Love Is Beautiful (Chelsea & Max) (7 page)

E
ver since I
realized that I have a crush on Max Santoro, I’ve been simultaneously looking forward to and absolutely dreading our next appointment. I’m so keyed up about it that I can barely my eyes off the clock, counting the minutes until he shows up. Hudson has most definitely noticed.

“You haven’t even commented on how well I’m leading with my heel,” he says. It’s the end of our appointment and he’s up on the massage table while I work on the tissue around his Achilles. “And I was so sure you’d be impressed with the progress I’ve made.”

“Or you could just take my silence as a compliment in and of itself.” I find a knot in his calf and dig in with my thumbs. “Tender here?”

His eyes roll back and he nods vigorously. “I’d prefer a more direct approach to the compliments, thank you very much,” he says through clenched teeth. “I’m not much on only receiving criticism.”

“Why am I not surprised?” I roll my eyes and check the clock again. Ten minutes. Max isn’t here yet and he seems like one of those early types. What if he doesn’t come?

“You have an appointment or something? You’re awfully distracted.”

“Nope. Just keeping an eye on the time so I’m not late for my next patient.”

“You mean the scowling man who looks like he should be on the team but isn’t?”

“That’s the one.”

Hudson flashes me one of his patented dimpled smiles. “You dog. Are you angling to get
another
one of your patients to ask you out? What? You have a thing for big, strong, broken men?”

I push extra hard on that knot in his calf and he drops his head back and grunts. “Actually, I’m more of a
business man with his shit
together kind of gal, thank you very much.”

“If you say so. But first me, the poor injured football player. Now this guy, the poor injured … what’s he do?”

“He’s a cop.”

“Ohhh. A control freak. Look at you.” Hudson wrinkles his nose and I can’t help but smile. He really is adorable.

“First of all. I didn’t ask you out. You asked me out. And I think we can both agree that, Sloan incident aside, the evening wasn’t exactly going the way either of us hoped. Second of all, I don’t have a thing for Max.”
But I do! I really, really do!
“I just want to take the time to give him the proper care he deserves. You’re almost totally rehabilitated. He’s not.”

“Aha! So I am leading more with my heel! I knew it.” Hudson smiles and drops the subject. I get him finished up and scan the area for Max, wondering just when exactly my interest in him went from casual to ‘but I do! I really, really do!’ Hudson strides towards the locker rooms—his gait really is much improved—and passes Max on the way out. He spins, drops me a wink and gives me the thumbs up. So of course, I’m blushing and totally flustered as Max arrives in front of me.

“Good morning, Mr. Santoro,” I manage, a little overly bright.

“Thought I told you to call me Max.” If I’m overly bright, he’s gone the other way, his voice gruff, his eyes clouded.

“You sure did. Just didn’t want to presume.” Or show you that I’ve apparently developed one hell of a crush on you by being too eager to use your first name. “So, let’s try this again,” I say. “Good morning, Max. How are you?”

He looks me in the eyes and smiles. “Better now. How are you, Chelsea?”

My toes curl hearing him say my name, that’s how I am. “Better now,” I say and blush again. I clear my throat. What am I? Sixteen again? “How’s the knee?”

“Better.” He laughs. That’s a sound I could get used to. It calls to some basic part of me and makes me feel like I’ve come home. It’s like I recognize something in this guy. Something that I don’t see in other people.

“Oh yeah? ‘Better’ as in you don’t want to admit you’re still hurting and nothing’s changed or better as in you followed my instructions and it’s actually improved.”

“The second one.”

Thankfully, he’s wearing shorts today, so there will be none of that awkward giggliness when I have to roll up his pants leg like last week. I have him hop up on of the massage tables and take a peek. “You’re right, this does look much better.” I prod around the joint, looking for any pain points. Not that he would admit to one if I found it, but I like to think I’m good enough at my job that I could feel the problem even if he didn’t say anything.

“So, you approve? I did good by sitting around on my butt all week?”

