Page 14 of Last Line of Defense

“Well, what a surprise. I thought at this hour you might be fleeing the country on a private jet to get out of here,” she says in a completely neutral tone.

I set the water bottle down on the aluminum side table, shrug nonchalantly, and walk slowly toward her.

“I’m not going to lie to you—I seriously considered it last night. But at the airport, they told me that restraining orders for medical harassment take too long to process.”

The corner of her mouth twitches upward by barely a millimeter. It’s not quite a full smile, but I know her reactions well enough to recognize a clear crack in her strict self-control.

“Sit down already,” she says, pointing toward the high treatment table.

“My goodness… Always so sweet, so thoughtful, and so romantic with me.”

“And you’re so incredibly exhausting at all hours,” she retorts instantly, without wasting a single second in our exchange of barbs.

I climb up and sit on the edge of the exam table without uttering a word, and that docile behavior immediately strikes her as far too suspicious. Clara is as sharp as a lynx and notices absolutely everything.

“I don’t like it one bit when you obey me on the first try and don’t argue with what I ask,” she mutters under her breath as she slides her finger across the tablet screen, reviewing my charts. “It makes me think that little head of yours is hatching some kind of trick.”

“Hey, what you’re saying really hurts my feelings, Clara. I’m an open book—completely transparent.”

She lets out a brief exhale through her nose that sounds all too much like stifled laughter, and seeing that hint of amusement is unbearably attractive to me. Because I love throwing her off her game. I love making her smile way too much. And I, who’m usually a free spirit, don’t usually allow myself this kind of nonsense with just anyone. I’m not into slow games of seduction, or that kind of uncomfortable intimacy that stirs you up inside, or people who push you to fix the flawed parts of your personality. I always handle things the fast way—with impact, fun sex, and running away if the situation gets too serious. But Clara Valle won’t let me use any of those options.

She positions herself right in front of me, between my spread legs as I sit on the edge of the table, and begins to carefully check the mobility and range of motion in my left knee with her usual pinpoint precision. Her hands are firm, confident, warm, and utterly professional against my bare skin. Yet, even though she’s so incredibly professional, every touch from her feels like a full-blown provocation to me. Her palm firmly holds my leg from below. Her fingers press with astonishing precision on the exact points of the joint. The closeness is total. The clean, fresh, subtle scent emanating from her skin reaches me directly. I observe the absolute concentration etched on her perfect face, just a few centimeters from mine.

“Bend it a little more,” she instructs me gently, applying light pressure.

I obey instantly. A tremendous sharp pain shoots through me, making me see stars, but I grit my teeth and hide the pain as best I can by widening my smile.

She picks up on it right away, of course. She’s not fooled by me.

“Do it again. Without faking it.”

“You’re such a persistent woman, really,” I whisper, staring intently at her lips.

“And you’re a pretty bad and predictable liar,” she retorts on the spot, without taking her eyes off my knee for even a second.

I watch her with unabashed attention, letting my gaze wander down her neck.

“Hey, that insult actually came off as kind of affectionate, Doctor.”

“Never confuse a clinical diagnosis with words of affection, Alicia,” she replies with enviable quickness, though I detect a slight tremor and a subtle shift in her tone of voice.

“Too late to warn me—I’ve already gotten my hopes up,” I murmur, lowering my voice.

Her dark eyes suddenly rise to meet mine. And there it is again. That blessed moment suspended in space. That absurd, dense, and deliciously sexual tension floating between the two of us in this treatment room, as if every conversation we have were always walking along the sharp edge of a cliff we’re dying to jump off.

She keeps working in silence for a few seconds, trying to focus on the ligaments. I decide that this is the perfect moment to make things worse, naturally. That’s just my style.

“Hey, Clara… are you seeing anyone?” I ask her point-blank.

A deathly silence immediately falls over the room. Clara keeps moving my knee, but I can clearly feel her shoulders stiffen completely.

“That detail isn’t relevant to your physical rehabilitation,” she finally replies, in an overly controlled voice that even she doesn’t believe.

“Well, what you just told me isn’t a ‘no.’”

“It’s not a yes either.”

“Then it’s clear to me that there’s hope for me,” I insist, giving her a mischievous, playful smile full of meaning.