rapid breathing. She’d seen him when her head had cleared the water while breathing, or she’d seen someone there with her.

Grace’s head now popped over the edge and before he knew it she was emerging from the water, toned, tanned, and with the kind of curves that made the black bikini she wore look exactly like that lingerie...

No, not exactly. She hadn’t really had much in the way of hips last time. Now even her curves had curves.

His breath caught as their eyes met, but as she swung a leg up onto the edge of the pool one arm buckled and she toppled back into the water with a splash.

“Grace?” Had she hit something when she’d fallen back in? The concrete edge could do some damage...

He hobbled forward again.

* * *

Through training and sheer effort, Grace managed not to suck down a lungful of chlorinated water as she went under.

Broad shoulders.

Dark hair.

Eyes crystal and blue, like the inside curl of a summer wave.

Liam Carter.

What the devil was Liam doing there?

She grasped the edge of the pool and kicked hard as she pulled herself up again, turning immediately to plop sideways on the tiles, as graceless as a walrus, and breathing about as hard as one in full flounder.

Through sheer luck, she managed not to smash her face into the floor.

A walrus in a bikini was bad enough, one with an injury would just make it so much worse. And the last time she’d seen him, she’d— Oh, God.

Suddenly, she was eighteen again, and full to bursting with humiliation. Not the years-old variety—the kind you felt and then discarded—it felt as fresh as newly picked daisies, and her inner walrus wanted nothing but to escape back to the water.

Before the blazing heat roasting her cheeks could spread to the rest of her visible flesh, Grace snatched up her towel and climbed to her feet, whisking it around her before she’d even truly found her balance.

This wasn’t happening.

This was...chlorine poisoning. Had to be.

Or maybe oxygen deprivation.

She needed a mask.

Or just to get out of there. Before he figured out her transparent panic. Or saw the scars. Proof of yet more foolishness. And she’d really like him to think she’d come through that unmarked, or that they were basically invisible...since he’d never even deigned to visit her hospital room after it had happened. Not that she’d have wanted him to.

Liam had his hands up, a gesture of surrender, but his eyes reeked of concern—she’d assume it was fake except she’d seen that look before. Same frown. Same posture. Different setting...

But she was practically in the same freaking outfit. It was too much to hope this wasn’t real. She never got that lucky.

“You’re all right.” He said the words more than asked. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just here... Thought I’d say hello.”

As he spoke, he backpedaled from the room about as smoothly as her first attempt to get out of the pool, strongly favoring one leg.

She tucked the corner of the towel to form a tight band above her breasts and, once covered, looked down at his feet—not only to indulge her curiosity but to have something as far from his head as possible to examine kept accidental eye contact from recurring.

Which was when she noticed one ill-fitting shoe, the sides bulging out from a splint supporting his ankle.

She coughed to force words through her tight throat. “You’re usually a better actor than that, aren’t you?”

Thankfully she hadn’t also honked when she’d spoken.

Grace shifted, arms crossing over her waist as if that would cover her better, or make sure he didn’t start drawing the same parallels between this and the last time she’d set eyes on him.

Pretend this was normal. Pretend the thought of running away didn’t make her feet tingle and her knees itch with anticipation. Say normal person words.

“Are you here to see me, Liam... Mr....Liam?” She usually tried to be professional when addressing prospective patients, but “Mr. Carter” felt even weirder than “Liam.” But all of this felt wrong. Bad-dream wrong. Naked-without-your-homework-on-the-day-of-the-big-exam wrong.

What did a woman call someone from her past she no longer had a relationship with but whom she’d once forced to see her in her underwear? What was the proper, professional comportment for that situation?

“Or someone else, maybe?” Please, God, a lightning bolt would be good right about now. She could use a little smiting. Maybe not enough to die. There were lessons to teach actors to cry on command, where could she get lessons to learn to faint on command? Shouldn’t there be some holistic expert in pressure points who could teach her something for this kind of situation? Just in case it should come in handy again in the future.

“I was thinking...” He stopped the denial and shrugged his affirmation. “Yes. I’m here to see you.” He stopped his limping backward cadence and his arms fell lifelessly at his sides. “I sprained it. And with my schedule right now...”

Treatment. This wasn’t a coincidence. At least treatment meant she had something to do other than stand around and wonder if he could see her nipples through her bikini top as he’d been able to do through that ridiculous bra. Or the other stupid thoughts shouting in her mental echo chamber, none of which would make him go away any faster. But treatment might.

Examine him. Offer advice. Refer him to someone else. Call it a day!

Good plan.

But get dressed first.

Act normal. Like nothing is wrong.

“Can you make it back to the treatment room?” She glanced into his eyes long enough to see the furrow of irritation marring his too-handsome features and was almost proud she finally sounded normal and professional.

“Of course.”

“Okay. I’ll just dry off, change, and then come check on you. Have a seat in one of the reclining chairs and get your foot up. It’ll help with the throbbing.” More sane words.

He paused a moment and then nodded. Without another word, he pivoted on his good leg and hobbled back out into the hallway, leaving Grace to make a beeline for the locker room to change.

Had Nick sent him here? Her brother was still friends with Liam. They had a bond that never weakened, even through the months when Liam was too busy to hang out or whatever it was they did together. Grace didn’t know. She always tried her best not to know what Liam was up to, as much as was humanly possible in LA when she couldn’t even go to the store to buy toothpaste without seeing his pearly whites gracing the cover of some magazine.

WORLD’S SEXIEST MAN!

How Does Sexy Megastar Liam Carter Keep Those Rock-Hard Abs?

Hollywood’s Most Wanted talks life, love, and his favorite blah-blah-blah...

Or the ones she’d seen that morning when buying fruit: racks of tabloid headlines about Liam destroying his ex-girlfriend, who could only find comfort in the pills she got hooked on.

