The first step is the hardest...

Everything can change in an instant, police officer Shane Warner learns when he’s shot in the line of duty. And his tough—pretty—physical therapist, Natalie Keaton, also knows it all too well. She wants to help Shane get better, but it’s hard to see him as any different from the reckless cops who ruined her life. As they work to get him walking again, he’s determined to change her opinion of him. If he can show her who he really is, his most important step will be the one that ends with Natalie in his arms.

Natalie could only stare into Shane’s eyes. The room was so still, so suddenly intimate.

It amplified the stilted rhythm of her breaths. And his. He’d spoken about a person making an effort to understand someone else. Hadn’t he done just that for her tonight? Strange how she’d never felt more understood.

It may have been surprise, or perhaps just want of a connection she hadn’t even realized she craved, but something powerful held her in place.

Shane’s gaze was unwavering, steady. A contradiction to the riotous feelings battling inside her, some calling for a poorly plotted charge and others, a hasty retreat.

She should listen to the one that told her to run for safety...

Dear Reader,

I am so excited to return with you to the True Blue series and to the world of the honorable men and women of the Michigan State Police Brighton Post. In the past few years, law enforcement has come under more scrutiny, and rightfully so for the bad behavior of more than a few officers. But I love writing about the much larger segment of the law-enforcement community, of brave men and women who wear the badge with pride and who make sacrifices and risk their lives daily for the safety and well-being of people they’ve never met. These are the officers I have met through the Lakes Area Citizens Police Academy and through interviews and ride-alongs with officers from several Michigan law-enforcement agencies. And these are the characters who populate the stories in True Blue.

In Falling for the Cop, I explored the impossible pairing of Shane Warner, an officer who is battling his way back from a possibly career-ending shooting injury, and Natalie Keaton, a physical therapist who blames all police officers for the high-speed police chase that left her mother a paraplegic. As with all of my characters, I loved challenging their wounds (both internal and external), their fears and their prejudices that keep them from having the lives of their dreams.

I love to hear from readers. Connect with me through my website, www.dananussio.com; through social-media channels Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads or Pinterest; or by regular mail at PO Box 5, Novi, MI 48376-0005.

Dana Nussio

Falling for the Cop

Dana Nussio

www.millsandboon.co.uk

DANA NUSSIO began telling “people stories” around the same time she started talking. She has been doing both things, nonstop, ever since. The award-winning newspaper reporter and features editor left her career while raising three daughters, but the stories followed her home as she discovered the joy of writing fiction. Now an award-winning fiction author as well, she loves telling emotional stories filled with honorable but flawed characters. Empty nesters, Dana and her husband of more than twenty-five years live in Michigan with two overfed cats, Leo the Wondercat and Annabelle Lee the Neurotic.

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To my father, James Corbit, who passed away in 2016. You were always my biggest fan, showing off my books and bragging about me to anyone who would listen. I hope when you look down on me now that I still make you proud.

A special thanks goes to Melissa Erickson, a compassionate physical therapist who works with special-needs students in the Novi Community School District. She not only gave up her evening hours to research medical issues and help ensure the believability of Shane Warner’s injuries, but she also became invested in the story and rode the ride-along with me as I wrote. (I hope you enjoy the finished product.) And a continued thanks to the many law-enforcement professionals from the Lakes Area Citizens Police Academy who helped me build the fictional world for the True Blue series. I appreciate your dedication and daily sacrifices for the safety of Michigan residents.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Extract

Copyright

PROLOGUE

“OFFICER DOWN.”

The words came to Shane Warner in a dream. At least it felt like a dream, its edges blurred and spreading like spilled wine. Flashing lights penetrated the fog in angry bursts, so bright that they seemed to have a sound all their own. The piercing squeals came from somewhere inside his head. The sounds built to a deafening pitch.

And something was dripping on his face.

“Hold on, buddy. They just got here.”

Shane blinked several times, trying to identify the vaguely familiar voice next to him. A voice that sounded too real to be a part of any dream. Hold on to what? Where was he, anyway? But the only words his mouth could form were “Who is—”

A rustle of cloth interrupted even that question as an umbrella unfurled over him. Of course. Rain. Not snow, though early December flurries had fluttered earlier in the day. His thoughts flicked to the windshield wipers that had been turned on in his patrol car. In a series of quick connections, he remembered. A domestic call. The angry shouts. The screams. The female victim crumpled inside the backyard gate.

Then the earsplitting blast.

As the stray dots of his memory scrambled back into a straight line, Shane jerked to lift his head.

And something set his back on fire.

Lying on his side, Shane tried to reach behind him to examine the pain’s source, but his hands refused to cooperate.

“Stay still, Trooper Warner,” a woman called out from somewhere nearby.

“Listen to her, Shane,” Sergeant Vincent Leonetti said, taking possession of that earlier voice.

He knelt in front of Shane, some towels in his hand. “You’ve been hit.”

“Shot?” Shane managed, his words coming slowly as if spoken through sludge. “But...my vest?”

As Shane shook his head to deny what was becoming obvious—that the vest had failed—the pain struck again, branding him with an unrelenting iron. Bile rose to the back of his throat. The tree-nestled bungalow swam before him in the murky sky.

“Sorry.” Vinnie pressed the towels to the back panels of Shane’s vest. “But everything’s going to be all right.”

“Wait.” He held back an overwhelming urge to retch. “The victim. She—”

“Not sure. They’re checking her now.”

He cleared his throat. “The suspect?”

“Dead.”

Vinnie looked away, toward what had to be a body on the east side of the yard, and then turned back to him. “But you’re going to be okay. Have to be okay.”

That was the last thing Vinnie added under his breath as he tucked a blanket over Shane, but the words still echoed in Shane’s ears. Just how bad was it? Wall-of-honor bad? Or just a forced retirement from a job that meant everything to him? He squeezed his eyes shut to block the misery of either option. Now the ground beneath him felt cold. So wet. Was it just the rain or was it...blood? A chill scrambled from the earth to his core, setting off a shiver he couldn’t still.

In what could only have been seconds, a crowd surrounded him, his fellow officers mumbling something and EMTs asking impossible questions and then shoving an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. Could he move his hands? Could he feel his feet? He wasn’t sure. Yes, the pain had clutched him before, but now he felt eerily numb. Was it just swelling, or would he ever feel anything again?

“Now, Trooper, we’re going to have to get you on this board so we can transport you,” one of the EMTs told him.

But as they shifted his body, slipping the board beneath it, something shook him. Either pain or the anticipation of it. The lights around him crushed into some crazy kaleidoscope, and the voices splintered into hundreds of disjointed sounds. His world blinked in and out of focus until the darkness swallowed him completely.

CHAPTER ONE

DEAD WOMAN WALKING. Natalie Keaton cringed over the hyperbole of death-row-inmate proportions as she crossed through the activity room, but that didn’t loosen the ankle weights slowing her steps or lift the dread bearing down on her shoulders.

Sure, she’d had frustrating days at work before. Like when clients expected range-of-motion improvements without doing their exercises, or when she had to come in on Saturdays for appointments. But never before had she wanted to walk away from her job at Brentwood Rehabilitation Services rather than meet with a new client.

Now she was dreading the whole day.

From the activity room, where two other physical therapists guided clients through exercises and stretches, to the shoes and the examination-bed wheels that peeked out from beneath the curtains of consultation areas, everything seemed wrong inside the clinic. The piped-in music was too loud, its notes jagged scratches over her eardrums. Even the usually comforting antiseptic scents from foaming hand cleaner and antibacterial cleansers only made her queasy.

The row of windows outside the activity room displayed an obstinately gray March afternoon, the stratus-striped sky belching and spitting without having the decency to really snow. That didn’t keep Natalie from shivering until long after the windows were far behind her. As she passed her boss’s closed office door, she gripped the file folder she held tightly. The file she’d just tried—and failed—to hand off to another therapist.

You’re a professional. You can handle a challenge like this. Meg Story’s words of support, sprinkled with censure, burned like a blister ripped wide. A challenge? How could Meg see it that way? Why had she matched Natalie with this client in the first place? Didn’t her history matter? Natalie didn’t doubt that this seriously injured client deserved compassionate care. They all did. She just wasn’t the right PT to provide it for him.

She pulled at the sleeves of her sweater and brushed her free hand down her maroon scrub shirt as she neared the clinic side of the registration desk. If only she could swipe away her unease as easily. But she needed this job, so her only choice was to help this client get back on his feet as soon as possible. In and out faster than a playboy on a one-night stand, if she had her way.

Still, for a heartbeat too long, Natalie rested her hand on the door leading to the reception area instead of opening it.

Anne-Marie Long, the impossibly young receptionist with a perky ponytail to prove it, glanced over from her computer, a telephone handset tucked between her shoulder and ear.

“You okay?” Anne-Marie mouthed, her eyebrows escaping to behind her bangs.

Natalie nodded, wishing it were true. She pressed her lips together and pushed open the door.

The minimalist reception area through the doorway was always cramped, with barely enough seating for a family of five, but the man in the manual wheelchair at the room’s center and his uniform-clad valet overwhelmed the tiny space. She had to force herself to close the door behind her when she longed to retreat behind that shield of hollow wood veneer.

The man in the chair was an exaggerated cartoon version of what she’d expected, his overdeveloped physique a contradiction to the benign nylon sweat suit and running shoes visible below his coat. And the state police uniform his friend wore might as well have been a billboard announcement for the both of them. Navy shirt with a knotted gray tie. Shiny silver shield. A telltale hat on his head, which he wore even indoors. Did they have to throw this awful assignment in her face by showing up at the clinic with everything but a squad car?

