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I smile. “So you have stepbrothers. Do you get to see them? Australia is a long way.”
“Last time I saw them was before my accident eight years ago. But we keep in touch by video calls once a week.”
“I’d love to travel,” I say wistfully. “Australia is on my wish list, along with New Zealand and Switzerland. I’d also love to get one of those campers and tour the UK. I hear the Lake District is beautiful.”
Fletcher nods, rubbing his thigh absently. “It is. It’s one of my favourite places.”
He winces again, and I can't ignore his discomfort anymore.
“I know you’re in pain. Stop putting on a brave face, and let me help,” I say, grabbing a cushion to prop up his leg. He baulks at first, but I insist. “If you’re happy to remove your prosthetic, I’ll massage your leg.”
I can almost see the battle waging behind Fletcher’s eyes. A mixture of irritation and shame warring with the need to give in and accept help. He’s used to handling things himself.
“I’ve never shown my amputated limb to someone who isn’t part of my surgical or physical therapy team,” he finally admits.
My heart cracks in two, but I keep my voice light as I say, “No judgements here, Fletch. How about we chalk it up to a training experience for me? If you’re willing, it’s a great way for me to see how it all works.”
“Trust you to put a practical spin on it,” he says, his mouth tipping up in a wry smile. “The prosthetic puts me on an equal footing with everyone”–he pauses and quirks an eyebrow—“no pun intended. People don’t know I’m an amputee when I'm wearing it. They expect something to be there. But when I don’t wear it, they focus on the gaping absence and the crutches. And then I see the pity in their eyes. Shock and disgust I can handle, but pity …” He trails off and lowers his gaze as he shakes his head. It’s obvious he’s had that experience one too many times.
His eyes return to mine. “But you know what? Fuck that shit. I’ve worked too bloody hard to let that slow me down.”
Tears prick my eyes, but I force a grin. “Yeah, you have. You’re fucking incredible. You think you’re somehow less because you lost your limb, but in my eyes, it’s made you so muchmore. Strong. Brave. Caring. You’re the best man I’ve ever met, Fletch.”
His eyes flare. “You’re mature beyond your years, Grace. I’m sorry for ever making you feel anything less than the amazing woman you are.”
I swallow my emotion at his words and wave a hand dismissively. “Water under the bridge. We were both guilty of jumping to conclusions.”
Fletcher leans forward and presses a button to release his prosthetic. He removes the leg and sleeve, leans back on my fluffy pink cushions, and slams his eyes shut as if shielding himself from the pity he just mentioned.
But empathy is very different from pity. And as I look at Fletcher’s amputated limb, I empathise with the painhe must have suffered. The scar above my hip throbs in acknowledgement. We’ve both sustained injuries, but we didn’t simplysurvive. We rose up and made somethingbetter.
I kneel before him, my fingers gentle as I move them over what remains of his lower leg. The amputation is a little more than halfway up his calf, leaving his knee joint intact.
Fletcher’s head drops back, and he closes his eyes with a groan as I massage his tight muscles. “Harder, Grace. Don’t worry about hurting me. It helps if the pressure is firm. Confuses the nerve endings.”
I nod, swallowing hard as I take him in. He’s big, lean, and muscular, and his physical strength is evident. He's been through hell, and losing his leg must've been a blow for him. It changed his whole career path and how he saw himself.
The sensation of his hair-roughened skin beneath my fingers is incredibly arousing, and I’m hit with an image of me between his legs in an entirely different capacity.
My nipples harden, and heat permeates my body. I glance up to find Fletcher’s gaze already on me. If the prominent bulge in his tracksuit bottoms didn’t tell me he was turned on, the burning intensity in his eyes would.
“Do you always have to wear that bloody perfume?” he grunts in a tone he hasn’t used with me since our first shift.
“You don’t like it?” I ask in my sweetest voice. “If it’s that offensive, I can always shower it off.”
“It’s not offensive. That’s the problem. And imagining you naked in a hot shower isn’t helping.”
Oh. “Is the thought of my naked body that disturbing?”
“Come on, Grace. You can’t be that naïve. This hasn’t happened in longer than I care to remember,” he says, pointing at his erection.
I bite my lip. “It’s okay. I’m not reading anything into it. I know it happens when a man relaxes as well as when he’s turned on.”
Fletcher’s eyes narrow on mine. “You think I’m hard because I’mrelaxed?”
I shake my head and whisper, “No, but I was trying to give you an out. We’re friends and–”
“I don’t want to be yourfriend, Grace,” he bites out.
