There are a few feet between us, but it feels like a thousand miles. Add in the last seven years of separation and it’s more like a different continent.
“So I guess you were told about the rehab plan.” I break the silence.
She blows out a huff of air and a piece of her hair catches in the light breeze. Her fingers tuck it behind her ear as she shifts from one foot to the other. “Yeah. And I’m not sure what makes you think you can waltz in here and throw all your money around to get what you want.”
“I need PT. You can provide it.” I shrug. “The payment is fair.”
“It’s ridiculous,” she scoffs. “What? You think I’m going to accept it because I’m a single mom who could use it? That I”—she points at her chest—“needyourmoney?” Her cheeks turn pink, the pretty shade spreading down to her neck.
She’s angry.
Go ahead, let me have it. I deserve it.
“I don’t need anything from you,” she sneers. “I like my life just the way it is. So you can pick up that folder.” She kicks it across the gravel. “Shove it where the sun doesn’t shine and tell Dr. Whitaker you had a change of plan.”
Her chest heaves and her eyes move from my face to the ground, then back. God, what I wouldn’t give to touch her. Hold her. I’d give up every championship I’ve ever won for just a few seconds. To turn back time and have her melt into me like she used to.
I let one boot land in front of the other, moving directly into her space. “Sorry, Firefly. No can do.”
Her eyes flare at the nickname.
“Don’t call me that,” she grits out before glancing around.
She was always the one wanting to keep everything a secret. Not me. Seems at least that hasn’t changed.
“Business is business. I signed a contract with your boss.”
She lifts her chin. “Then I quit.”
“No, you won’t. You’ve never quit anything in your life.”
Our eyes lock. “Don’t act like you know me, Parker.”
“Can you tell me why you have an issue with this? I’m just a patient needing PT,” I offer, waiting for her reaction.
Her steely eyes narrow, her freckles reflecting off the evening sun. “I don’t like being shuffled around.”
“It’s only six weeks,” I point out.
Her teeth nibble at her bottom lip. “Then you’ll be gone?”
Don’t plan on it.
“Maybe.” I lift a shoulder. “Depends.”
“On what? Your girlfriend. Wife? Whatever she is.” She waves a hand, trying to come off as casual.
Oh, you just showed your cards, Laiken Sheppard. And wife? Get real.
I take another step toward her, ignoring the comment. That explanation will come later. “It’s simple. Six weeks of personal therapy. You make some money and I get back into riding shape.”
Clearing her throat, she steps away, leaving a heavy space between us. “Why me? You could have the top therapists in the world working with you.” Her eyes close, then they peel open with vulnerability. “So why me?”
Crouching down, I scoop up the file before dropping it on the hood of her car. “Why not you?”
She stares at me for a beat, then blinks.
“Whatever.” She snatches the folder. “I’m a professional. I’m sure you won’t be the last arrogant a-hole I encounter in this career, but I actually have a choice in this. Dr. Whitaker said I have the weekend to decide.”