With minimal toweling efforts, she dried just enough to get her clothes back on without sticking, roughly combed her hair back into a ponytail, and stuffed her feet into sandals.

She’d go and examine him. Figure out what he was doing and what he should be doing to get back on his feet as quickly as possible. Fetch some crutches, maybe a different splint, and find someone to go to his house and give physical therapy. Someone who wasn’t her. Someone who’d never thrown her pride to the wind and herself at a man who had clearly never wanted her.

Or at least not thrown herself at this particular man. Someone who’d always known you can’t rehabilitate the bad boy.

But if you were lucky, maybe you could rehabilitate his ankle.

There had to be at least one such physical therapist in LA.

* * *

Liam half fell into the first chair he saw inside the treatment room. Not a recliner. Foot still down. All the better should he need to make an escape, an idea that stubbornly refused to go away. And the idea of reclining made his stomach roll, much like the first summer together when they’d all gone to Six Flags. Fifteen, stupid, with something to prove...jumping on his first ever roller coaster right after gorging himself with junk food and a milk shake...

The world felt tilted enough, without a chair adding to it.

Grace clearly didn’t want to see him. First time that had ever happened. After that night he’d stayed away, but before that night she’d always been happy to see him, full of smiles.

Maybe it was shock. He just had to give her a few minutes to compose herself.

Maybe this was a mistake.

Reaching as high as he had meant every new relationship came with a certain amount of danger—personal or professional, it didn’t matter. Not necessarily physical danger—though that was an unfortunate reality too—but it seemed like everyone was looking to make a quick buck selling any celebrity gossip they could get their hands on. More than just trashy network shows looked out for celebrity gossip. Now private websites and every form of social media got in on the scoops. It astounded him how fast a celebrity could fall from grace.

Grace.

She might not want to see him, but he could trust her not to be one of those people. Even if they hadn’t had a history, she worked for a facility that guaranteed patient privacy.

But with their history... Damn.

He shifted the messenger bag back onto his shoulder and himself out of the chair to make for the nearest recliner. Convincing her to help him would be tricky enough without disobeying her instructions right out the gate.

He barely got settled with the foot of the recliner kicked up before she came bustling in, once again avoiding eye contact. It didn’t take an expert to read that body language. Avoiding eye contact was a sign of vulnerability or of trying to hide something—given the situation, what she wanted to hide was likely that vulnerability.

She ducked into an office off to the side, saying in passing, “Let me just stash my stuff and I’ll have a look at your ankle.”

Half her words came after she’d left the room, projected to carry through the open door, and she hadn’t so much as glanced at him on the way through. That never happened these days. Since he’d become someone to be seen, everyone wanted to see him.

Everyone but Grace.

The problem with having an elephant in the room...he couldn’t decide if it was generally a bad idea to mention it, or if he just didn’t know how to mention it right. All he knew for sure was that neither of them really wanted to mention it—the idea of even trying summoned another wave of nausea. If she couldn’t even bring herself to look at him without the subject coming up, it really wasn’t the time to talk it out.

“I appreciate you taking the time,” he offered lamely. What would he say to any other medical professional in this situation? Just talk about the job. Pretend. He was an actor, for goodness’ sake. Just talk. “I’ve got a movie opening, three premieres to attend, and all the promotion that goes along with that. This couldn’t have happened at a worse time.”

She stepped back out of the office, finally letting him actually look at her in something other than her bathing suit. The clothes she wore didn’t flatter, but she still wore them well. Her black scrub bottoms sat low on those hips, occasionally giving him another glimpse of golden skin when she moved.

“What exactly happened?” She dragged a stool to the reclining foot end of his chair and sat down. Only then did she look at him.

Ignore the elephant. Focus on the ankle.

“I twisted it while running.” He answered her question and then fished for the bag he’d stashed beside him. “There are X-rays in here.”

She didn’t take the bag, but she did take the hint. “Did the doctors say it wasn’t broken?”

Her hands gently lifted his leg and she worked his shoe off, then began unstrapping the splint—the only thing that had been keeping him upright today. He tried not to wince but any jostle pinged like someone poking at a bruise. Annoying, but more capable of creating tension in his shoulders with the promise of bigger pain around the corner.

“They said it didn’t appear broken.”

“Okay, it could still be a minor fracture, but until it starts to heal it might not show up on film.”

He’d heard the same thing yesterday. And though she was gentle, his hands locked into the arms of the recliner, braced and ready to pull his leg free, even if he had no intention of doing so. Being ready helped somehow, self-comforting actions he’d been reading on her since she’d focused on him in the pool room. She’d wrapped her arms around her waist like she could hug herself right out of the whole thing.

Liam had studied body language enough to read almost anyone if he spent enough time with them, but someone he had such history with...well, he’d been able to read Grace from the instant she’d recognized him.

The shock may have dulled now, but she was still a little afraid...of him or the situation. Either way, it couldn’t be more wrong.

All the movement finally brought enough pain to rob him of anything else to say.

As she peeled away the layers of light brown elastic wrap, the extent of the swelling and bruising finally became apparent. She gave a low whistle and lowered his leg once more to the foot of the recliner so she could slide up the hem of his slacks. Her hands moved quickly and surely, but somehow she managed not to touch his skin the whole time she labored to fully unveil his foot and leg.

“You did a number on it. I’m not going to make you move your foot right now, but you really shouldn’t be walking on this. It should be elevated with ice to help with the swelling.” She reached for his calf, the first brush of her hand on his skin causing his gut to join in on the stiff tension knotting his arms and the rest of his torso.

Gently, she lifted his leg, craning her neck to look at the underside of his calf. There was soreness there, but there was something else in the feel of her cool, soft hands on his skin. It was nice, if you discounted the pain.

