Love Is Beautiful (Chelsea & Max) (2 page)

I guess I’m more about guns and creased eyebrows than cheering fans and dimples,
I think and get distracted by remembering the way the cop’s gun hung at his hip this morning as he sidled up to my car.

What the hell? I’m most certainly not ‘about’ Officer Jerk Face. Not at all. I don’t know if I’ve ever instantly disliked someone the way I instantly disliked him.

Besides, I know what I like and it’s not grumpy cops
or
cocky athletes. I want a man in a business suit with a 401k and a five-year plan. I want safety and security and a kiss on the cheek every morning when he leaves for work. I want predictability. My sisters say it’s boring, but I’ll take that over stress and worry and all the things that come hand in hand with a man who lives outside the confines of perfectly normal, thank you very much.

Hudson finishes up his treadmill time and I lead him through the rest of his exercises, keeping a close eye on the way he moves. He’s really coming along quite nicely; we just have that slight limp left to get rid of before I’m ready to call him cured. A quick check of the time while I’ve got Hudson up on the massage table working on the scar tissue around his ankle shows that I’m already five minutes late for my next appointment.

For the briefest of moments I think about rushing through the massage, especially given how well he’s healing. But as much Hudson tires to hide how much he worries about his progress with all kinds of bravado and brave words, I know he’s really stressing about getting himself put back together in time for the season to really get started. And since I’ve promised him he’ll be ready, I refuse to skimp on him now. I call Mina over.

“Hey,” I say and wait for her to drag her eyes off Hudson. “Would you please get my next patient started for me? I won’t be too much longer with my favorite Bengal, here.” I give his foot a pat and assume that the blubbery affirmative sound coming from Mina—who still hasn’t taken her eyes off Hudson—means that she’ll help me out.

“So.” Hudson props himself up on his elbows and stares down the table at me where I’m still working on his ankle. “Do you realize that you’re the only woman here who doesn’t give me the goo-goo eyes whenever they get near me?”

“The goo-goo eyes?”

“Yeah, you know.” He jerks his head towards Mina as she heads off to get my next patient ready. “The look that means I could have them with just one little crook of my finger. Probably right over there in the bathroom if I wanted to.”

“Hudson Knox.” I ty to make it clear how much I utterly disapprove of that statement. “You better not.”

He shrugs. “I’ll do what I like, thank you very much. Especially, if the woman who has captured my interest is even slightly interested in return.”

Alarm bells are going off like crazy. I give his ankle all my attention, barely lifting my gaze to meet his only to drop it down again. “And just who has captured your interest?” I murmur the question, more out of a need to be polite rather than any kind of need to know the answer.

Please don’t let it be me. Please don’t let it be me.

“You.”

Damn it.

“Hudson. I…” How do I tell him that I’m just not interested in what he has to offer without making our visits awkward from this point forward?

“Don’t tell me no, Chelsea.”

“You’re my patient.”

“That’s right. And I have to repay you for all your brilliance. I’ll be back to full speed in no time and that’s all because of you, my friend.” He flashes that boyish grin at me and damn if I don’t feel part of my resolve melting away. It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything fun. And an even longer time since I did anything fun with a good-looking man.

“You’re
so
not my type,” I say.

“And you’re not mine.” He shrugs as I frown. “But we can at least go out and have a good time together.”

“Relationships aren’t my thing.”

“I’m not proposing, London. Just go out with me and have some fun.”

I stop working on his ankle and look up at him, considering. A night out sounds good. Really good. Dancing, drinking, conversation…

Sensing victory, Hudson smiles. “You seriously look like you need to unwind. And I am the master of unwinding.”

I take a deep breath and prepare myself to say no. “You know what?” I say instead. “Sure. I’ll go out with you.”

Hudson beams and I can’t help but smile back. We exchange numbers and I give him my address while he promises to pick me up Friday night at eight before he hops off the table, drops one eyelid in a ridiculous wink and heads back to the locker room.

“You’re still not leading with that heel,” I call after him.

He turns around, smiles at me and flares his hands and damn if I don’t feel just a little excited about seeing him on Friday. After all, he
is
handsome. And, since he’s brand new to the team, he’s not famous or anything, but he will be. I can feel it. He’s got that kind of drive. How many chances will I have to go out with a guy who’s on the fast track to fame?

So, he’s not my dream guy? A girl can have a little fun, right?

“Chels?” Mina sidles up beside me, sounding worried.

I turn to her, a huge smile on my face. “What’s up? My new patient ready?”