Oh, that was probably parked outside.

She swallowed as the image of another police cruiser slipped from behind the veil of her memories with blurry lights and squealing tires. Her mother, once vibrant, now broken...inside and out. It was only a blip of a digression, like that pinpoint moment of impact from eight years before, but it left her raw and exposed.

Natalie blinked away the image and schooled her features as she returned her attention to the man in the chair. The one not wearing a uniform, though she could easily picture him in one. But she wasn’t prepared for the fathomless blue-gray eyes that stared up at her from beneath a black stocking cap. Intelligent eyes that seemed to pick up on more than they should have in that moment. Things that weren’t any of his business.

“I’m Natalie Keaton,” she managed and then coughed into her sweater sleeve to clear her strangely clogged throat. “Sorry. Dry air. Anyway, I’m a physical therapist. You must be Mr. Warner.”

“That would be Trooper Warner,” the other man answered for him, gesturing toward her client as if they all weren’t perfectly aware whom they were talking about. “Of the Michigan State Police.”

Warner had been trying to pull off his gloves, something that required more effort than it should have, but at these words he stopped and frowned at the younger man. He then went back to work on the gloves and finally pulled them off before stretching his arm up to pluck off his hat. An awkward move, given his injuries. As light brown strands of an overgrown crew cut sprang to electrified life, he reached stiffly for his head a second time and gripped a disobedient fistful on top.

“I mean Troop—”

She was relieved when he dropped his arm and cut off her comment. It didn’t feel right calling him by his title, anyway.

“Don’t mind him.” Warner gestured toward his friend. “He’s all out of whack, having to start his shift here instead of stopping by the doughnut shop for a vanilla cream with frosting and sprinkles.”

Then Warner flipped on a smile so dazzling that it hit Natalie like an elbow to the diaphragm and spread warmth over her skin faster than a steaming bath. She blinked. What was that all about? Maybe the rest of female society might have joined in a collective swoon at the sight of this guy’s sculpted jaw, aristocratic nose and lips that were fuller and softer looking than any tough guy’s should be, but she wasn’t like other women. She could never be. They hadn’t lived her life. Or experienced the guilt she carried.

Still, when the other officer chuckled, Natalie startled. Had she been caught staring at him? Ogling the last type of man she should have been seeing through anything other than the most remote, clinical lens. Her face warmed, and her pulse rushed to announce her humiliation.

The officer, who looked barely old enough to shave, kept laughing. “I’m a raspberry-filled man, and Trooper Warner knows it.” He pointed at Natalie. “We miss his humor around the Brighton Post lately, but you’d better watch out. If he’s already starting with the cop jokes, you’re going to have some long sessions ahead of you.”

He didn’t know the half of it.

One side of Warner’s mouth lifted as he allowed his friend to help him out of his coat. Even without the extra padding, Warner still looked like a football player, his broad shoulders and burly arms pulling at the sleeves of his warm-up suit. His lack of muscular atrophy suggested he’d been rolling that wheelchair around all by himself.

“Thanks, buddy.” Warner glanced up at Natalie. “You see the quality of help you can find after you get your butt shot? Anyway, before the rookie’s rude interruption, I was going to tell you to call me Shane.” He gestured toward the other officer. “And this is Trooper Jamie Donovan. But he’s just leaving.”

The younger man gave a shy wave of hello, the introduction barely registering as Natalie glanced down at the information on the file folder.

Warner, Shane. Age twenty-eight.

It was all she could do not to roll her eyes. Of course, the officer recovering from a gunshot wound would have a name like Shane. He even looked like a Shane. Like he could have acted the part of the gunslinger in that old Western with the same title. Only this guy’s version of the Wild West was a sanitized suburban wilderness some fifty miles from downtown Detroit.

Clearly, Trooper Shane Warner was just another cowboy in blue. Another risk-taking police officer who thought of no one but himself, just like—

Natalie cut off the thought with a firm clamp of her jaw. She couldn’t let herself go there. Even if the cavalier way he’d referred to his injury basically proved her point. Even if every minute of working with him would force her to relive the worst day of her life. She still had a job to do.

“Well, let’s move you to one of the exam rooms so we can do some range-of-motion and manual-muscle tests.” She shifted so she was behind his chair. “Let me help—”

“No!”

At Shane’s sharp tone, Natalie’s hands stopped inches shy of the wheelchair’s push handles.

He cleared his throat. “I mean, no, thank you. I can do it. Just tell me where you need me to go.”

Natalie frowned. As if this assignment wasn’t hard enough, now her client was going to be a difficult patient.

But Jamie only chuckled again. “It’s not easy for this guy to accept help, so he’s pretty grouchy.”

She could figure that one out for herself. He probably also hated looking up to Trooper Donovan like hell, who was no more than average height, when Shane must have towered over him...before.

“Didn’t I just say you were leaving?” Shane didn’t even look at him as he said it.

“Guess those are my walking orders.” Jamie snapped his heavy jacket over his uniform. “Oh. What time do you need me to be back?”

Shane turned to him this time. “Thanks, but you’re off the clock. Kelly’s picking me up.”

Kelly? Natalie’s gaze flicked to Shane, expecting him to answer the question she would never ask. The name shouldn’t have surprised her. Of course, a guy with his looks and his mastery in the art of flirtation would have a Kelly. Or a Jenny. Or a Kelly, a Jenny and a Jill. But that made no difference to her. She didn’t care if they all carpooled over in a minivan to pick him up as long as they showed up as soon as his appointment ended.

“Whew. That’s a relief.” Jamie brushed his hand back over his hat in an exaggerated gesture. “I don’t know how much longer I could’ve put up with this guy.”

But he paused to pat Shane’s shoulder. “Text if you need anything. Seriously. Day or night. Just ask.”

Shane couldn’t have looked more uncomfortable, but he nodded. “Thanks, man.” He waved and then watched as Jamie crossed to the door.

Natalie should have been going through a mental list of the exercises she might use to increase Shane’s flexibility. She should even have been checking her watch and counting down the minutes until this session would end. Instead, she found herself watching her client. Trooper Warner was exactly what she’d expected, right?

But the obvious friendship between these two officers didn’t fit well with the mental image she’d painted earlier. Was that bond just some extension of the “blue code” that police officers used to cover for each other? Maybe, but she couldn’t help wondering if it was more than that. The rookie appeared to have genuine respect for Shane, the type that self-centered jerks seldom earned. It didn’t fit.

Shane glanced over at her, catching her watching him. Her cheeks burned so badly that she could only hope the waiting room’s low lighting helped to hide it.

“Well, let’s get to work then.” She buried her nervous hands in the pockets of her cardigan.

“Good, because I thought we were going to spend the hour standing around in the waiting room.”

He didn’t crack a smile as he said it, though one of them was clearly not standing.

Instead of responding, she stepped over to the sliding window of the receptionist’s desk. “Anne-Marie, could you—”

She stopped as the receptionist and the longtime office manager, Beverly Wilson, stared out from the suspiciously open desk window. At Beverly’s wink, Natalie tightened her jaw and her hold on the medical file.

“The buzzer?” she prodded.

“Oh. Right,” Anne-Marie said.

She reached below the counter, and a short buzz was followed by a click.

Natalie pulled the door wide. “After you, Mr. Warner.”

He glanced up at her again, those unnerving eyes trapping her and searching for stories she wasn’t prepared to tell. Her pulse dashed toward some unknown finish line, and her hands were so damp that she could barely grip the door handle.

“You mean...?” he prompted.

“Shane,” she choked out.

He smiled as if he’d won a competition and then carefully rolled his chair past her and through the door. Annoyed, Natalie stepped in behind him. She shouldn’t let this guy get under her skin any more than she should notice how his shoulders and arms flexed as he rotated the wheels. If only she could stop looking at those things.

“Which way?”

She didn’t know why he bothered asking for directions when he didn’t even pause as he rolled down the hall. He probably didn’t look both ways before crossing the street, either. Or check the date on the milk before chugging it right from the carton.

At the intersection where the hall and the activity room connected, Shane stopped so suddenly that Natalie bumped into the back of his chair. A whoosh of air escaped her where the handle hit her at the top of her thigh, and his file fell from her hands, pages fluttering to the ground.

“Sorry,” he said with a muffled chuckle. “You didn’t say which way.”

She crouched to pick up the papers. So much for the nice guy. And so much for streamlining his clinic visit. At the slow rate they were moving, they might as well forget ever getting a treatment plan set up today. In fact, they would probably spend the rest of their lives in this hall...

Natalie took a deep breath to keep from directing him through the nearest window. “Turn left. Then go to the open evaluation room on the right.”

Shane wheeled to the part of the clinic with laminate floors and curtained cubicles.

“About time! All right, let’s do this,” he said with another of those grins.

She couldn’t agree more. She might not have this police officer running marathons overnight, but she would work tirelessly to help the man to walk again. Then she could get the guy who reminded her of everything she’d lost out of the clinic and out of her thoughts for good.

* * *

SHANE FOLLOWED NATALIE’S movements as she closed the evaluation-area curtain, moved to the tiny desk to grab a clipboard and then crouched near the foot plate of his wheelchair. She moved one of the feet he should have been able to at least lift for himself, pushed the foot plate to the side and rested his shoe on the ground. Afterward, she repeated the whole process on his other foot.