“You sure did. Best butt-sitting results I’ve seen from anyone.” I ask him to hop down and lead him over to a row of stationary bikes.

“Great,” he says when we come to a stop. “More butt-sitting.”

I laugh and roll my eyes. “Baby steps. Gotta crawl before you can walk and all that.”

“Not me. I come at everything full tilt. Let me on the treadmill, woman.”

“Wait, which one of us has the bum knee? And which of us has the doctorate?” I smile as he shakes his head. “Oh yeah. That’s right. I’m the one with the doctorate. And I say up on the bike, gimpy.”

“Gimpy?” Max looks appalled.

“Yep. Gimpy.” I had hoped to make him laugh but that doesn’t seem to be doing it. Not a fan of silly nicknames. Noted.

“You’re not going to make a habit of calling me that, are you?”

“Nope, just trying it on. Now,
Max
…” I emphasize his name and make a delightful little impish face. Or, at least what I hope is a delightful little impish face. “Would you please hop up on the bike so we can get started?”

He complies without complaint or any recognition of how cute I tried to be.
Come on, Chelsea, dial it back a notch
, I think to myself as I set the program on the bike and step back to watch his knee work. Most physical therapists rely on patient testimony and touch to understand the injury. I
see
it somehow. Always have. It’s part of what makes me so good at my job. At first, I thought everyone was like me. It took me a long time to realize that a lot of therapists are operating blind. I try to capitalize on my gift as much as I can, but that means I’m way more hands on with my patients then a lot of my colleagues.

For instance, any other therapist in the place would leave Max alone to do his thing while they worked on a second patient or started on paperwork. I never double book myself because there’s no way I can give one person the kind of specialized attention I’m capable of if I’m trying to multi-task. It took me awhile to prove to Cincinnati Orthopedics that this was best, though. There were more than a few years of me running myself ragged trying to balance multiple patients at once before they saw that I actually am quite good at what I do.

His knee looks better than it did last week, that’s for sure, but even as tough as he is, he’s still dealing with a hefty dose of pain. I can see that without question. I watch for any more abnormalities, arms folded across my chest, leaning in to get a better look, totally oblivious to the fact that he’s watching me.

“Find anything of interest down there?” he asks.

“You’re still hurting,” I say, still staring at his knee. “And it aches up into the iliotibial band, doesn’t it?” I step in close to him and run my hand up the side of his thigh. “Here.” I look up and realize just how close we are. I get a whiff of his cologne, rich and spicy. Watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“Yes. It does.”

I pull my hand away from him and step back. Whatever that was, as professional as I meant it to be, it was anything but appropriate. “Okay then,” I say, nodding quickly. “How about you finish that bike ride and I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes.” I don’t wait for his response. I just do a quick about face and make my way towards the restrooms where I stare at myself in the mirror, willing the strong and in control version of me to make an appearance.

* * *

I
’m
at home making dinner, singing along very loudly to Pandora, enjoying the pop and sizzle of homemade fajitas on the stove, when I get a text from Maya.

Without asking why, I turn on the television in the living room as another text comes in.

Onscreen, June is tearfully talking about that night in Aura. Whoever styled her is a genius. She doesn’t look at all like the vapid moron I remember from that night. She looks humble. Modest, even. The bruise on her neck is still visible, as is the one around her mouth. The fact that I healed so quickly makes me wonder if Sloan even managed to hit me with all he’s worth. I shiver, remembering the explosion of pain that night. If that was only a taste of what he’s capable of, I don’t want to think of what June went through before I showed up.

“I was done for,” she says onscreen, her voice wavering tearfully. “I don’t know what would have happened if she hadn’t shown up.” June shakes her head. “I take that back. I know exactly what would happen if she hadn’t shown up.” Tears overtake her and she stares at her hands while she regains her composure. “Anyway, I wasn’t going to file charges until I found out she had. I owe so much to this woman and I don’t even remember her name.”

I take a seat on the edge of my couch, transfixed by the TV. How did she find out I pressed charges? The only way she could have found out is if someone told her. And if someone told her, they would surely be able to tell her who I was. I mean, they only people who even
know
I went to the police are Hudson, my sisters, and Max.

