She stood, striding toward the exit. Noah could’ve resisted, but Meg possessed the determination of a heat-seeking missile. Better to surrender with dignity intact. He dumped their trash, each movement broadcasting his condition to anyone watching, and followed her outside.
The canyon painted itself in dawn colors—rose and gold bleeding across ancient stone. He would have preferred to finish his coffee, enjoy the view.
“You, Liam, and Teague have gotten pretty tight.” Her tone stayed casual, but something underneath probed for information.
Noah shrugged, immediately regretting the motion. “Why the commentary?”
“No reason. Just noting the change. Your previous seasonal staff barely rated nods in the hallway. Suddenly you’re all ‘These are my bros’ with a couple of thrill seekers. What’s so special about them?”
Something in her voice tightened his chest. Interest? Was she fishing about Liam? Or Teague? Her age remained a mystery—late twenties, early thirties maybe, considering medical school and two North Rim summers. But she carried herself younger, with the sort of energy that said she lived on medical drama. Maybe she was some prodigy who’d breezed through med school at twenty-two. His grip strangled the ceramic mughe’d apparently stolen.Great.He’d have to add “return stolen property” to his morning agenda.
Meg reached the clinic’s side entrance, holding the door wide. “This is the secret back way. We’re not officially open.”
Noah hesitated at the threshold. Medical facilities triggered memory landmines—sterile corridors and beeping monitors, the whiff of antiseptic and approaching death. But this was just a National Park clinic, walls papered with heatstroke warnings and rattlesnake advisories.
“Bag on the chair. Get on the table.” Meg flipped on lights, then pointed toward an examination bed before disappearing around a corner.
Noah eyed the table like it might bite. Too close to a gurney for comfort. “Really, Meg, it’s just a muscle strain. Nothing dramatic.”
She reappeared in a pristine white lab coat, drying her hands on a paper towel. “Or a herniated disc. Compression fracture. Pinched nerve?—”
“Fine.” He surrendered to the table, which protested his weight with ominous creaks. He left his feet dangling off the side.
“Hold your legs up for me.”
He obeyed. She pressed down on both. “Pain?”
“Told you. I’m fine.”
“This goes faster with yes or no answers.”
“No.”
“Arms out, palms up.”
More pressure. “Numbness? Tingling?”
He shook his head, trusting her to interpret.
“Deep breath. Hold it. Any pain?”
Another negative as he exhaled.
“Shirt off.”
“What?” Shoot, he sounded thirteen.
“Your shirt, big guy. Lose it.” She put her hands on her hips. “I need to examine your spine.” She produced a black hair elastic. “And tie that mane back. I need to see your shoulders.”
“I don’t do man buns.”
“Man ponytail, then. Honestly, Samson, how long are you planning to grow it?”
“Haven’t thought about it.” The lie slipped pretty smoothly, given that he thought about it every time he spotted himself in a mirror—the shaggy mess that had replaced his normal cut. Mary had been his last barber, fingers gentle through his hair, laughing at the cowlick in the back. Back then, everything was simple. Easy. Now even haircuts felt like betrayal, another erasure of her memory. Avoiding a haircut had started with grief. Now it was about dodging stylist small talk—questions that led to conversations about his dead wife.
Meg pivoted to type on a nearby laptop, and Noah stripped off his shirt—not without having to stifle a groan—and secured his hair with the elastic. Air hit his bare torso, cool against heated skin.
“I’ll walk my fingers down your spine. Tell me if—” Meg’s words died as she turned back. Her eyes fixed on his chest, lingered, something almost…curious flickering across her face.