It was bad enough having to accept help from people, but what bothered him most this afternoon was that the therapist he was counting on to help him get out of this damn chair seemed to want nothing to do with him. He’d picked up on it the moment they’d met. Sure, she was doing her job in a distant, clinical fashion, but he was trained to pick out liars.

He was looking at one of those right now.

Unfortunately for him, Natalie Keaton also happened to be an exotic beauty with the kind of willowy body that could tempt a guy to tell a few lies of his own. Her café au lait skin, with a dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks, made him think of Spanish coffee with whipped cream and nutmeg sprinkles. And those eyes, wide-set and nearly black, challenged him to take a deeper look.

One look too many, he guessed, from her frown when she glanced up from the floor and caught him watching her. Her loose bun was doing its job of keeping her mass of black-brown hair out of the way, but she shoved a loose tress behind her ear, anyway, as if she needed something to do with her hands. Oh, he could think of a few things... Clearly, they weren’t on the same page, he decided, as she lowered her gaze again to his feet.

Shane closed his eyes and opened them again. Why was he looking at his physical therapist like some item on the menu? What did chasing after a beautiful woman have to do with him learning to walk again? No. Run. He needed to be able to sprint if he ever hoped to be approved for patrol. Besides, there wasn’t a chance that a woman like Natalie Keaton would actually look back at him now. What did he plan to do, sweep her off her feet with his wheelchair?

“Today, in addition to looking at range of motion and doing a manual-muscle test, we’re going to check sensation, coordination and balance,” she said without looking up from the form on her clipboard. “Regarding balance, we’ll look at seated and standing balance and static and dynamic.”

“Thanks for not making me change into one of those cute little hospital gowns,” he said instead of asking for more details. “Quick costume changes don’t work well for me lately.”

“Both for here and for the home exercise program I’ll be giving you today, the sweat suit you’re wearing is fine.”

“And a whole lot less breezy.”

He grinned, but she didn’t look up to see it. Her jaw tightened, the same way it had when he and Jamie were joking in the waiting room. Those full, kissable lips curled in to form a grim line above her chin. She obviously didn’t appreciate his brand of humor. Or much else about him.

Well, why the hell not? He’d never done anything to her. Was it because he was a police officer? He would never understand why some people hated the cops without any good reason. But then, not everybody owed as much to heroes in blue as he did. Not everyone knew without a doubt that the police—or one officer in particular—had saved his life. Even if Shane would never understand why the guy had gone to so much trouble.

Without responding to his joke that even he no longer found funny, Natalie lifted his right leg and extended it from the knee until it was nearly straight. He couldn’t help but smile at the amount of effort it took for her to hold the weight of his leg. Maybe the muscle loss from inactivity wasn’t as bad as he’d expected, but it would only be a matter of time until his leg was as skinny as one of her arms.

“That’s pretty good, really,” she said as she rested his foot back on the floor.

“Flexibility is not my problem. Walking is the problem.”

“I know. But we have to start somewhere.” She lifted the other leg, extended it and then set it down again.

But did she know? Did she understand that he probably needed a shrink now more than a PT, since his continued paralysis might be in his head? Even his doctors had hinted at it. Did she have any idea how critical it was for him to get back on the job and at least work toward restitution over a debt he might never be able to fully repay?

Kent Sawyer’s silly grin slipped into his thoughts then, as it often did when he was feeling sorry for himself. Kent had always been the first to tell him to buck up, but his argument was even stronger now that he gave it from his hospital bed, where Kent was giving cancer the battle of his life and losing a little more every day.

Where would he be now if the police officer hadn’t stuck his neck out for him with the courts and refused to give up on a juvenile delinquent like everyone else had? He’d deserved to be forgotten after he’d been responsible for another kid’s death, whether he could be held legally accountable or not.

Natalie cleared her throat, his silence clearly making her uncomfortable.

“Why don’t we back up for a minute?” She did just that, backing away from him and then reaching for the rolling chair behind her. Once she was seated, she grabbed his file and flipped it open. “Let’s talk a little about your injury.”

“Okay.”

“How long has it been since the accident?”

His gaze lowered to the file that probably contained all the information she could have asked for, but he decided to humor her...to a point. “It wasn’t exactly an accident. That gun didn’t go off by itself.”

“Of course. I mean the incident. So how long?”

“Over three months.” The longest thirteen weeks of his life.

“Three months,” she repeated as she wrote something on the paper. “According to your file, you sustained an incomplete spinal cord injury between L5 and S1, and the surgeon was successful in removing the bullet.” She looked up from the file. “You were lucky it was so low in your spinal cord.”

“Yeah, the doctors also said if it had been a complete spinal cord injury, I would have permanently lost all movement and sensation beneath the point of injury.” He used air quotes to indicate he was repeating the doctor’s clinical explanation.

She nodded. “And were you wearing a Kevlar vest when it happened?”

Shane blinked, the off-topic question hitting him fast and low. He was the one gritting his teeth now, but she didn’t notice. It wasn’t the first time someone had asked that, but her question sounded more like an accusation. Was she suggesting that getting shot was somehow his fault?

“I don’t see what that has to do with—”

She lifted her head and blinked several times. “Forget I asked that. I was just curious.”

He studied her, noting again her light brown skin. Could she possibly be biracial? If so, she would have a better reason than most to resent those few bad apples in law enforcement who’d committed wrongs against the African-American community. But, again, that had nothing to do with him. The least she could do was get to know him before she hated his guts.

She fidgeted under his scrutiny. “I said forget I asked.”

“Then to ease your curiosity, yes, I was wearing a vest. Funny thing about so-called bulletproof vests. They’re really only bullet resistant.”

“Oh.”

“That was my thought.”

“Sorry...that it happened.” Natalie glanced down, becoming engrossed with the file she held. She tapped the paper with her pen. “How long were you in inpatient rehab?”

“Eight weeks. And then four weeks of in-home PT after. Yet here I am.” He gestured toward his chair. “I need to get back to the force now. No. Sooner than that.”

“You have to be patient,” she said. “Every recovery is different.”

“Well, this one is taking forever. I mean, the doctors assured me I would walk again, but...” He shrugged.

“I’m sure you’ll be back to playing cops and robbers in no time.”

She chuckled when she said it, though her eyes darted to the right, as if she was suddenly uncomfortable. But he wouldn’t let her get away with a comment like that again. Even if she had a good reason to dislike cops, she didn’t get to take it out on him.

“I’m more concerned about getting back to work so I can help people.”

Her gaze lifted to meet his. “Sorry. Long day.”

“The day’s only half over.”

“I mean it.” She paused, looking at the floor. “That was uncalled for. It won’t happen again.”

“That’s good to hear.”

He didn’t doubt what she said was true. Natalie Keaton didn’t appear to be the kind of woman who slipped up often, so part of him liked that he’d pushed her off her game. Was it because he unnerved her? Who was he kidding? He was the only one who’d been affected in any way by their meeting. And he’d better get over it in a hurry.

This wasn’t about attraction, or lack thereof. It was about him learning to walk again. Soon. Sooner if he ever hoped to be out on patrol again instead of warehoused behind a desk or, worse, be thanked for his service and put out to law-enforcement pasture with the other officers who’d given almost all for public safety.

As his physical therapist, Natalie might be the one thing between him and that meaningless future. Well, she and whatever was messing with his head and keeping him from walking. But until he figured that out, she was all he had. So he didn’t care what problems she had with him. He intended to win her over to his side. His future depended on it.

CHAPTER TWO

“IT’S ABOUT TIME.”

Shane’s words as they reached the reception area were the same ones he’d said before, and, again, Natalie couldn’t have agreed more. The appointment had to have lasted longer than just an hour, at least if physical and mental exertion counted as minutes. For him and her. Even though Shane had worked harder than her last three clients combined, she still was relieved the appointment was over.

The woman seated in the chair across from them looked just the way Natalie would have predicted. Blonde. Flawless. A perfect match for someone who looked like Shane Warner. Now the police uniform the woman wore, Natalie hadn’t expected that. Was this the Kelly he’d mentioned earlier?

The officer, who’d been engrossed in the screen of her smartphone, startled as if caught doing something she shouldn’t have been and leaped to her feet. She frowned as her phone clattered to the floor.

“Now see what you made me do. If it’s broken, you’re a dead man.” She crouched and grabbed the phone from beneath the chair and examined it as she stood. Finally, she looked up at them. “Anyway, I’m here. Right on time.”

“You’re usually late, so thanks for the special effort.”

“You’re welcome.” She grabbed her hat from the seat next to her and crossed to him, bending to give him a quick hug.

Natalie could only look back and forth between them. At first, their conversation had sounded like flirting, but it seemed no different from the way he’d spoken with the other trooper earlier. Minus the hug. Still, it sounded like workplace banter. Or a really dull relationship.

“Oh, Natalie Keaton.” Shane gestured toward her then indicated the officer. “Meet Trooper Kelly Roberts, my second chauffeur of the day.”

Chauffeur? No one could call someone he was involved with that...and live. But the question of the day was why Natalie cared who that woman was or what she meant to her client. She refused to call the feeling welling inside her relief. Whatever it was, there was no excuse for it. Hadn’t her curiosity about Shane’s injury already gotten her into enough trouble today without her heading in some other unacceptable direction?

Kelly smiled her way. “I drew the short straw today.”

“Today?” She shouldn’t have been asking. It was none of her business.

“He’s fighting it every step of the way, but all of us at the Brighton Post have divided him up like a pizza,” Kelly explained. “Everybody wants to help out. Since we have three shifts, our slices are pretty thin.”