It had to be Hudson. I can’t imagine it was anyone else. But why is she making such a big stink of it on TV? What’s she getting at here?

“The long and short of it is,” June continues. “Whoever she is, she’s a hero. She saved me from a bad man.” Her voice breaks. “And when that bad man came after her, hitting her in the face and pushing her down, she didn’t just take it. She fought back. I owe everything to her.” June’s looking in the camera, her wide, blue eyes sparkling with tears. Her blonde hair falling softly to her shoulders. She looks incredibly beautiful, incredibly wounded, and absolutely genuine.

My phone buzzes in my hand. Maya calling.

“Was that her? Was she talking about you?”

I race into the kitchen and pull my fajitas off the stove before they burn. “That was her.”

“Did you know? Did they call you or anything?”

“I’m as surprised as you are. I have no idea who told her I went to the cops. It had to be Hudson.”

“But why would he do that?”

I lean against the counter and hold the phone with my shoulder. “I don’t know! I even saw him today. You’d think if knew, he would have said something. Plus, he knows my name so it’s not like I’d be this big mystery to her. It’s all very strange.”

“She called you a hero.”

I smile as I pull a plate out of the cupboard. “I know. That feels pretty damn cool, let me tell you.”

“I bet it does.”

“I didn’t really do anything, though. I just walked into the bathroom. I don’t deserve to be called a hero.”

“You fought back. You pressed charges. Seems like those are things you did.”

I finish plating up my dinner and carry things to the table. “Yeah, but
hero
is a pretty strong word though.”

“Well, you’re a pretty strong woman.”

F
ive weeks
of physical therapy and I am almost a new man. I even feel better than I did before the accident. Chelsea is an absolute gift. She has worked diligently on me, and I’m not talking about just on my knee. She found all these other little weaknesses in my body that helped contribute to the initial injury in the first place. I’ve followed every single direction she gave me. Done every single ‘homework exercise’ she prescribed. She’s a miracle worker, that’s what she is. I am not at all ready for our visits to be over.

But I’ve got more than one reason to feel that way. Not only is she some sort of angel with healing powers, she’s smart. Funny. Able to charm me out of a bad mood. I leave my hour with her feeling better than I have all week.

I crave her.

How crazy does that sound?

This morning I woke up with this worried little knot in my stomach, not knowing what I was going to do now that I won’t have an excuse to see her each week. But right now? In the last minutes of our last physical therapy appointment? I know exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to ask this woman on a date. There’s been plenty of flirty eye-contact. Plenty of that delicious energy between us. Plenty of her strong hands working on my thigh.

And that’s been the most delicious torture, having her hands on me, thinking about having them on other parts of my body. Wanting to reciprocate…

Damn. I need to divert my attention because right now, she’s got her hand awfully far up my thigh and I’m liking it more than just a little too much.

Her hands still for a moment and then she works her way back down to safer territory, closer to my knee. “What’re you thinking about?” she asks.

I have two options here. I could give her a non-answer and buy myself some time until the end of our appointment where I can just retreat to the locker room if she shoots me down. Or, I can just go balls to the wall and ask her out right now. Be honest about what I’m thinking. Pressing up on my elbows, I watch worry form in her eyes.

“Woah,” she says. “Is it that bad?”

Well now I’m confused. “What do you mean?”

“The look on your face is intense. It just … I don’t know. Is everything okay?”

She takes her hands off my knee and moves in towards me, closer to my face. I both miss the contact of her skin against mine and love the fact that she’s close enough that I catch a whiff of her perfume. Or maybe it’s just her skin that smells that sweet.

“Things are more than okay,” I say. “I’ve really enjoyed these last couple weeks.”

“And that has you looking so intense?” She smiles and that’s the last little ingredient I need to push me over the edge. I want to see that smile more often. Claim it as mine.

“Would you want to grab some dinner sometime? Maybe Friday?”