“That’s the thing,” she says. “He didn’t want me. He said he wasn’t going to be passed around like leftovers. He’s right over there waiting for you and he doesn’t seem pleased. Like, at all.” She widens her eyes and points to a table behind her where I catch a glimpse of a large man with dark hair and massive arms folded over an even bigger chest. He’s staring after Hudson, so I can’t quite see his face.

“What was his name again?”

“Max. Max Santoro.”

“Okay, Mina. Thanks for trying. I guess it’s time to turn on all the charm and make him feel like a superstar instead of leftovers.”

“Good luck with that. This one is a real beast.” She rolls her eyes and stares after me as I head over to greet Mr. Santoro. He turns as I approach and I stop in my tracks, eyes wide, eyebrows raised.

The man perched on the edge of one of my massage table glares at me with his bullet blue eyes and I take a deep, gym-scented breath. Standing right there, looking just as big and scary (and sexy!) in a black t-shirt and low-slung sweatpants as he did with a gun on his hip and the brim of his hat hiding those weapons for eyes is the cop from this morning.

And his mood doesn’t seem even a little bit improved.

T
he last place
I want to be right now is this giant ant hill of a room filled with gym equipment and strange machines that look more like torture devices than anything remotely therapeutic. If I had any choice in the matter, any at all, I would be out on patrol, giving my knee the time it needs to heal while I sit in my squad car doing my damn job. Some ice at night, some ibuprofen during the day, and bam. Good to go. But no. I spend one day limping through the office and wouldn’t you know it, I have orders to get my ass to physical therapy or I’ll be riding a desk until Bossman thinks I’m all better.

To make matters worse, not only is my therapist late, but she’s also the nincompoop I pulled over for driving like an idiot this morning. The one who was blatantly speeding and swerving recklessly through traffic and didn’t even act surprised or sorry when I pulled her over. She’s probably one of those women who think that just because she’s blonde and beautiful, the world owes her everything. That she gets a pass with a bat of an eyelash and a cute little smile. I get the feeling she’s spoiled rotten. Daddy’s Little Girl and Mommy’s Perfect Angel and the pampered life that comes along with dumb ass nicknames like that. I bet she’s never had to work for anything in her whole life. I glare at her as she walks my way, chin up, eyes bright, hips swaying.

“Well, hello again, Mr. Santoro.” She extends a hand and flashes a smile that doesn’t mix well with the tension in her eyes. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Feeling’s not exactly mutual.” I don’t do fake. You get what you get with me and, judging by the surprised O of her mouth, this little therapist wasn’t prepared for that.

“Okay, then,” she says with that silly smile still plastered on her face. “We’ll skip the pleasantries and get right to the point. I’m Chelsea London, your physical therapist, and you can trust that I’ll get you back to normal in no time.”

“I’m fine. There’s no normal to get back to. I’m already there.”

She doesn’t respond—which I actually appreciate—and sends me through a series of exercises that test the range of motion of my knee. I can tell by the tension in her jaw and the slight flare in her nostrils that I’m getting under her skin. And that’s more than fine with me. I’ll just consider it payback for the way she got under mine this morning.

“How did you injure yourself?” she asks, thumbing through a thick stack of papers in a manila folder.

“I’m not injured.”

Chelsea is crouching at my feet to get a better look at my knee and she sighs, looking up at me. “Okay. How did you hurt yourself?”

“I’m not hurt.”

She stands and purses her lips. Hands on her hips. Eyebrows lifted. She looks so frustrated I can’t help but smile. “Why are you here, Mr. Santoro?”

“Because my boss told me he’d pull me off the streets if I didn’t come.”

“And why did he send you?”

“Hell if I know.”

London glares at me. “Maybe I should call him, then. Let him know that you seem to think you’re fine and are being less than cooperative.” There’s an edge to her voice that takes me off guard. She sounds less like the spoiled brat I pegged her for and more like an honest to goodness professional. She’s not whining or petulant. Rather, she’s detached, clinical, and in control.

In a rare moment of weakness, I concede. “Basketball.”

Her brows meet. “You hurt yourself playing basketball?”

I nod and bite the inside of my cheek. I’m really not hurt, but I don’t correct her again. Just twisted my knee a little funny when I was playing against Charlie a couple weeks ago. I explain what happened and she asks me a few more questions and then puts me through a series of exercises. Even though the stupid joint aches and sends these jolts of pain through my leg, I refuse to flinch. I’m only as hurt as I let myself be and I’ll say it as many times as I need to.

I am not hurt.