Wow, that many coworkers wanted to help Shane? Sure, Natalie and her mother had received some help following the accident, but no one had reached out to them like that. Of course, they hadn’t required much assistance, since Natalie had taken on the whole job herself.

“They all just want to take turns bugging me,” Shane said with a frown. “They barely leave anything for the visiting nurse or the aide to do.”

“Except help with showers,” Kelly said, grimacing. “Nobody volunteers for that.”

A flash of steamy water pouring over that broad chest and those rounded biceps took Natalie by surprise. But the way Shane shifted in his chair, as if uncomfortable with anyone knowing he needed bathing assistance, threw ice on her off-limits reverie. Good thing Shane wasn’t watching her now, since he would have read her as easily as he would a street sign.

Kelly continued, “Now let’s get going before my lunchtime is up. I’m lucky Vinnie let me take a turn at all.” She turned back to Natalie. “Sergeant Leonetti has got it in his head that he should do all the helping.”

“Overachiever,” Shane said in a tight voice.

There had to be a story behind that one. Again, Natalie was curious, but she wouldn’t ask. She glanced at her watch instead.

“Well, I have another client in ten minutes, so I’d better get ready.”

She met Shane’s gaze as Kelly helped him put on his coat. “Remember what I told you. If you want to get stronger, you need to follow your home exercise program every day.”

“I remember everything you said.”

His steady gaze held her captive. Her pulse pounded, and her lips were suddenly dry. Good thing he looked away because she couldn’t have done it. Oh, she’d bet he remembered what she’d said, even the parts of their conversation she wished he’d forgotten. How was she supposed to work with him three times a week now that she’d hinted about her personal bias toward police? She needed to show that she could do her job without letting her baggage—or her hormones—interfere.

She slanted a glance to the uniformed officer, who was handing Shane his hat. If Kelly had noticed anything unusual about Shane’s comment, she wasn’t giving anything away.

“See you Friday,” she said.

“I’ll be here,” he promised.

Natalie signaled at the desk for the buzzer and pulled open the door. She glanced back one last time, only to catch sight of Kelly grabbing the push handles on Shane’s chair. Something vaguely uncomfortable washed over her. Was she jealous that he’d allowed the officer to push his chair when he wouldn’t let her do it? Or, worse yet, was she just jealous of the woman going with him through that door?

She turned away from the man and those thoughts and rushed into the shelter of the clinic. But her memories of Shane Warner refused to be dismissed without a fight, the colors still bright, that baritone voice too rich and appealing for anyone’s good. Particularly hers.

What was she doing? First, she’d all but told a shooting victim that it was his fault for getting shot, and now she was daydreaming about him. Fantasizing over any client would be bad enough, but a cop? That was it. She had to get her head together. She had other clients to see and a boss who was probably watching her more closely today. Not to mention a couple of front-office workers with outlandishly good hearing.

At least she wouldn’t have to go out of her way to find something that would straighten her out. Her big dose of reality, her reminder of how much could be lost through a combination of flashing lights and a sense of invincibility, would be waiting for her at home tonight.

* * *

HOME SWEET HOME. Shane’s house blinked in and out of focus with each swipe of the patrol car’s windshield wipers. Fat snowflakes peppered the glass with every pause. The three-bedroom ranch stood out in bleak inferiority to its neighboring colonials, but even with its drafty windows and a roof that was one good downpour away from its first leak, at least the place was his. Well, the bank’s, but they let him live there as long as he kept the checks coming.

His house looked especially dreary today, snow-covered flower beds providing none of their usual pops of color against the ordinary white siding and charcoal-colored shutters. Would Natalie be surprised to know that he’d planted all of those perennials himself?

Shane blinked, the mechanical hum of the wipers suddenly too loud. Why was he thinking of her now? Were his hormones really so out of whack that he couldn’t get one pretty woman off his mind when he used to juggle several with ease? No, that couldn’t be it. Sure, he was still annoyed that she’d prejudged him for being a cop, but could it have been more than that? His thoughts shifted to that moment in the waiting room when he’d glimpsed something raw in her eyes. It was only an instant, like one of those silly snapshots that kids send to each other, and she’d shuttered it as quickly as it had appeared, but he’d sensed a connection. As if he wasn’t the only one who carried at least some of his scars on the inside. And he couldn’t help wondering if hers were as deep as his.

You’ll be back to playing cops and robbers in no time.

Even now those words had him gripping his gloved hands in his lap. Whether she’d seemed vulnerable for a moment or not, nothing gave her the right to say something like that. He didn’t care that she’d offered some lame apology. Who was she to presume to know anything about why he wore the uniform? She hadn’t seen Kent’s proud face at Shane’s graduation from trooper recruit school. Or the pride in his parents’ faces, for that matter—something he’d never expected to see again.

Just then the car door flew open, filling the interior with light and a handful of flurries. Shane jerked more obviously than a suspect hiding drug contraband.

What was wrong with him? He’d met many people who hated cops, but he wasn’t sitting in a patrol car trying to give them excuses for the things they said. He’d probably invented his connection with Natalie, too, since it was easier than admitting that he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Or forget those soft feminine curves that even her boxy scrubs couldn’t hide.

“Jumpy, aren’t we?” Kelly said, pushing his wheelchair into the space by the open door and locking its wheels. “I thought I was getting faster at this, but I guess I was wrong. You forgot I was even out here.”

She couldn’t know how close she’d come to the truth. He hadn’t even noticed when she’d opened the trunk to pull out his chair.

“You are getting faster. Sorry you’ve had so much practice.”

He hated that all of his coworkers had been forced to step up so that he could leave the hospital’s rehab center sooner. Hated being in debt to his friends, but he guessed he should have been used to it by now. Even his Christmas lights would still be hanging as a sad reminder of a holiday he could barely recall if his pals hadn’t boxed them up and put them in his attic.

“I really do appreciate everything you guys have done for me.”

Kelly prattled on as if his gratitude made her uncomfortable. “The first time I tried, I couldn’t even unfold the chair. Now it’s no trouble at all.”

If only he didn’t still require her help. If only he could be back at the post, doing his job. But because the situation was what it was, he unbuckled his seat belt, accepted the transfer board she handed him and removed the chair’s side panel to shift himself from the car to the chair.

“All set?” she asked after he slid the side panel back into place.

“Let’s get inside before we freeze to death.”

She pushed him over the gravel and then up the wheelchair ramp that had magically appeared just as he was released from the hospital.

He turned the key in the lock, pushed open the front door and allowed Kelly to push him inside. She stepped past him into the dark family room, flipping on power switches and lamps as she went. Light, but never enough of it, flooded the dark-paneled room, with the overstuffed sofa and recliner he no longer sat on, the television that finally bored him now and the stacks of books that had saved his sanity over the past month.

With a glance toward the TV tray where Shane took most of his meals, Kelly turned back to him. “Want me to get you something to eat?”

“No. I’m good. I still have leftovers from last night.” And from Saturday and two nights before that, but he didn’t elaborate.

“Whose turn was it?”

“Ben and Delia.”

“Then I bet it was something good.” She took his hat and gloves and then helped him with his coat.

“If you guys keep feeding me like this, I’ll have to diet for weeks before I can pass my physical.”

Yet he was already salivating at the thought of the mostaccioli Lieutenant Ben Peterson and Trooper Delia Morgan Peterson had brought over. Judging by the dishes the newlyweds had delivered so far, he had to wonder if they’d spent their first year of marriage in cooking classes together.

“You have to keep up your strength until you get there.”

Until. They all used that word, but how many of them still believed it? If one of his fellow officers had been shot instead of him, would he still believe after so many weeks?

Kelly helped him into the zippered sweatshirt he wore around the house and handed him a loose-knit throw for his lap.

“Is there anything else I can do for you before I go?”

“No. I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?”

He nodded, smiling. “Don’t worry. Vinnie will be over in about an hour.” And someone else a few hours after that. As much as he appreciated the help, he craved a few moments alone.

Because she probably would keep stalling, Shane rolled closer to the door. She took the hint and followed.

But just as her hand closed over the door handle, Kelly turned back to him. “Your new physical therapist seemed...nice.”

“She’s all right.”

“Pretty, too.”

“Didn’t really notice.” But dark, shiny hair and lips that just had to be pillow soft slipped into his thoughts before he could bar them. He cleared his throat. “Seems pretty good at her job. That’s all that matters to me.”

“Then why all the...tension in the waiting room?”

He was shaking his head before he met the other officer’s gaze. “What do you mean, tension? I was just exhausted after that first session. Still am.”

“Oh. That’s good, then. Isn’t your commendation ceremony coming up? Yours and Vinnie’s?”

“About a month.”

Twenty-eight days, but who was counting? Neither mentioned that the event had already been rescheduled once so he could be further along in his recovery.

With a wave, Kelly let herself out of the house. Visible through the sideline window, she tromped down the ramp to her car. And to think that Natalie had obviously assumed he was involved with Kelly. Him and Kelly? As if that ever would have happened, even if she’d been up for it. Even if it wasn’t a complete pain—and a cause for a potential transfer—to become involved with a fellow officer.

So other than that obvious reason, why not someone like Kelly? He considered that as he backed away from the window and wheeled past his tiny living room toward the narrow kitchen. She was gorgeous. And built. Like so many of the women he’d dated...when it used to be easy. Too easy.