She felt it too. Her complexion had been leaning toward pale since the pool, but the first brush of her hands on his flesh brought color zinging back to her cheeks. She either felt it or suddenly just remembered her embarrassment—which was too probable for him to count on any silly theory about connections and strange touches.

His leg just hurt, and he was more aware of anything to do with it now. Even the fan in his bedroom ruffling his leg hair this morning had made him do a double take. The hair had felt like it had been six inches long.

“Does it hurt up here?” She lightly squeezed the top of his calf, up beneath his knee, looking him in the eye finally.

Liam shook his head, holding her gaze.

The pink blooming on her cheeks set off the rest of her coloring, and everything about her was golden—from the light tan testifying to her active outdoor life, to the flecks of gold in her warm brown eyes. Her hair was darker than he remembered—she’d always spent so much time outside that her light brown hair had always looked sun-kissed, but now, wet and pulled back into a ponytail, it was hard to tell whether she remained the quintessential California girl or not.

“Slightly sore, but not actual pain,” he murmured. The undercurrents and tension made things weird, just not weird enough for him to change his plans. Grace had to be the one.

“I can see you had it elevated right after the fall and blood pooled up the back of your calf. You’re sore up there because you’re black-and-blue to the back of your knee.” She laid his leg down again, and then went on talking about the injury. Something about tearing or stretching tendons, and all he could think about was the contrast between black lace and golden skin...

She paused long enough that Liam looked back to her eyes. Was he supposed to say something?

“Did they say anything like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like surgery to repair it?”

“Surgery?” The word snapped his attention back to what she was doing rather than how she looked. “No. I really don’t have time for surgery. I have a premiere tonight in town. Two more tomorrow—a big one in New York and a small, local one where the movie was filmed in Virginia. And then another day of interviews when I get back here...”

She sat back and looked at him over the tortured ankle, one brow lifted screaming idiot at him, even if she held off actually giving the word voice—he recognized that Watson family expression.

Get it together. This is business. He still saw one of the Watsons on a regular basis, which made this mental trip down memory lane ridiculous. He’d lost her six years ago, not six minutes ago.

“I know you can wrap it with tape to give it support enough to power through this,” he said, lifting his foot away from her hands and putting the recliner arm back down. Getting upright would help. “That’s why I came to you, Grace. You’ve worked with athletes injured mid-game, kept them playing and all that. Certainly you can work with me long enough to simply keep me walking for a couple of days. And then I will do whatever it is you tell me to do in order to recover. But right now...I need to play through this.”

“Those athletes who get taped are only mildly sprained. They can bear weight, just need some extra support to keep up with their range of motion. This is not that kind of sprain. You need crutches.”

God. Another person with the crutches. “No. No crutches. Athletes—”

“Don’t use them on the court,” she cut in, sounding irritated with him now. “I know, but I told you—this is different. And even if it weren’t different, there’s a big difference between taping an ankle before it starts to swell and after. And you’re already terribly swollen. Tape won’t do anything for you, it can’t give you any support when there’s an inch of gelatinous squish between the tape and the joint.”

“There are medications that reduce swelling.”

“Yes...” She sat back again and looked at him. The more they engaged about the injury, the more comfortable she looked. The blush had already faded to a hint of pink. Maybe the weirdness would abate if they just stayed focused on the work. “Diuretics are used for chronic conditions that cause water retention, and as preparation before a surgery that will cause massive swelling—mostly orthopedic surgeries. But not really for injuries like this.”

“Can’t we use them that way anyway? And ice? And elevation? Get the swelling down enough to tape it?”

“I don’t know,” she said, standing again, one hand rubbing her forehead. Another self-comforting technique—her embarrassment may have faded but she still felt the stress of the situation. “I don’t prescribe medication. Let me talk to Dr. Rothsberg and see who I can find in New York to—”

She started to turn and Liam lunged to grab her hand. Instantly that feeling returned. Connection. Warmth. “Grace.” He said her name. Maybe if he held her back with words he could let go of her hand. “Talk to Rothsberg about the medicine, please, but I came to you because I need you.”

Her hand turned slightly in his, not so much pulling away, just giving the smallest slide of flesh on flesh. Every nerve in his hand fired and tingling heat spread up his arm.

Her hands were small but he felt the strength in them. So soft in his, and warmth he could spend a year studying... He found himself stroking her skin in return, his thumb making lazy exploration of the back of her hand.

Something else, he’d been saying something...but whatever it was left him.

They’d always had chemistry, but he’d never let himself explore it. He’d always kept touching to a minimum or carefully relegated to non-sexy situations for so many reasons, not the least of which had been loyalty. The senior Watsons and Nick meant a lot to Liam, but no matter how kind they were to him even Liam knew that would all end if he gave in to that lust that colored his vision every time he looked at her. Grace was off-limits, all he could have of her was his imaginings.

And this added a new element to the fantasy of the untouchable Grace Watson.

What would her hands feel like on the rest of his body?

CHAPTER TWO

GRACE STEPPED CLOSER to Liam’s chair, her arm outstretched, hand captured.

How many times had this happened in her youth? How many times had hands clasped to do something mundane and helpful? How many times had her teenage self been sprawled on the grass near where Liam and Nick had hung out—doing whatever it was that teenage boys did—with her beside Liam just so she could beg for a hand up when it was time to go in for dinner? She’d used any excuse to make him hold her hand, even for just a couple seconds.

But it had always been at her instigation.

She’d been the one dying to feel her hand in his.

The only kind of flirting a dumb kid could come up with to try and make Liam see her as something other than Nick’s kid sister.

And the least ridiculous, as it had turned out. When she’d hit eighteen and the time apart while he’d been at school had turned her desperate, her tactics had become the stuff that couldn’t be lived down.