Chelsea continues to move with clinical efficiency, a tightly wound ball of energy buzzing around me. She sees everything and says very little. I can tell she notices the lightning strikes of pain but she doesn’t make a big deal about it. It almost seems like she’s decided to stop interacting with me completely and has decided to make this appointment solely about my knee. All of this is fine with me but it does make me wonder if maybe I misjudged her. Not that it matters. I’ll let her do her thing long enough for the Bossman to get off my back and then I’ll be out of here.

The hour passes slowly, although the massage at the end isn’t half bad. Her hands are strong and she knows exactly where to concentrate her attention. Again, I work hard not to flinch, but she finds some spots in my thigh that are downright excruciating. Before I know it, I’m heading out to my car, not sure if I might actually be looking forward to our appointment next week or if I’m still dreading it like the plague. Oddly enough, I found her quiet efficiency very calming. And lord knows I need a little extra calm in my life.

It’s one of those beautiful fall days where the sunlight seems extra golden against the blue sky and warms you against the chill in the air. The shadows are just the right length and the red and orange leaves dance in the wind. I love the beginning of October in Ohio. It makes perfect days for meeting Charlie in the park. Normally, we’d play some basketball, because in all honesty, the kid is a little obsessed. But even I know my knee needs some rest, so today I’m going to bring my dog Reagan, a German Shepherd rescue. Reagan is smart, too smart for her own good really, and has enough energy to keep the boy entertained. They can play fetch while I sit on the bench and then I’ll take them for ice cream before his mom comes to pick him up.

When I first joined the Big Brother program, I was nervous that I wouldn’t have anything of value to impart to these kids. After all, I’m carrying more than my fair share of scars. I couldn’t help but worry that I wasn’t the kind of role model these boys would need. It didn’t take long to learn that these kids just need some one on one time with someone who cares. That I didn’t need to worry about imparting some great dose of wisdom on them. I just needed to be there with an encouraging word and a friendly smile. And, as it turns out, I learned that I actually do have some advice for these kids. In the end, I don’t know whose life is more changed. Theirs or mine.

The drive home is peaceful, another rare thing. I head inside to get Reagan and the moment I pull the leash off the little hook by the door, she comes running, her nails clicking and clacking on the hardwood floor of my kitchen. “Hey, my friend.” I kneel down and press my forehead to hers. Her tongue is lolling out the side of her mouth and she’s panting her doggie breath into my face, but none of that bothers me. I take a moment to appreciate the closeness and then clip the leash to her collar before leading her outside and up into the backseat of my car.

I roll down her window just enough for her to stick her head outside and turn on the radio as we make the short drive to the park. I can’t stand silence. It makes me anxious. Itchy. The thoughts in my head get loud and angry and I don’t need any more of that in my life than there already is. The music helps keep them at bay.

Charlie is already waiting for me, swinging his skinny legs on a bench all by himself, his worn shoes skimming just above the concrete. Give him another month and he’ll be tall enough for his feet to touch the ground. The boy grows like a weed.

“Hey, Charlie,” I say as I drop onto the bench beside him. “Where’s your mom?”

“She had to go. But it’s okay. I sat right here just like she said and didn’t talk to no one.” Charlie eyes Reagan warily. “That’s a big dog.”

“Reagan?” I say, rubbing her between her ears so he can see just how friendly she is. “Yeah, she is pretty big. But she’s sweet. I thought you might like to play fetch with her today.”

“She bite?”

“Nah.” I slide off the bench and take her big head in my hands, rough her up a little and then hug her tight. “Reagan’s a good girl. I rescued her from the shelter a couple years ago. Can you believe no one wanted her?”

Charlie’s eyes soften. “So she’s like me, then.”

His words are a punch to the gut. “If you mean that she’s the kind of friend I like hanging out with and she makes me laugh until it hurts, then sure. She’s exactly like you.”

I have to be a little more hands on with the whole fetch idea than I intended. It’s easy to forget how intimidating Reagan looks, especially to a little boy who has a fair share of uncertainty in his life. My knee is not at all happy with me. Whatever that physical therapist did to me today has taken its toll. Wouldn’t you know that the thing that’s supposed to make me feel better actually made things worse. Isn’t that the way of it?

By the end of our visit, Charlie is over his fear of Reagan and giggles like the child he is when he feeds her the ice cream I got for her. He doesn’t laugh often; he giggles even less often. Today, for whatever reason, the sound pierces through the armor around my heart and plants the boy right there.

Not many people get in that far, but now that he’s made it, he’s safer than he’s ever been in all his life. I protect the people I love, no matter the cost.