But nothing about Kelly piqued his interest the way that Natalie Keaton did with her barely concealed disdain and exotic good looks. What did it say about him that he was only attracted to unattainable women? Like that waitress at Casey’s Diner who never gave him the time of day. Was that what made Natalie so appealing? That she clearly didn’t like cops and wanted nothing to do with him? Did he just love the chase, or was it something more troubling than that?

Stop. He rolled to the refrigerator when he would have preferred to stomp. The last thing he had time for right now was self-psychoanalysis over events that were best left in the past. He balanced a container of leftovers on his lap, somehow reaching the microwave without dumping the whole thing on the floor. Using his grabber tool, he moved the hot dish to the table and filled a plastic cup with water. He rolled his chair as far as he could beneath the table.

The moment the zesty pasta sauce hit his taste buds, his thoughts returned to the equally spicy brunette. Why couldn’t he get her out of his head? If she appeared on his doorstep right now, wearing a trench coat and nothing else, he wasn’t positive he would be able to accept her offer with more virility than a polite thank-you. Sure, the doctors had said that everything down there appeared to be in working order, but then, they’d also said Shane should be walking by now, and look how well that was working out.

He pushed his plate away without eating another bite. He couldn’t worry about his other problems right now. His focus needed to be on walking again. That focus also depended upon him not wasting more energy on pointless fantasies about a member of his health care team.

In four weeks, he had to cross that stage to accept his commendation certificate. If he hoped to return to full-time patrol and not waste away behind a desk, he needed to accept that award under his own power. Which meant the next time he met with Natalie Keaton, he would pay attention only to her instructions. Not the curve of her collarbones as they peeked out from the neckline of her scrubs. Not that fine line in the center of her plump lower lip—the lip that just begged to be nipped and then traced with a line of kisses. None of those things.

He would focus only on the exercises and then the first step that absolutely needed to be followed by hundreds more if he planned to walk across that stage. And if he hoped to do it while Kent was still around to see it.

He had twenty-eight days. He was running out of time.

CHAPTER THREE

NATALIE SLID THE key into the lock and turned the knob in painstaking increments. Still, the click of it was as loud as a gunshot. Just a few more seconds. She just needed a minute to herself. Sometimes she felt like the oldest twenty-eight-year-old in the world.

“Is that you, Natalie?” her mother called out from the other room, asking the same question she asked every day.

Expecting anyone else? But, like always, Natalie didn’t respond that way. They both knew the answer, anyway.

“Yes, Mom. I’ll be right there.” With her back to the door, she lifted one foot and pulled off her boot and then repeated the process on the other side. She carefully set both on the mat.

“Make sure your boots don’t drip all over the floor,” came the voice from the other room.

Natalie’s jaw tightened. “I’ll be careful.” She would clean it up if she did make a mess, anyway.

She hung her coat in the closet, pausing to rub her fingertips over her temples and close her eyes. But she couldn’t stall any longer. Lifting her lids, she padded across the freezing tile in her socks.

“You’re home late,” Elaine Keaton said the moment her daughter came into view in the family room doorway.

“There was traffic.”

And medical records to update. And one client in particular who had her feeling off-kilter.

Elaine nodded, accepting the excuse, and turned back to the television, where an ’80s sitcom was streaming. She’d probably been watching for hours, unless her daytime caregiver had insisted that they play cards today or work on a crossword puzzle. Her electric wheelchair was parked in the middle of the room, and the lamps on the end tables that bookended the sofa provided little more than shadows on the wall.

“Hi, Mom.”

Natalie crossed the room and dropped a kiss on her head and then adjusted the wedding-ring quilt Elaine had once hand stitched herself. Before. In what seemed like another lifetime. Because it was Wednesday, Elaine’s hair looked clean from her shower day, but the straw-colored strands stood at odd angles. Natalie could only hope that the caregiver had been more insistent with Elaine’s toothbrush than she’d been with the hairbrush.

“Laura left forty-five minutes ago.”

Her mother didn’t say it, but her message couldn’t have been clearer: You weren’t here.

“Sorry.” Natalie busied herself by replacing the sweater that had fallen from her mother’s shoulders. “I should have asked Laura to wait for me. Can I get you something? Are you warm enough? Do you need to go to the restroom?”

“No. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

Of course she was. Her passive-aggressive antics just didn’t work as well without an audience. Without a daughter to send on yet another guilt trip when she already had a passport filled with destination stamps.

Natalie swallowed. She really was a rotten daughter. Her mom might not be a grateful patient, but she deserved her daughter’s respect and the best care she could give her. It was the least she could do.

“What have you been watching today?” Natalie indicated the TV with a wave of her hand.

Elaine barely looked back from it to answer. “Season three.”

“How many seasons are there?”

“Ten.”

“Then you’ll be binge watching 24/7 through next Wednesday.”

“It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

“Maybe you could cook dinner, then. Since you have so much free time and all.” Natalie forced a smile.

“And maybe you could try it from a chair like mine.”

Natalie swallowed. Was a flippant reaction better than none at all? She didn’t know why she was so determined to spark her mother into action—any type of action—when Elaine appeared determined to set a record for how long someone could bask in self-pity.

Would it be easier if she finally gave up hope that Elaine would one day return to that funny, interesting mom she used to be instead of the shell that remained after the accident? It was as if her mother blamed the world for her unlucky lot in life. Or was it only Natalie she blamed?

“Bad day at work?”

Natalie startled as much from the odd question as from the surety that she’d been caught entertaining disloyal thoughts. She couldn’t remember the last time her mother had asked her about her job. Or her life.

“Just a busy day, I guess.”

“Your work is too stressful.”

She studied her mother for several seconds. Did she care about what was going on in her daughter’s life, after all? Was she just unable to show it?

“I have a challenging case,” she said finally.

She didn’t even know why she’d mentioned it. She never talked about work at home or about the clients.

“You just wish you’d finished music school so you could be living a stress-free artist’s life now.”

Natalie chuckled. This wasn’t the first time her mother had joked about her earlier career choice. “Stress-free? Except for wondering whether I’d be able to pay my bills.”

“You’re probably blaming me again for making you change your major. You probably hate me every day.”

Natalie blinked as she realized she’d walked right into her mother’s trap. Usually she was better at reading the signs and changing the subject, but now she could only backpedal.

“You never made me change anything, Mom. You know that. I just realized how much I enjoyed helping people.” She massaged her mother’s shoulders, hoping one day Elaine would buy her story. Hoping she would, as well.

I’m more concerned about getting back to work so I can help people.

Her breath caught as Shane’s words slipped, uninvited, into her thoughts. She turned her head, hoping her mother hadn’t noticed. Why couldn’t she stop thinking about this guy? It couldn’t matter that he was the first man who seemed to really see her when she’d felt invisible for so long, the first one to challenge her, even if only to call her on her bull.

He was a cop, after all.

How could she betray her mother by bringing thoughts of a police officer into their home? It didn’t matter that this guy seemed different from those other officers. He wore a badge. They were all the same.

“So you’d better help put dinner on, or at least one of us is going to starve to death.”

“Wonder which one.” She smiled, but when Elaine didn’t return it, she added, “Better get to it, then.”

“What are you making? Hope it isn’t chicken again.”

Natalie’s cheeks ached from the effort to keep smiling. “It’s chicken, but I think you’re going to like this new recipe.”

“Probably not.”

Natalie waited to shake her head until she’d rounded the corner into the kitchen. Since she’d stretched the truth about having a new recipe, she grabbed her phone and searched for chicken dishes. A series of colorful food photos covered the tiny screen. Orange chicken. Chicken à la king. Surely there was something her mother would eat. Now, to eat it without grumbling, that would be tougher.

If only she had the guts to call her mother on her childish behavior the way her client had blasted her on hers earlier. Shame washed over her again. How could she have acted so unprofessionally?

Sure, he didn’t know what she dealt with outside the clinic, but she never shared that with any of her clients. She shouldn’t have brought her personal baggage to work with her this time, either. Even if it felt heavier than usual today. This was her life, the responsibility she had accepted almost from the moment the doctors had informed her that she would walk out of the hospital but that her mother would never walk anywhere again. At the time, she’d believed this was the worst news she could receive. No one had warned her then of the real tragedy: that Elaine Keaton would never really live again.

As she combined orange juice, lemon juice, rice vinegar and soy sauce for a makeshift orange chicken in a saucepan, she couldn’t help wondering why her mother couldn’t be more like Shane. In attitude only. Sure, his prognosis was more promising than her mother’s had been, but why couldn’t she have been as determined as he was to make the most of her situation?

She shouldn’t have been comparing them at all. Their cases were too different. Anyway, Shane was a stranger, and her mother had been there for her all of her life—at least until the accident. Then it had been her turn.

“You owed her that much.” Her words seemed to spill into the kitchen of their own accord, but she immediately recognized them as truth.

For the past eight years, she’d understood that her focus had to be on her mother’s care. She couldn’t allow one hour with a client—one she’d begged not to work with—make her question her mother’s post-accident life. Or hers.

While she waited for the chicken to brown in the olive oil, she searched on her phone for scholarly articles on spinal cord injuries. The sooner she found out what was keeping Shane from walking, the sooner he would no longer need her help, and she could get back to her life.

* * *

SHANE MANEUVERED HIS wheelchair across the parking lot of the Brighton Post Building the next evening, stopping outside the rear entrance. If he hadn’t already been convinced that it was a mistake to stop by the post after their visit with Kent at the hospital, the barrier beneath the steel door ahead of him would have changed his mind.

“Why aren’t you going inside?” Vinnie asked from behind him. “You don’t need an invitation.”