“I know you don’t want to come with me,” Liam said, his hand still in hers, even though he’d stopped stroking her skin now. It didn’t really help clear her thinking, though.

She needed to make him let go. Get some space. Maybe her thinking would unfuzzy.

She took a slow deep breath and gestured back to the stool as she pulled her hand from his, indicating that she wasn’t fleeing so he’d let go.

Please, don’t mention it.

She might be able to force herself through this without having to face the embarrassment head-on, but if he wanted to talk about it...

He hadn’t so far, but she could see it on his face every time she looked at him. Who could forget something like that?

“We haven’t seen one another in a long time, I know,” he said, nodding to his ankle. “Could you rewrap it? It feels better when it’s got something around it.”

“Yes. Of course.” She grabbed the bandage, thankful for something to do, and began rolling it up to make the rewrapping easier. Focusing on a task was better than focusing on emotions that would make everything so much worse. Liam settled back again, his hands in his lap. She could still feel the weight of his eyes on her.

“I have no one else to turn to, Gracie. It seems that when everyone wants something from you, it gets harder to trust.” The edge she’d heard in his voice drained away and he chuckled, sounding something like the old, charming Liam. The old Liam, the only one she’d ever let call her Gracie. “You probably hear some variation of that from entitled celebrities every day, whining about their success and how much it costs them.”

He lifted his leg as she began wrapping, allowing her to pass the elastic wrap under and around his leg, snug enough to stop further swelling but not so tight that it would hamper circulation. Something she knew how to do, unlike the rest of this. And as painful as it looked, the physical pain was so much easier to deal with. And he really had hurt himself, but there were things that could be done to speed recovery. Things she could help him do after a few days of healing rest, but this insane plan to keep walking on it...

“I’m sure I could find someone skilled enough to help me through these next few weeks, but I’d have to keep my guard up, and that’s really hard to do twenty-four hours a day. I know you’re not going to secretly record me or take pictures to sell to the tabloids. I know you’re not going to pay more attention to the limelight than to my recovery. And if I ever had any doubt, after seeing how badly you don’t want to get involved...I’m certain of it now.”

Her stomach bottomed out, hearing those words, almost as sure a hit as if he had mentioned the other. “It’s not that I don’t want to help you. I can see you need help and I’m sure you hate having to come ask for it.” The words tasted of lies. She didn’t want to help him, but none of that was his fault. It was her fault. He wasn’t holding grudges and she wasn’t either, but... “Maybe I could get you started and then after your premieres you could come back. That way I wouldn’t have to let down my other patients either.”

“James said you have a light enough schedule that the other therapists can cover it.”

Of course he had. Because even if he’d known about their past, James would’ve still wanted to do what was best for the clinic, and that meant taking excellent care of the patients, not turning them away for wholly emotional reasons. Way more professional than her reaction had been.

She should just say yes, let him stop convincing her...

She opened her mouth to agree, but he was already saying something else.

“The Watson family has always been my safe place. There’s no one I trust more than Nick and you. Even when the whole world felt barbed-wired and booby-trapped, I always knew I could come to your house and—”

“Okay, I’ll come.” She blurted the words out before he tried other guilt tactics. Guilt worked every time, especially since all of this awkwardness was her fault. He was the victim here. Heck, if the situation had been reversed and he’d come to her house in a trench coat and scanty underwear, it would’ve probably been considered a sex crime. And it definitely would’ve made all his other relationships with her family tense and awkward, maybe even worse than this.

It had been all on her and her childish fantasies that Liam Carter could’ve ever thought of her the way she thought of him. No. The way she had thought of him. The only thing she felt now was horrified at her own behavior. And desperate to never have to acknowledge or explain, to never experience that level of vulnerability again.

Holding the loose end of the bandage with her wrist, she fished fabric tape from her pocket and pulled off a strip to tack the bandage down before taping it more thoroughly.

“But, for the record, I was going to say yes before you added that little bit about trust and our childhood.”

There’d been no way for him to win that situation, just like there was no way for her to win this one. No polite, professional, or kind way at least, and he deserved her kindness. She’d spent years trying to figure out what he could have said that would’ve made the rejection better at all.

Should he have just slept with her so she hadn’t felt stupid about the hours of vigorous waxing and grooming to make herself irresistible? Wasted hours and needlessly tender post-waxing flesh...

“You mean I’m wasting my best lines?”

His question jerked her back from pondering the futility of her tender bits after that tragic home wax/shaving experiment. The smile she found when she looked at him softened the memories of bad razor burn and gut-churning humiliation.

“Was that a line in one of your movies?”

“Don’t you watch my movies?” The words rang with obviously faked horror and he laid a hand over his heart as if the mere thought would do him in.

Silly.

Cute.

He was trying to make her feel better.

Before she could stop it, she smiled back. He certainly hadn’t lost that natural charm.

But that kind of dangerous thinking had to stay as far from her scrambled gray matter as possible. The only way to get through this was to just focus on the injury, not the man. Not the way her insides expanded when he smiled at her, which they shouldn’t even do anyway. Playful banter might as well be a sledgehammer, he could knock all sense out of her with one strategic swing.

She took a breath and eased the smile off her face.

Playful banter fit nowhere, it had to go for the next couple weeks.

Playful banter could make her forget.

Playful banter could make her stupid.

No playing with Liam Carter.

“When do we go?” Grace asked instead, bringing the conversation back on track.

“How fast can you pack?”

Grace strapped him into the splint, which at least was of excellent quality and slender enough that it could probably be hidden beneath his dress pants. “Driving home will take—”

“No. I mean whatever medical supplies you need. We’ll pick up whatever personal items you need for tonight and the morning. When we get to New York, we’ll get any restocking of supplies we need too.”

