Page 30 of Bad Decisions

An opaque glass door separates the hallway from the waiting room, and I push it open with a whoosh. My gaze goes immediately to the row of visitor chairs, and I freeze. My feet are solid blocks that would have more movement if they were stuck in mud.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand before crossing my arms over my chest.

How dare this man show up at my place of work six months after he was expected.

My heart stutters before pounding back to life at an alarming rate.

Chapter sixteen

Will

Turning up at Jewel’s practice expecting treatment wasn’t one of my best decisions, but here I am in her treatment room, and it’s too late to back out now.

I run a hand through my hair and grip the edge of the table with the other. Anything to stop me from reaching out for her when she’s just told me this isn’t the place for us to talk. It hurts worse than the wound in my leg to see her giving up on us.

She glances up, and her gaze laces with mine. Brazen blue eyes search mine. I’m not sure what she’s looking for, but I can’t look away. I want her eyes on me, even if they hold a chill that hits me to my bones. Again, I force the urge to touch her back down.

With a slight shake of her head, she steps back and then turns, giving me her back before walking to the desk. Disappointment weighs heavily on my shoulders.

This is the point in a mission when I’d be shifting to plan B. But for once, I don’t have one. I stare mutely at her straight back as she sits at the desk typing on her laptop, the clicking as her fingers hit the keys finding a matching rhythm with the tick of the clock on her desk.

It’s only a few minutes, though it feels longer before she spins the chair. “Can you tell me how you injured your leg?” Concern leeches through the spaces between the words and darkens her irises to sapphire blue. Jewel, the physiotherapist, is now in charge, though the softness of her expression says volumes more. She’s moving on from the earlier conversation. But she’s rattled. And so am I.

Jewel’s question was expected, yet I struggle to form the words to respond. I can’t lie, but the truth could ruin any possibility of her wanting to give me a second chance. In every one of my failed relationships, the women said my walking toward dangerous situations was the reason they left, and my current injury is exactly the reason why. I roll my shoulders, forcing the tension from them, then begin.

“Eight days ago, I was stabbed in the thigh. The knife sliced into my hamstring but missed nerves and arteries.” I don’t bother to mention the minor cuts on my hands and chest, a couple from the knife, others from broken glass. “I needed surgery to repair the damage.”

Alarm flashes in her icy blues as she stares at me, her mouth agape. I get that because I was fucking lucky.

This time, I do reach out to touch her, placing my hand on her arm, and I’m glad she doesn’t pull away. “It’s okay. I’ve had worse.”

A heavy silence stretches between us before she shakes her head, locking down her emotions. “Surgery?” she asks.

I nod. “The knife went deep and horizontal. It wasn’t a clean cut, and I needed sutures to repair the muscle and to close the wound.”

Empathy washes a softness across her features; this is the kindhearted woman I remember. But then she swallows deeply, and her mouth pulls into a straight line again.

“Lose the jeans.” She barks out the order like a drill sergeant.

“You don’t waste any time,” I tease, and it earns me an eye roll. The corners of my mouth tick up in a smile. I’d settle for an eye roll over Jewel’s angry glare every time. The foot tap is back, and the pen clutched in her white-knuckle grip is likely to leave an imprint for days.

I start to remove my boots, and when she sees me struggling, she bends to do it for me, then turns to go back to her desk. I’m not fooled by the pretense of sorting through a bundle of papers, and a smile sneaks across my face as I lift the weak leg with my arm and swing it onto the table before undoing my jeans and stripping them off. The whole process, like dressing myself in the morning, is awkward, and I’m glad she still has her back to me.

From the shelf in the corner of the room, she snatches up a folded towel before turning and tossing it to me. “Put this over your waist, please.”

The tightness of her jawline makes it clear she’s not completely unaffected by the sight of me in only a T-shirt and fitted boxer briefs. All positive signs I file away to use as evidence in my efforts to convince her that we should try again.

She moves to the side of the bed, her eyes glued to the gauze pad on my mid-thigh, like she’s afraid to let her gaze wander a few inches higher.

“Right!” The word is spoken as if she’s psyching herself up to do something irksome. My earlier smile sinks back into a straight line almost as quickly as it came.

“Is there a problem?” I ask, a line of worry pinching my brows together.

“No, of course not. It’s fine.” She wrings her hands together. “I-I’m just considering my options. How is your pain?” With a quick shake of her fingers, she reaches over to a small table at the head of the bed and pumps a dribble of oil onto her hands, then rubs her palms together.

“Bearable.”

“I’m going to feel around the area for tightness. But today we’ll concentrate on pain management and reducing the inflammation in the general area,” she says, her voice firmer and more controlled this time.