“But I do need a little help.” Shane waved with his gloved hand toward the step beneath the door.

Vinnie, whose brainchild this little detour had been, took in the situation with a frown. “Oh. I didn’t think about that.”

“I should have.” Of course there would be no wheelchair ramp at the troopers’ entrance. His gaze moved toward the front of the building, where there was surely an Americans with Disabilities Act–compliant entrance since citizens with disabilities filed police reports and applied for gun permits as often as anyone else.

“You want to go around?” Vinnie asked.

“Why don’t we just forget it and go home?”

“Who’s the prima donna now?” But Vinnie was looking back and forth between the door and Shane’s chair as if weighing his options. “Have a problem with popping wheelies?”

“Why would I?” As a matter of fact, he did have a problem with that, but he refused to tell his friend that. He might have had to give up his dignity to accept help since the shooting, but there was no way he was surrendering his man card completely. “But it might not work—”

“Guess we’ll see.” Vinnie pushed the buzzer for entrance, pulled the door wide and popped up the chair onto two wheels, wedging it through the opening before the door could fall closed again. “You see? It wasn’t that high.”

“Guess not.”

But Shane tightened his arms across his chest. With a few bumps and a loud scrape along the steel, they got his chair parked on the large textured mat inside the door.

“You see, the place hasn’t changed much.”

Shane bristled, not entirely because his friend was hovering the way he did too often these days. Vinnie was also dead wrong. Everything about this place felt different now. Foreign. As if someone else had changed into that uniform in the locker room just to his left. As if a stranger had joked with the others before daily announcements at the beginning of each shift, had called on them for backup and had met with them to decompress after work hours.

That man had been willing to give his life in place of any of his fellow officers. Nearly had.

“Smells the same,” Shane said finally. “Like stale subs and gun oil.”

“Our signature scent. We’ve been trying to bottle it for years, but so far distributors haven’t bit.”

“I wouldn’t be waiting by the phone for that one.”

Even the banter didn’t feel right tonight. Shane rolled toward the open area at the squad room’s center, a line of desks with desktop computers forming its perimeter. His chair bumped the first desk, the monitor rocking before settling back into place. Vinnie pretended not to notice.

Coming here today was a mistake, all right. It only emphasized the truth that he might never have any of this again, and just the possibility of it bore down on his shoulders so hard that he could barely sit straight in the chair. He shouldn’t have let Vinnie talk him into coming. But Vinnie had been so desperate to do something that Shane had taken pity on him. Now he only had to endure a few more minutes until he could get out of there and return to his house—a sanctuary that most days felt like a prison.

At the sound of heavy footsteps, Shane turned toward the hall that led to the superior officers’ offices. Trooper Nick Sanchez, a black-haired ladies’ man who’d switched from the midnight shift just after Shane was shot, started toward them.

“Well, look who took time out from his vacation to pop in.” He crossed to them and shook Shane’s hand.

“Yeah, great vacation. I’d show you my tan, but I’ve been sunbathing nude, and it’s pretty cold out today.”

“Thanks for not sharing.” Nick cleared his throat. “But seriously, man. How are—”

“He’s great, Trooper,” Vinnie answered for him.

Apparently, there would be no downer talk tonight.

“He nearly broke my arm, twisting it to make me bring him to Casey’s tonight,” Vinnie continued.

Shane shot him a glance, but Vinnie refused to look his way. They’d made no such plans. “Yeah, Vinnie’s here to file assault charges. He brought me along to save time.”

“You going?” Vinnie asked Nick.

“I’ll be there if I get that report finished.” Nick pointed to a desk with a travel coffee mug on top.

At the sound of voices behind him, Shane turned to find midnight-shift troopers Dion Carson and Clint McNally emerging from the locker room, one patting his duty belt and the other touching his breast pocket for his badge and nameplate. Both glanced over at the same time and crossed the room to them.

“Hey, look who’s here,” Clint said.

“Good to see you, man,” Dion said as he took his turn patting Shane on the back.

Other officers trickled from the men’s and women’s locker rooms, each stopping to greet him, but Shane could feel their gazes on him after they stepped past, sensed their unspoken questions. Could he blame them? Wouldn’t he have the same questions if one of them had still been in a chair like this one? Wouldn’t he wonder if they would ever be back?

Lieutenant Scott Campbell emerged from his office as he was coming off his shift. “Didn’t know there was a party going on back here. I would have brought balloons and root beer.”

“You don’t have anything stronger here?” Shane asked him.

“Nothing I’ll admit to. What are you two doing here? Did Leonetti kidnap you?”

“Damn near.”

Scott shrugged. “You have to forgive him. He needs work on his sweet-talking skills.”

“I’m trying.”

Shane exchanged a meaningful look with the lieutenant, one he hoped Vinnie would miss. They might joke about forgiving Vinnie, but the sergeant was nowhere near forgiving himself for not arriving at the scene quickly enough to prevent Shane from being shot. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, but nobody could convince Vinnie of that.

Vinnie had just been talking to Liz Gallagher, the midnight shift’s only female trooper, about road conditions, but now he turned back to Shane.

“Ready to go?”

“Sure.” He glanced to the door. The trip down the step would be jarring, though not as difficult as going up.

But before they reached the door, it flew open, with several troopers stepping inside and bringing the frigid air with them. They crowded around Shane, telling him how they couldn’t wait for him to return to duty. Shane only wanted to get outside and away from all of them. He couldn’t breathe.

As if Vinnie finally recognized his distress, he opened the door and moved in front of the chair to guide it over the step. Shane’s back teeth crunched as the wheel bounced to the asphalt below.

“You okay?”

Shane nodded. Still, he paused for several long seconds, breathing in the chilly air until his lungs ached. He started toward Vinnie’s SUV, but when he reached it, he couldn’t help glancing back at the unimpressive, single-story brick building.

Why did it feel as if he was seeing the place for the last time? He pushed away the thought, but the sense of loss remained. It was like saying goodbye to a place that had felt more like home to him than anywhere he’d ever lived. The loss hurt more than any bullet wound ever could.

“You don’t look okay,” Vinnie continued.

Shane stared at him until it sank in that he hadn’t answered Vinnie’s earlier question.

“I’m fine.” His laugh sounded strained. “Anyway, you’ve seen me far worse than this. Bleeding like a stuck—”

“Don’t!”

“Not funny yet?”

“It never will be.”

“Never’s a long time.”

“Yes, it is.” Vinnie pushed the automatic button for the SUV’s tailgate, opened it and pressed the transfer board into Shane’s hands.

Apparently, the subject of the shooting was closed, at least for tonight. Shane wasn’t the only one who carried scars from that night. His might be on the outside, but Vinnie’s scars were every bit as real and, perhaps, even deeper.

“Any chance you’d consider just taking me home instead of going out tonight?” Shane asked as he shifted himself from the chair to the SUV’s bucket seat.

“Is that what you want?”

“It’s just that I’m pretty tired.” Maybe his friend would let him off the hook after all.

Vinnie closed the door and, after loading the chair in the back, settled in the driver’s seat. “The guys will sure be disappointed if you don’t come.”

“Is that right?” Shane grinned into the darkness. He’d spoken too soon.

“How about we just make an appearance? Thirty minutes...tops,” Vinnie said. “Just so they all won’t think you’re avoiding them.”

“Okay. Fine,” he said, although their visit tonight should have been enough proof that he wasn’t dodging anyone.

“Great.”

Shane gripped his hands in his lap. As great as it would be to spend time with the rest of the team, hearing the war stories and chuckling at Vinnie’s classic jokes, going to Casey’s would serve as a reminder of everything he’d lost when that bullet had penetrated his back. The laughter. The fellowship. The unique understanding of the risks they willingly faced every day, for each other and for people they’d never met.

All the things he might never have again.

* * *

APPLAUSE BROKE OUT the moment Vinnie pushed Shane’s chair through the front door of Casey’s Diner, the bells jingling like a charity bell ringer with an empty kettle.

“Thank you. Thank you.” Vinnie took a bow. “I’ll be signing autographs for those who would like to cover my dinner.”

“Then put your signing pen away,” Trooper Trevor Cole called from across the room.

Shane’s coworkers usually sat at two booths across from each other, the separation wall between them lowered, but tonight they’d moved to a line of square tables. One of the chairs on one end had been removed, leaving an empty spot for Shane.

“Aren’t you glad you came?” Vinnie said as he pushed Shane’s chair into the spot.

“You knew I would be.”

And he was. These were some of the best people he’d ever known. The most honorable. From the senior officers to the new arrivals. A dozen officers crowded around the table, more than would usually go out on any given Thursday. It couldn’t have been more obvious that they’d come because they’d heard he would be there.

As Vinnie took a seat farther down the table, Ben Peterson leaned over and patted Shane’s shoulder. “It’s a little overwhelming, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Wondering how you’ll live without all of these people if you can’t come back.”

Shane blinked at Ben’s directness, but the lieutenant knew what he was talking about. Not so long ago, Ben’s job and freedom had been in jeopardy when he’d been a suspect in an evidence-tampering investigation at the Brighton Post. The officer responsible was in a cell now, but Ben had faced his own long days of uncertainty.

“You’ve got that right,” he answered finally.

“You’ll have to forgive Vinnie for trying too hard. He’s still beating himself up for not being there.”

Shane shot a glance down the table, but Vinnie was deep in another conversation. “It wasn’t his fault.”

“Yeah, try telling him that.”

“I have. Repeatedly.”

“And yet here we all are.”