“Your people will get whatever else we need, you mean?” She reached up to grasp the cuff of his pants leg and eased it back down over the splint.

“Yes.” He smiled again, that lopsided, little-boy grin that always made her heart speed up.

She wouldn’t smile. No smiling. Business didn’t need so much smiling. Taking care of him didn’t mean she had to have a sweet bedside manner, just a professional one.

“I’d rather deal with my own clothes, but for now I’m going to get some ice for your ankle, talk to James about whether a diuretic would be acceptable in this situation, and pack a quick bag of supplies. You sit here until I’m ready. The ice might do some good before you get back on your feet.” Grace stood, heading to the freezer to get things started.

This day had certainly taken a turn for the bizarre and uncomfortable. And as stupid as it sounded to her to try and push through this, it wasn’t her job to make celebrities behave rationally. It was her job to try and keep the damage to a minimum, and also the whole rehabilitation thing. She could keep him going for a couple of days if he could ride it out.

That was her job.

And swimming together, in or out of therapy, was right out. At least for the immediate future. The only way she was going to retain some semblance of her sanity around Liam was to keep The Trench Coat Incident as far from her thoughts as possible.

* * *

Grace settled into the forward-facing black leather backseat of the limo, dropping her bag onto the floor at her feet as she settled.

In the quiet interior of the car, the speed of her heart registered. She’d felt it before, hovering in the fringes of her awareness, but here she could hear the speed and analyze the force of the beast tangoing in her chest. It hadn’t really ever come back down since the second she’d seen him standing beside the pool. He probably could hear it now, even sitting three feet away.

She fixed her gaze out the window.

It was still hard to look at Liam too long, even if she knew she was going to have to get used to it. The door shut behind him, and the darkened interior of the limo kept him from reflecting in the glass.

Finally, something going her way. Any brighter in there and the only place to keep from seeing him would’ve been the insides of her eyelids. And that never worked out, she was too good at seeing him there.

“So, about your clothes. You need to let me handle that.”

If she had to look at him, it would be in bright, open places. And if she had to talk to him, it would be about strictly professional subjects, which clothing was not.

“I know I didn’t have time to pack anything but medical supplies, but what I am wearing right now will serve for this afternoon. While you’re at the premiere, I’ll go home, grab some clothes and come back to the hotel.”

“I have a personal shopper.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw him fish his phone from his pocket and flip it on. Two clicks later, he had it to his ear. Not listening to her at all.

“I don’t need a personal shopper. I can get my own clothes.” She tried again.

“They will be your own clothes afterward.”

“Liam.” She said his name, forcing herself to become reacquainted with the way it felt on her lips again.

Ten years ago, simply saying his name had made her happy. She would’ve sworn it even had a taste—a slick, plump fullness, luxurious and sensual, like her tongue sliding across her lips to suddenly find cinnamon chocolate fudge...

Now, instead of sweets, his name felt like rocks and sand in her mouth. Sharp. Awkward. Gritty.

“It’s really not a big deal.”

He listened well enough to carry on the conversation, but he clearly wasn’t hearing her.

Ugh.

This kind of thing never happened to her. It probably never happened to anyone outside of Cinderella and Pretty Woman.

And that would make her the prostitute in this situation. Great.

Grace licked her sandpaper lips and took another purposeful breath through her mouth, because although the car might provide her with the ability to stop looking at him, it only amplified the heady cloud of good smells clinging to the man. His scent had been indelibly imprinted on her memories, earthy and rich, like salty air, old forests, and even older heartache. She found herself breathing slowly and deeply.

This was such a bad idea.

She was supposed to be acting professionally. Yelling at a client wasn’t professional. And rolling in his scent was an extremely creepy reaction to being in his presence again.

Everything would be okay, she just needed to get ahold of herself. And maybe explain better, if she could come up with the words.

“I’m sure your personal shopper is lovely.” Diplomatic. Good opening. “But that’s not really the point. I already have clothes. I can take care of my own clothes. We’re not going to be in another state until tomorrow so I have time.”

He stopped participating in the conversation as someone had answered and now he was in full Hollywood mode, greeting and no doubt smiling.

Would he be doing this if she were anyone else?

“My other clients don’t buy me clothing.” She’d had some bring gifts, the kind that had made her feel awkward and—

“What sizes do you wear?”

The close confines of the darkened interior of the back of the limo felt entirely too intimate without him asking personal questions about her clothing.

She shifted to another seat to make room and redirected the conversation. “Turn sideways on the seat so you can stretch your leg out there. Any elevation will help with the swelling.” Ice would have been more helpful, but she hadn’t brought any.

A few seconds ticked by and she heard, “You’re ignoring me?” Incredulity rang in his voice, making her want to turn and look at him.

Then again, everything made her want to look at him. He was singularly the most attractive person she’d ever seen in person—even years later and working at The Hollywood Hills Clinic, which was peopled daily with the beautiful and glamorous.

And her reaction to him was precisely the reason she needed to avoid looking at him excessively or, as it would probably be called, staring in a starstruck and creepy fashion. Though, admittedly, the more he banged this shopping drum, the less she felt like gazing at him like a lovesick cow, and more like smacking him in the back of the head.

Precisely why she needed to keep all talking strictly professional.

“I’m pretending you didn’t just ask a c—” The word creepy nearly sprang out of her mouth, but she managed to stomp the sound down before she used unprofessional language. “It’s really not workplace etiquette to ask those kinds of questions. So, just let me handle any clothing needs I may have on my own.”

“We don’t have time for this, Grace. I’d really rather you blend in, and the clinic logo and your name on your shirt do not help you blend in.” A pause and he repeated into the phone, “I’d like her to blend in with the group.”