Her smile fades and I panic. It’s been a long time since I asked a woman out because I actually wanted her company. If she says no, it might just devastate me.

But then her hand goes to her hair and her smile returns and I know I’m in the clear.

“I don’t date patients.”

“Bullshit.” I know very well she dated that football player. That’s how she ended up being in the wrong place at the wrong time and getting hurt.

“Okay, so I dated a patient once, and look what that got me.”

“A chance to be called a local hero?”

Chelsea grins and a blush works its way up her cheeks. “You saw that, did you?”

“I think just about everyone in the area saw it. The news ran the story enough.” I saw the first news story a couple days after she came down to the station. The one where the other woman—the one Sloan Anderson initially attacked—gave Chelsea all the credit for coming forward and for giving her the courage to speak up. There were several other stories after that. An interview with Chelsea alone, another with the two women together, and then a bunch of official releases from Sloan Anderson and his lawyers that basically said nothing and verged on calling the women liars.

“I almost didn’t do the interviews.” She bites her bottom lip. “Honestly, I really didn’t want to. I did it because I felt like it was the right thing to do.”

“How so?” I’m not sure how we got from me asking her out on a date to us sitting here in the middle of Cincinnati Orthopedics talking about the ethics of TV interviews, but here we are. I’m not typically known for my patience.

“Well,” she says, furrowing her brow. “For one, I felt like it was my duty to show women that it’s okay to speak up. You know, so many are carrying around hurt and guilt from an attack like that and never feel comfortable saying anything at all. I thought that if they saw me being strong up there with June, it might help them find their own kind of strength.” She swallows. “Plus, I didn’t want that jerk to feel like he had gotten away with anything.” There’s a fire in her eyes that makes me respect her.

I nod. “Sounds like good reasons.”

“I guess so. A lot of people seem to think I did it for the publicity. Which couldn’t be farther from the truth. I’m not the kind of person who likes the spotlight.”

“I get that.”

I nod, just kind of bounce my head and lift my eyebrows. She doesn’t respond and the silence starts feeling awkward. I did just ask her out and she did just turn me. So now what? Do I shake her hand, hop of the table, and bid her goodbye? That sure sounds like the safe thing to do. But since when do I ever do the safe thing?

When it comes to women. That’s when. When it comes to things like ‘relationships’ and ‘family’ and anything that could end up with things like ‘attachments’
.

Or dead eyes staring at you while you hide under the table. Too young to understand why the blood won’t stop.

And there you go. All the reason in the world why I won’t be pushing Chelsea London to go out to dinner with me. With that bit of history hanging out in my genes, I just can’t risk it. I can’t risk love and all the things that come with it.

Disappointment swirls in my stomach and resentment for a man who died decades ago seethes in my chest. “Well,” I say as I hop off the massage table, trying desperately to keep my face light despite the darkness gathering in my heart. “You’re a miracle worker, you know? Never felt this good.” I look down at my knee because it’s easier than looking at her. And that’s that. I turn my back and head towards the locker room.

“Hey,” Chelsea calls after me. “I didn’t peg you for a quitter.”

I turn, the rage-burned memories almost too thick to see through. “You’re right about that. I’m not a quitter.”

“You gave up awfully easy just now.” Her face is pursed in confusion. Her voice shakes.

“Saw the writing on the wall.” I shrug. Even though I know I should turn and go and put Chelsea London out of my mind, I don’t. I stand there, waiting.

“You always this sure you’re right, even when you’re wrong?”

I glare at her; I can’t help it. I know what she’s about to say and as much as I want her to say it, I feel like I should turn and walk away before she does. Chelsea London is about to accept my invitation to dinner and I’m pretty damn sure I should just go ahead and rescind the offer.

“You saying I’m wrong?” I ask.

She steps towards me and nods, her blue eyes wide and locked on mine. “Very.”

Walk away, asshole,
I tell myself.

But, probably because I’m an asshole, I don’t. “Will you go to dinner with me on Friday?”

And damn it, as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I smile like an idiot.