Shane shifted in his seat, sweating but not ready to take off his coat. A waitress, a little older and harder on the eyes than their usual server, stepped up and started taking orders.

“Too bad Sarah isn’t working tonight,” Lieutenant Scott Campbell said. “She could pretend you’re invisible, like always.”

At the opposite end of the table, Kelly leaned forward.

“Hey, Shane, I was just telling Delia about your new physical therapist.” She paused long enough to exchange a meaningful look with the other female trooper across the table. “That she seems to be keeping you on your toes.”

As if all the officers took a collective breath and held it, the side conversations stopped. Only a clattering of pans could be heard coming from the kitchen.

Kelly cleared her throat. “Well...you know what I mean.”

Shane did the only thing he could do—he started laughing. “She’s right. The PT’s not even bothering with regular steps. I’ll be dancing en pointe in no time.”

When a collective groan replaced the awkward silence, he was relieved. The elephant in the room had at least garnered a mention.

A short while later the waitress delivered their orders, and they all got down to the business of consuming too many late-night calories. Shane couldn’t help watching them as he ate. These unique individuals shared something larger than any one of them: the commitment to serve and protect.

With a gesture toward his phone, Shane signaled to Vinnie that his thirty minutes had run out. Instead of stalling, Vinnie stood up from his seat.

“I’m gonna call it a night. Days off are exhausting.” He glanced Shane’s way. “You ready to go?”

“I could go, I guess.”

After zipping his coat, Shane backed away from the table, waved and started toward the door. He wouldn’t think about not being able to work with these people again, of losing a family built on mutual respect and shared risk. He would have to find his way back to this work and these people, just like Ben had. And he would look at these past few months as more a temporary detour than a permanent road closure.

CHAPTER FOUR

“SO WE MEET AGAIN.”

A startled sound escaped Natalie’s throat as she froze in front of the closed curtain. She didn’t need to see the spoked wheel and the running shoes beneath to identify the voice that filtered out like a sneaky caress from the base of her neck to her tailbone, but she peeked anyway.

Shane.

Her mouth was suddenly dry. Of course, his name was on the appointment schedule. She’d set those appointments herself. And two days had seemed like plenty of time to prepare herself to have to work with him again. Apparently it wasn’t long enough.

How had he known she would be the one passing by his exam room right then, anyway, and not one of the other PTs or the office staff? In her navy scrubs and basic white tennis shoes, she could have been any one of them. Was there something unique about her shoes or the way she walked? And had he been watching her closely enough to notice? But then her gaze caught on the narrow opening where the two curtains met. He grinned out at her.

She schooled her surprise into a frown, but she couldn’t stop the sudden rush of her pulse or the dampness on her palms. Proving what a coward she was, she opened the chart in her arms and studied it as if she hadn’t just reviewed it with her last client. She hoped he wouldn’t notice it wasn’t his.

“What are you already doing in here?” She stepped to the counter outside his visual range and switched charts. Once she opened his, she pulled the curtain wide.

“That young receptionist helped me out since you were running late.” He waved a hand in the general direction of the front desk. “She was very helpful.”

“I bet,” she said under her breath and then grimaced, hoping he hadn’t heard. But he was reading an exercise chart on the wall, the one designed for clients with knee injuries. She would speak to Anne-Marie about her helpfulness later, though she wasn’t sure what she would say beyond hands off the clients. She could have used that reminder herself the other day.

“My last appointment ran over. Sorry.” She stepped to the sink and washed her hands, even though she’d just done so prior to switching clients. She spoke over her shoulder as she dried them. “Did one of your chauffeurs have to get back on patrol?”

“Four-car pileup on Interstate 96. Trooper Cole took the call. Priorities.”

“Trooper Cole?” She pursed her lips, trying to recall the name of the attractive woman she’d met the other day. “So it wasn’t...either of the officers from last time?”

His smile was slow, knowing and so sensual that it was all she could do not to fan her face with the chart. Heat rose up her chest and neck. If only she’d worn a turtleneck under her scrub top. She didn’t even want to think about any of the other places she felt warm.

She wished he would look away, and at the same time, she dreaded the moment he would. What the hell was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she stop asking dumb questions? She shouldn’t even be thinking the things she had been. She was acting as if he was the first guy she’d ever met. Well, he wasn’t, and she refused to get all flustered by this guy, who had probably turned that sexy smile on every woman in the office by now, including dowdy Beverly Wilson.

She cleared her throat, banishing thoughts that could only get her into trouble. “Have you been doing your exercises?”

“I was supposed to do them at home?”

“Are you—” But she stopped herself before adding “kidding” as Shane’s grin spread wide.

“Gotcha.”

Natalie rolled her eyes and looked at the chart. She couldn’t just keep staring at him.

“You’re not the first of my clients to say something like that on a return visit,” she said without looking up.

“I’m not like your other clients.”

He had that right in more ways than he could know. “How do you know you’re different?”

“Because I did my homework. Five times a day.”

She set his chart aside, stood and opened the curtain. “You put in the work. Probably more than you should have. Let’s see how much improvement you’ve made.”

Deftly maneuvering his chair out of the tight space, he followed her into the hall.

“You’re about to be impressed. Which of the exercises do you want me to demonstrate first? I’m an expert at each.”

“None of them.”

When the grind of his rotating wheels stopped behind her, she turned to find him watching her.

“What do you mean?”

She started forward again, hoping he would follow. He did. Continuing into the activity room, she led him past some of the machines they’d used the first time to a low-tech area filled with gym mats. She stopped in front of a pair of parallel bars on a wooden platform.

“I thought we’d give these a try.”

He just stared at the contraption. “Already?”

“Why not already?”

But he was still looking at those parallel bars the way some people gawked at a line of fire trucks and ambulances racing toward someone else’s tragedy.

“I just thought we’d build up to that,” he said finally. “You know...try some other things first.”

He still wasn’t looking at her when he said it, but she couldn’t stop watching him. This didn’t fit. For the first time since he’d appeared in the clinic, Shane exuded something less than unshakable confidence. His face looked downright ashen.

“You were already using the parallel bars at the intermediate treatment center, weren’t you?”

“Just once.” He paused and licked his lips. “It was too soon.”

“But you’re stronger now.”

“Maybe.”

He didn’t sound convinced. Which didn’t make sense. He’d been so determined to get back to work. And he’d worked so hard in the clinic and at home. So why was he reluctant to even try the most important step? Why was he stalling? Was he afraid of trying to walk again...or terrified he never would?

Natalie turned her head toward the wall of windows as if she could find answers in that angry sheet of gray. She shouldn’t become personally involved. Her only job was to use her skills to help an injured client become stronger. If he chose not to—or was too scared to—improve the quality of his life, that was none of her business.

It couldn’t matter that his reticence reminded her of her mother’s choice not to reclaim her life. She couldn’t go there. Shane and her mother might both be in wheelchairs, but they couldn’t have been more different. One knew the risks when he’d put on that uniform. The other had just been living her life until she became collateral damage in a public-sanctioned joy ride.

She shouldn’t allow herself to be drawn in by someone who represented all her family had lost. She shouldn’t wonder if he was hurting in a way that had nothing to do with the bullet-size scar on his back. She shouldn’t stick her nose into other people’s problems when she had enough of her own. But something was keeping Shane from walking when he should have been, and now that something was keeping him from even taking the critical first steps. And, God help her, she had to find out what it was.

* * *

SHANE STARED UP at the pair of parallel bars and then lowered his gaze to his gripped hands, his nail beds turning white halfway down from his tight squeeze. He could feel the sweat building just under his hairline, but there was no way he would reach up to swipe his forehead. Not with Natalie already watching him closely enough that she had to know what he was feeling, and it wasn’t confidence. Chicken, maybe? He hated like hell that he couldn’t shake off all those feathers.

Of course his PT would expect him to stand up from that chair eventually. Had he expected to walk again from a seated position? Maybe he should have tried it while lying flat on his back.

No, he hadn’t expected either of those things, but like he’d told her, maybe it still was too soon. It probably didn’t say anywhere in his file that he’d had a bad fall the first time the hospital PT staff had used that sling thing to lift him out of his bed and that half of his sutures had to be sewn again. If he’d believed that just by changing his treatment location he could exorcise his fear of falling again, he was dead wrong.

Was this why his recovery had stalled?

He glanced at the bars again, and a seed of panic embedded itself in his gut.

“Okay. Have it your way. For today, anyway.”

Natalie had closed the file now, her steady gaze seeming to judge him a coward.

“You know, the sooner we get you up on your feet—”

“I know. I know. It’s just...” He shook his head, the truth too embarrassing to share. He was like a toddler who’d fallen once and decided to settle in as a permanent crawler.

“I guess we can continue a few more days with your first group of home exercises. But by the end of next week—”

“Yes. Next week,” he said to cut her off. The sooner they stopped talking about it, the sooner he could stop sweating like a marathon runner hitting a wall near the twenty-two-mile marker.

“Well, let’s get started.”

She flipped open his file again to the sheet of exercise instructions she’d given him on Wednesday. He didn’t need to see it to begin the stretches he’d already memorized. Filling the role his coworkers had taken during his home sessions the past few days, Natalie lifted his leg, straightening and bending it several times before lowering it to the ground.

“I’m getting an idea why the muscles in your upper body haven’t atrophied as much as we would have expected by now,” she said as she lifted the other leg. “You’ve only been working out from the waist up.”

He couldn’t help grinning at that. “So you noticed my upper body?”

She frowned up at him, the color in her cheeks deepening.