His group—she was going to assume that meant his people, in the ol’ I’ll Have My People Call You scenario. So Liam called them his group.

“Right. Slacks. Blouses. Shoes. Accessories...”

Accessories. Of course, how could she forget accessories? She had accessories. She just hadn’t thought to mention them.

“No. She’s tall, but not six feet. Probably about a head shorter than me. Compact and slim, but not so much skinny as athletic. She’s...”

He wasn’t going to stop. Next thing he would be trying to describe her curves or ask her cup size, which would just bring that stupid trench-coat situation back to his mind. This was worse than just giving the fool her sizes. “Please, Liam.” She tried his name again.

“I’ll snap a photo of her and send it to you when we get to the hotel.”

“For goodness’ sake, stop!” Exasperated, she turned to look at him, holding out her hand for the phone. “Stop and I will text her my sizes.”

“Him.”

“Him! Whatever!” She held out her hand for his phone, her voice rising with her blood pressure. “I will text him my sizes if it will get you off this and get your foot up on that seat. Every minute it is down on the floor like that, it’s swelling more. You know that, right, Superman?”

“Text coming,” he said into the phone. “And the picture in a little bit. If you can have them at the hotel in the morning, we’re leaving for New York at seven.” He hung up before handing her the phone and turning to prop his foot up, as she’d all but shrieked at him.

Good thing she wasn’t interested in seducing him. There was probably a reason that the low, velvety voice analogous with seduction was the opposite of a shriek.

A minute later, she double-checked the details she’d sent to Shopper Tom, as he was known to Liam’s phone. If he picked clothing she hated, she’d wear it the one time and then find someone at work who wanted the clothes. They were temporary, just like this assignment.

The thought failed to comfort her, and she returned her attention to the window, thrusting the phone at him and settling back into her not-speaking routine. She couldn’t display her freak-out voice if she wasn’t talking.

* * *

In order to maintain security, and probably so Liam wouldn’t be seen traveling with a woman whose shirt announced her position as physical therapist, the limo had gone around to the rear, private entrance of the hotel, where his group had met them.

Now, with him limping down the marble hallway in front of her—which no doubt led to the supremely classy yet neutral color-schemed heaven on the top floor—there was no room to doubt how bad an idea it was for him to be on the carpet tonight.

His three assistants bustled along with him, informing him how they’d set up the interviews. More walking, him making rounds to meet with reporters in different areas of the suite...

“That’s not going to work,” Grace cut in, and three sets of eyes turned to her. Liam’s didn’t, but his people had no idea she’d been complaining about him walking on it for at least ninety-seven percent of the time since she’d seen him. Mostly because it was a bad idea, and partly because she couldn’t complain about what she really wanted to complain about...

“What would you like us to do?” Liam asked, stopping at a nondescript elevator and pressing the call button. Maybe he came this way all the time?

“One, you need to be off your feet as much as possible if you’re going to have any hope of getting through the red carpet tonight. Two, you said you don’t want this advertised. Which? You’re limping like you’ve just suffered a back-alley amputation and are walking on a bloody stump.”

He smiled at her description and then nodded to his people. “She’s right. I don’t want to walk any more than I absolutely have to.”

Despite the smile he’d put on, there was a white ring around his mouth and his forehead glistened, though it was far from hot outside. Concealed pain. Ridiculous that he was so driven to conceal it.

But at least he wasn’t arguing.

Their elevator stopped again at the very top of the hotel. “A suite, I’m guessing?”

“The whole floor.” Liam nodded.

Naturally.

“Okay.” The door opened to a tiny room with an ornate fancy door. One of the assistants handled the lock.

“Here.” She thrust the rather large bag of medical supplies to the closest assistant, a pretty, petite thing who made Grace feel the antithesis of her name, and didn’t pause to see if she could bear the weight.

“I’m helping you, Liam,” Grace said, in what she hoped was a tone that brooked no argument. Even if she had to come back for the bag, she wouldn’t have the thing smacking into him and upsetting his already precarious balance. A second later and she had his arm over her shoulders and her own around his waist, “If you have the whole floor, no one is going to see me helping.”

A nod and he leaned, letting her take some of his weight, confirming how much his leg was hurting. As they made it into the suite, she began issuing instructions.

“We’re going to need crushed ice, and find one of the rooms to set up and have the press people come here instead. We need a table, a chair, long tablecloth...and a footstool that can be hidden behind the fabric.”

“Two chairs,” the man at her left said, probably taking notes the way he rattled off her requests.

She turned Liam toward the closest comfortable-looking chair and kept arguing. “One chair. The reporter is going to stand. Or sit across the room. Or away from the table. Or levitate. I don’t care. If they’re at the table, they might bump his ankle or crash their feet into the stool. We don’t want them getting curious for any reason and looking, right?”

“Right,” Liam confirmed, nodding to a different chair to indicate his seat of choice.

A moment later, she had freed herself from the heat and natural cologne of his body to deposit him in the chair, his foot propped up on a table with a cushion padding the heel. “This will have to do until we get the other set up.”

“Grace?”

She stopped and turned to look at him.

“Thank you. I suddenly feel like my brain isn’t functioning at full power.”

“When did you last take medication for pain?”

“I took something this morning.”

“Any reason you can’t take anti-inflammatories? Any kidney problems?”

He shook his head.

“Good. They’ll help more, reduce swelling. I am also going to...” She paused and directed her attention back to the one remaining assistant. “Get some food up here. Also, the room you set up in should be close to a bathroom.”

“Why?” Liam’s question came from behind her.

“Because you’re going to take a diuretic, remember?”

“Oh, right.”

“And you don’t want to have to walk a bunch to get to and from it.” Having tasks to occupy herself with helped. Top of the list now: water. She detoured to the bar and came back with a fresh, cool bottle of water and, after she’d rifled through the work bag the woman had lugged in, fished out a few blister packs with the medicine Dr. Rothsberg had agreed to. “Take this. And this.”

