Dr. Dangerous. KRISTI GOLDЧитать онлайн книгу.
In fact, she’s at least twenty-five. Probably older.”
“In my book that’s still a kid.”
“To hear you talk, you’re sixty, not thirty-six.”
“I feel like I’m eighty.”
Nick forked a hand through his dark hair. “Look, Brooke Lewis is one of the best therapists around. If you give her the opportunity, she can help you with those tendons. It’s just going to take some time and hard work on your part.”
If Jared could ball his fist, he’d punch the wall. He could do that with his left hand, but considering his recent misfortune, he’d probably ruin it, too. “What you’re saying is that I might never operate again.”
Nick let go a frustrated sigh. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Jared. I’m saying you need to give the therapy a shot, and the best place to start is with Brooke.” He grinned. “And you’ve got to admit, she’s pretty nice to look at. Can’t imagine you’d mind having her touching you twice a week—wherever she wanted.”
Jared refused to admit that the thought had crossed his mind, too. He’d immediately been aware of her finer points. When she’d touched him, his immediate reaction had taken him back, the reason why he’d been so tough on her. He didn’t need an attraction to a woman, especially a therapist. Not that he could easily stop it. At least that part of him wasn’t exactly dead. Not by a long shot. Brooke Lewis had proven that. But at the moment, he had other more pressing problems, like getting his hand to function again.
“If you think she’s so great, then you make an appointment with her for some hands-on therapy,” Jared said.
Nick shook his head. “No way. I’ve sworn off women since the divorce.”
“Sure, Kempner. Tell me another one.”
“I’m dead serious. Not worth the hassle.”
“Speaking of women, how’s it going with your ex?”
Nick grabbed up a pen and drummed it on the desktop. “Not great. I only have to see her when I pick up Kelsey on the weekends that I’m not on call. We barely speak, which is probably a good thing. Fighting in front of a four-year-old isn’t a great idea.”
Jared hated the pain in his friend’s voice. Pain over limited time with his daughter all because of marrying the wrong woman. But how could anyone know if they’d found the right one?
Nick had a point, Jared decided. Sometimes women weren’t worth the hassle. Marriage definitely wasn’t, exactly why Jared had avoided it, especially with the demands of a doctor’s career. Not that he’d had to worry about that lately.
Nick tossed the pen aside and leaned back in his chair. “Jared, I know you’re having a tough time with this whole thing. If you want someone to talk to, I have the name of—”
“I’m not depressed, dammit. I’m just ticked off.” God, he resented this attitude. Resented that people were always trying to second-guess his feelings, when in reality they didn’t know him at all.
Nick put up his hands, palms first. “Okay, bad idea. But I really think you need to concentrate on physical therapy. You could do a lot worse than Brooke Lewis.”
He could do a lot better if he could just crawl in a hole somewhere and lick his wounds. But that wasn’t reality. He had to deal with this somehow. And maybe the hell-on-wheels therapist with the killer smile and dynamite eyes was the answer, at least temporarily. Maybe Brooke Lewis’s offer wasn’t such a bad idea.
Jared stared at the ceiling for a long moment, sensing Nick’s gaze on him while awaiting an answer. “Okay. Set up the home therapy. I’m not making any promises, but I guess I’ll take on Brooke Lewis.”
Nick laughed. “I think that’s the other way around.”
If his instincts were correct, Jared knew in his gut that working with Brooke Lewis could be like facing a pit full of vipers. But before the accident he’d never backed down to a challenge. Not true since the accident, though. Could he handle this one, especially with a woman who had sparked his interest, among other things? Did he really have a choice?
“One more thing,” Nick said. “She told me that next time you can count on her to use putty to work your hand instead of the ball, since it doesn’t bounce. Any idea what that means?”
Jared allowed his first real smile in weeks. “Yeah, it means I’ve probably met my match.”
Two
“Rural” was an understatement.
Brooke climbed out of her car and trudged toward the door after driving an hour in the dark to reach her destination. She’d checked the address at the mailbox just to be sure she was in the right place. And she was, but the place wasn’t at all what she had envisioned—a small white house that could use a good coat of paint as best she could tell from the lone porch light. A simple dwelling to match the aged blue pickup that sat in the drive and the weathered plank porch beneath her feet.
She’d imagined a grand home fit for a physician, not a cracker box dwelling that reminded her of her grandparent’s farm. Once again Dr. Jared Granger had surprised her, and she wondered what else might be in store for her this evening.
But at least he had agreed to home therapy, something that both surprised and pleased her. And made her a tiny bit leery. Facing him in unfamiliar surroundings—his territory—caused her to question the wisdom of her offer. She certainly couldn’t worry about that now.
Brooke bolstered her courage and rapped on the door, primed for whatever she would have to face. She waited for a time, glad the weather had turned warm again, although it still rained on and off. So typical of fall in Texas.
She heard a shuffling sound, and the door opened to Dr. Jared Granger dressed in ragged T-shirt, faded jeans, his dark-blond hair mussed as if he’d just crawled out of bed.
“You found me,” he said with more welcome in his tone than she’d expected. Or perhaps she was simply engaging in wishful thinking.
“Yeah,” she said. “Dr. Kempner gives good directions.”
He opened the squeaky screen and allowed her entry. Brooke stepped inside and found the place to be warm and dry—and a total disaster. Her gaze roamed around the small living room where she zeroed in on the coffee table cluttered with newspapers and an assortment of paper cups. A pair of discarded work boots sat near an opening at one end of the room, clothes tossed about as if a tornado had swept through the area. Several times. Quite a contrast to her immaculate apartment.
Taking a few guarded steps, Brooke met his gaze and offered a polite, noncommittal smile. “Well, this is certainly a comfortable home.”
He shrugged. “Suits me fine.”
She shifted her canvas bag from one arm to the other. “Where would you like me to set up?”
“In here.” He leaned heavily on his crutch as he struggled toward the entrance that opened into the small kitchen.
Brooke followed silently behind him, trying hard not to notice the tear beneath his back pocket where she caught a glimpse of flesh when he moved. No need to look there again, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.
Once in the kitchen Brooke found more mess to garner her attention. More discarded food containers, more newspapers, more chaos.
He pointed to the small dinette. “Will this work?”
She couldn’t see anything at all because of the debris. “Is there a table under there?”
“Yeah. Somewhere.”
He looked up at her, and she noted a bit of self-consciousness in his expression. With one arm braced on his crutch, he began to sweep the mess away with his free forearm, onto chairs, the floor, wherever it happened to land. If only Brooke’s mother