“It’s my job to pay attention to such details about my clients.” Without looking at him again, she repeated the stretch on his other leg. “Besides, who could avoid noticing when someone looked like a cartoon character?”

“I guess there are worse things to be compared to than a cartoon hero.” He’d take her words as a compliment, even if she hadn’t intended them that way.

“Whoever said hero?”

“It was one of the few things I could still do in bed.”

Her lids fluttered, her blush deepening over his comment about his activities in bed.

“What was?” she managed.

There were so many things he could say, but he gave her a break this time. “Low-weight strength training. Sometimes I couldn’t watch another minute of TV, and my eyes were strained from reading. So I had a friend bring over her hand weights. I started with the five-pound ones.”

“You should have been exercising under a medical professional’s care. It might have caused more damage—”

“More damage than a bullet?”

She shrugged. “Well, not that much.”

“Anyway, there was hardly any moment when at least one medical professional wasn’t watching me or telling me what to do.”

“We tend to do that.”

Shane smiled at that. At least some of the tension between them had dissipated. He just hoped she didn’t ask him now why he was putting up roadblocks in the path of his recovery—because that would only multiply the stress again.

If he knew the answer to that question, he would be pushing the obstacles out of the way as fast as his arms could move them. It wasn’t that he was afraid of walking again—he couldn’t think of a single thing he wanted more.

But what if it just wasn’t in the cards? What if he got up there on the parallel bars and nothing moved, ever, except his arms as they dragged his legs behind him? How could he repay his debt to society then? He had to make some progress, had to have some good news to share with Kent. Especially now, since his mentor’s cancer had failed to respond to the most recent round of chemo.

But he couldn’t tell Natalie that. It probably wouldn’t come off as such a great story, since Natalie definitely had something against police officers. He’d been wondering what it could be for the past few days, but had told himself he would only be opening a can of worms if he asked. But suddenly he had an irrepressible urge to pop open that can’s lid.

“So, what do you have against cops, anyway?”

She dropped the file and had to pick it up again before she could look at him. “I don’t have anything against cops. Why would you ask something like that?”

“That’s the story you’re sticking to after the other day with the cops and robbers comment and the question about whether or not I bothered to wear a vest?”

“It was just a bad—”

“A bad day. So you’ve said. But most of us have our bad days without offending an entire profession.”

Instead of answering, she shrugged.

“Is it about the problems law enforcement has had with the African-American community?”

Her eyes widened as she stared at him.

He cleared his throat, his face suddenly hot. “I mean...well... I thought that maybe you might be...”

“Biracial?”

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed. It’s just—” He cut off his words, but he couldn’t stop his gaze from gliding over the smooth-looking skin of her neck before returning to her gleaming eyes. “Again...sorry.”

But the side of her mouth lifted. “Usually I pass.”

“For white?” Immediately, he wanted to know why she would want to pass for anything other than the amazing beauty that she was.

Her chuckle surprised him.

“It’s only fair since my main exposure to the African-American side of my heritage is the two boxes I check on applications.” She glanced at the exercise list, not meeting his gaze. “But race issues aren’t the only reason I’m not a fan of cops.”

“Then why not?”

“People become police officers for the excitement of shooting suspects or driving fast cars to chase down criminals,” she said and then pulled her sweater tighter over her shoulders.

He lifted a brow. “That’s it. Really? Even after the number of high-profile police shootings involving unarmed young black men, that’s your reason?”

“I said those weren’t the only reasons.”

“Did you know that the majority of police officers work a full career without ever having to discharge their weapons, except in training? And in some cities, they don’t drive fast cars or motorcycles at all. Some are on horseback. Or even riding bicycles in crowded areas.”

She sighed as if she realized he wouldn’t give up the point—she was right about that.

“I just hate...hate when they act like cowboys, racing around like no one else matters.”

For several seconds he could only watch her. What wasn’t she telling him?

“Present company excluded, right?” he asked when she didn’t say more. “Lately, I don’t drive anything fast or get to race around anywhere.”

She shrugged. “Forget it. Let’s get back to work.” She stared pointedly at him. “And you’d better keep up your upper-body regimen, because you’ll need those arms to support you on the bars next week.”

“Guess so.”

He shifted again, as she’d probably guessed he would. She was deflecting, and that told him that she was hiding something. Had something happened between her and a police officer? Had she dated a cop who turned out to be a creep? Just the thought of that had him strangely unsettled. He knew plenty of guys who wore the uniform and were jerks in the dating department. Some women he’d flipped through in his continual rounds of speed dating might include him in that category. But what bothered him more? That some cop might have burned her or that another officer might have dated her?

Too many questions, and he shouldn’t have been wondering about any of them, let alone asking them. He had enough of his own problems right now. Natalie didn’t appear to be in the mood to answer his questions, anyway. She’d suddenly become engrossed in his file, though nothing inside it had changed in the two days since his last appointment.

As Shane waited for her to finally look his way again, his gaze shifted around the room. The same machines and mats and gadgets that had been there during his last appointment had been left idle, waiting for PTs to begin torturing their patients. An open doorway led to another activity room with a miniature set of mats and equipment for children. Shrill laughter filtered from the room as if to clarify the space’s purpose. A couple of glass-walled offices lined the opposite side of the room, their blinds tightly closed, rendering the open layout moot.

Not far from the intimidating parallel bars, a collection of framed certificates and photographs lined one of the walls. He’d noticed it the first time, but he’d been too busy checking out his therapist to take a closer look. Now that he had some free time while she pretended to study his file, Shane rolled closer to the display.

The certification documents were what he’d expected—one for Natalie Ann Keaton and a few for some other physical therapists. The other documents were thank-you letters and such from pleased clients, but the photos were what interested him most. They were of youth sports teams.

He blinked as he paused on the three wheelchair basketball team photos. In all three photos was none other than Natalie Keaton, wearing a bigger smile than she’d ever given him. He suddenly wondered what it would feel like to have her smile at him that way, but he tucked away the thought where it belonged.

“You’ve found out all of my secrets.”

He started at the sound of her voice, surprised that he hadn’t heard her approach. He’d been off the job too long if his senses were that dull. If nothing else, he should have felt this particular woman’s nearness from the electric jolt she usually gave him.

“You mean that you smile really big when you’re not on the job?” He immediately regretted his words. Now she knew that he’d only been looking at her when he should have at least feigned interest in the other subjects of the photo.

At her frown, he grinned. “Oh, you mean that you coach.”

“Guess it shouldn’t come as a surprise.”

He narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher her comment. “Why shouldn’t it surprise me that you coach wheelchair basketball?”

“Oh... I mean...you know...that I played.”

“How would I know that you played?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

She shrugged, but he could have sworn that she scrunched her shoulders more than she had been already. She couldn’t have looked more uncomfortable if she’d been standing there beautifully nude instead of wearing those curve-masking scrubs. Then he would have been the uncomfortable one. At least he hoped his body would respond that way to seeing a sexy woman in the altogether. But he couldn’t worry about that now, not when her discomfort over their conversation was still so obvious.

Was this about her height? Sure, she was tall. Her willowy frame had been one of the first things he’d noticed about her. Well, not the first, but close to it. Would it surprise her that she wouldn’t look so tall if he were standing next to her instead of sitting?

“What position did you play?” He didn’t know why he asked. He might understand the intricacies of the two-point conversion or a hook-and-ladder play, but he had no clue what happened on a basketball court. Still, it was easier than asking why she wasn’t comfortable in her own skin. How could she not know how beautiful she was?

Instead of relaxing over his inane question, she winced.

“Center.”

She watched him as if that admission should mean something.

“Were you good at it?”

She squinted at him as though he’d missed something, but she answered anyway. “High-school good. No D-1 colleges were chasing me, if that’s what you’re asking. Especially when I spent all of my time at practice.”

He lifted a brow. “Why do you say that? Most of my coaches were all about putting in the work.”

“Not that kind of practice. Five hours a day of piano practice.”

“Piano?” He watched her for several seconds, trying to picture her playing. Strange, though—he could just as easily imagine her long and elegant fingers skimming over his skin as floating over ebony and ivory keys.

“But that was a long time ago.”

She turned to study another therapist and his patient as if to signal that the subject was closed.

“Anyway, the Livingston Community Center was trying to build a youth wheelchair basketball team to compete with teams from surrounding counties, and someone suggested that I should coach. Probably because of my game experience and my medical background.” She shrugged. “Anyway, the kids are great, and they work so hard. We have a game tonight.”

“I bet you’re a really good coach.”

He didn’t know why he’d said it, and he had no proof to back up his belief, but the way she smiled at the young faces in those photos told him he was right.

“Well, I’m not being a good PT right now, standing around talking about myself.” She returned to the file in her arms. “We have work to do, so stop wasting time by asking me questions. I’m on to your game.”

He was stalling today for more than one reason, so he appreciated that she didn’t mention the other. Though he allowed her to direct him through the series of exercises, his thoughts were far from the strengthening of weakened muscles. He had so many questions about the woman instructing him that he kept losing count of his repetitions.

He’d planned to keep his distance from Natalie, to see her as his physical therapist and nothing more. But each little thing he learned about her only made him more curious. An athlete who played piano off the court. A tall, beautiful woman who was uncomfortable with her amazing body. A biracial woman who knew precious little about the African-American experience. Her contradictions drew him in as effectively as her beauty had. Possibly more.

Though she’d joked that he’d discovered all of her secrets, he really knew only a few. And he couldn’t help himself. He needed to know them all.

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