“What’s that?”

“Potassium. If you take this diuretic, it will flush the potassium from your body. So you take it with potassium.” At least he was still with it enough to ask the right questions and not just blindly take any medicine handed to him.

“The other? The pain medicine, it’s not narcotic, right? Not the anti-inflammatory mixed with something you get with a prescription?”

There was a sound in his voice that made her stop and look at him, like a pinch or something else causing pain. It took her a second before she worked out why. His parents. How could she have forgotten about their addiction?

“No narcotic in it,” she said softly. “It’s a prescription-sized dose of ibuprofen, but we’re faking it by taking extra over-the-counter versions of the same drug. Nothing addictive...” She regretted the word before it had even fully passed her lips. Some words had a chameleonlike ability to become hurtful depending on who heard them. With his history, and his recent addict ex-girlfriend... If she was going to be working with him, she’d have to be more mindful.

Before the statement could settle, or turn the room acid, she changed to what they needed to do. Work could always save them. “How long do we have to get you settled before the interviews have to start? And what time do you have to get ready for the premiere?”

One of the assistants, Tall, Blond, and Slight—or Miles, as the others called him—answered, “As soon as possible on the interviews. Most of the reporters are here already, and from there about four hours before he has to get dressed.”

She stood a little straighter, knowing that her words were going to irritate them. “Okay, then make sure it’s no more than two hours for the reporters. He needs a couple hours with his leg up higher than his head, and iced.”

“Liam?” Miles looked around her to their boss.

“She’s in charge this afternoon,” Liam said, all but pulling the words from her mind. “And if we have to sacrifice a few angry reporters in order to put in a satisfying show on the carpet, then that’s what we have to do. If you’re worried, double them up. Bring in two at a time. Limit the number of questions they can ask. We can keep them moving. You gave them all the script, right?”

“Script?” Grace asked, zeroing in back on him.

“Miles puts together all the information that we want them to have, they hand out copies and that keeps me from having to repeat myself. Sometimes they want a direct quote in my own words and the copy we’ve handed out is wasted, but usually they are a good way of shortening interviews.”

Miles added, “I’ll limit them to three questions. Or maybe a time limit would be better. Three questions or...seven minutes.”

“How many crews are there?” The math started sounding more than ridiculous.

“You don’t want to know,” Liam said. “They were planning to have four hours to do this, but I threw a wrench into things by going to The Hollywood Hills Clinic for you first.”

And she needed to be there in order to intercede, but Liam didn’t want people seeing her shirt. “Do you have clothes here? Other than the ones for the trip and the premieres?”

He nodded. “Why?”

“The crews are here and Shopper Tom hasn’t had enough time to get something here for me to wear. Thought maybe I could snag one of your button-downs and wear it instead of the polo until he gets here.”

He nodded toward his female assistant. “Show Miss Watson what’s available in the wardrobe. The shirts I wore when I leaned out for that role eight months ago would probably work best.”

Grace followed the woman.

He’d leaned out?

In general, looking at Liam’s chest was a bad idea if Grace wanted to keep her wits about her, but she couldn’t help herself now. His shoulders were broad, had always been broad. How much weight had he lost for a role? Everything looked normal to her with his clothes on... What other tortures was he putting his body through for this job?

What would she have put her own through to turn pro? More than was sane. She’d done plenty during rehab when she’d been hanging onto a shred of hope. She had just never managed to get back there.

CHAPTER THREE

SOMEHOW GRACE HAD made herself the boss of Liam and his assistants, and Liam didn’t have any desire to dissuade her from that course of action.

She got the crews in and out, and guarded the door in between. And the shirt she’d selected from his clothing didn’t fit. Hell, it might as well be the only thing she was wearing for the way it distracted him. The collar unbuttoned deeply enough to tease at her cleavage, and the material tied in a knot at her waist, granting glimpses of solid abs and golden skin. No way would she be mistaken for a medical professional in that. She looked like his girlfriend or his lover, bossing everyone around and protectively fetching him water while still nagging him about this and that.

He liked that idea way too much.

But only because it was the perfect cover. No other options there.

If she didn’t watch it, the story the reporters took away would be that Liam had dumped Simone and caused her to turn addict...so that he could shack up with the golden vixen managing his suite and tending to his needs while his assistants stood by and looked at her balefully. Yep, it all but screamed The Other Woman.

She escorted the fourth crew back and came back to him, alone as she did every time. “How are you? Do you need a break before the next?”

“I do. I need to use the...facilities.” He gestured. “And I won’t ask you to stick around there, but someone to lean on would be appreciated.”

“Just a second. I have crutches with me.”

“You brought them anyway? How?”

She dug into the big duffel and started pulling out parts. Somehow, in that big bag of supplies, she’d managed to break down and stash a set of crutches. She flipped metal bits this way and that, pressed buttons, and adjusted the height. “Don’t worry, when you’re seated again, I’ll stash them under the sofa so no one can see them. I just want you using them anytime you’re not in front of the public. I’m serious, Liam. You are damaging that further every time you put your weight on it, and there is a window where you can get away with it, but past that it’s going to heal wrong and you’ll sprain it again. You’d be surprised by how little pressure a weakened ankle can withstand before it rolls out of the socket. Pain is a signal. It’s supposed to dissuade you from acting like a he-man.”

Arguing was futile.

“Fine. Give them to me. It might shock you to hear this, but I don’t want to do more damage than I have to. I’ve rated it as high as I can beneath the top priorities.”

She helped him get the crutches positioned right, and walked beside him toward the bathroom.

“What do you think you’re going to have to give up by bowing out of these premieres and interviews?”

“It wouldn’t take much to wreck the momentum my career has gained in the past two years. You know how the gossip is. You don’t have to make huge scandalous mistakes for the climate to turn. People are already mad at me about Simone, and that’s all speculation. I could keep making a series of small mistakes or demonstrations of bad judgment and the tide would still turn, just not as sharp a turn as if I went around punching people and biting the heads off live kittens.”

He felt it before he even looked down and saw the face she pulled while walking beside him. She turned her lips in and bit them, the way she’d liked to do to hide smiles, or keep from saying something she shouldn’t. Simone. She wanted to ask about Simone, how could she not?

No way. He wasn’t up for talking about his ex with the woman he’d spent years comparing all his former girlfriends to.

“I know that’s a silly example. What I want you to know is that I need to make the most of it while I’m in the position I’ve managed to reach. Do the most work I can, bank it for the inevitable downturn. And in the meanwhile get the best parts and stretch myself—increase the work that people think I’m capable of.” He swung into the bathroom and turned to try and drill the importance of his words into her. “The next project is a really good one. It’s also the kind of work that will keep me from being stuck in either the rom-com hero or action hero typecasts when I get too old for those kinds of parts.”

She opened the bathroom door and waited for him to enter. “I’ll wait out here.”

It closed with a click and Liam shook his head. No comment on what he’d said. She thought he was being unreasonable just out of stubbornness. Or, worse, she thought it was ego. That his pride would sacrifice his leg if it meant the chance to prowl the carpet and be told how awesome he was.

He caught his reflection in the mirror as he passed it, scowling so deeply that he had to pause. Even speculating that she held him in anything but high esteem made him feel fifty pounds heavier, and it showed on his face.

Afterward, while avoiding looking into the mirror, he washed his hands and grabbed the crutches again.

“Door.” He’d let her wait on him if she wanted to take it this far. “You think I’m being ridiculous.”

“I think that you think you’re invincible. I remember feeling that way myself, but when it goes? It’s a really rude awakening.”

“Liam?” Miles called from the door. “The media are getting restless.”

“Right. Let me get settled and then bring in the next person. Wait at least ninety seconds.” The crutches were awkward at first, but he’d played parts where they were needed in the past. His body remembered the way of it soon enough. He picked up speed to his seat, sat, and thrust them at Grace. “I’ll take care of settling my foot with the ice on it.”

His group were competent and cautious people and he even fully trusted two of the three of them, but having Grace take care of things felt the most secure.

When this was over, he’d have to make sure she knew how much this meant to him. Maybe she’d stop looking at him that way then. Maybe he’d stop looking at himself that way.

He should probably also give his group bonuses. He’d seen Miles—his longest-employed assistant—giving Grace the stink-eye at least twice today.

With a quick bend and tuck, she stashed the crutches beneath the sofa and out of sight. Liam made a point of not watching her bend over.

Twenty minutes and another trip to the lavatory later, she was helping him back to the chair and paused to have a look at his foot before putting the ice back on it. “It’s working. At least we have that. If the swelling keeps going down, your insane plan might actually work. Providing you can stand the pain. How’s it doing right now, on a scale of one to ten?”

He could lie—and the professional side of his personality almost demanded it. If he told her that it was a solid four even when he was sitting still, and that it shot up to seven or seventy-five when he walked...

“It’s pretty sore,” he said, shaking his head. “And it is worse when I walk on it. The crutches are helping, but I’m only using them here.”

“We’ve been over that,” Grace said, heading toward the couch with the crutches. “But you didn’t say a number.”

“Three when I’m sitting.” It wasn’t really a lie. All these numbers were subjective. It just felt like a lie.

“And when you’re on it?”

“I don’t know. Six.”

She straightened with a grimace and a shake of her head. “Before you go, if you insist on going, I’ll give you a staggered dose of painkillers to help a little more. But you remember this tomorrow when sitting is a six and walking is a ten.”

* * *

With the new rules limiting the number of questions they could ask, and doubling up on crews, they managed to get them all through with only a little extra time shaved off the required rest period Grace had given him.

And the remainder of it, all one hour and forty-seven minutes he’d spent flat on his back on the floor, his leg propped up on the seat of the chair he’d spent the afternoon in, his foot above the level of his heart, seemed like the easiest way to accomplish that.

However hard he’d thought it’d been to avoid her, he now fully recognized how much he’d missed just seeing her. Even considering the tension in their first minutes and the frequent flashes he saw in her eyes when she looked his way, things were going much better than he would have hoped.

She still thought he was being completely foolish, but she was getting him through what he needed to. And what he really needed now was another trip to the damned bathroom. Note to self: great for reducing swelling but lousy if you’re not glued to the en suite.

“Grace!” he yelled from the floor. “Is my time up?”

“You have one minute, but I guess we can get you up early. Why? Do you need something?” She asked the question so innocently, he almost missed the teasing light in her eyes—small as it was.

“Uh-huh.”

“Can you wait until I’ve had a second to look at it and tape it if possible?”

“Do we really need to delay? It’s a quick trip.”

“Yes, but any time with your foot down it’s going to start swelling again.”

And she’d made enough of a deal about it earlier that he didn’t want to test her patience with him. Funny, he usually had a harder time letting go of his way than that.

“All right. If you can do it fast. Like in five minutes.”

“I’ve taped on the sidelines. I can tape an ankle in under two minutes, but I need a couple more minutes to see your ankle once we’ve got the wrap off.”

A minute later, she’d moved her supplies over and offered him a hand from the floor. “I thought you didn’t want me to put it down.”

“I want you to stand up and sit in the chair so I can tape it easier. You know, so I can get the tape under it without you having to strain to keep it off my lap and I don’t have to give myself backache bending and twisting to get in past the seat back.”

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