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I wave to him. "Over here, Callum."
He swerves his attention to me, nods once, and scuffles this way. His gaze narrows when he sees the equipment beside me. "Is that a stationary bicycle?"
"Yes. It's for warming up before we get into the real therapy."
"But you scolded me for riding a motorcycle. That's a kind of bike."
"This is different. It doesn't have an engine that rattles your bones with its vibrations, and you won't sit on it without moving your legs."
He gives the bike a dirty look. "Donnae need warming up."
"Yes, you do. Unless you want to get leg cramps later." I pick up a stack of folded clothing. "You can borrow these sweats for today, but you'll need to get your own before your next appointment."
"I donnae wear sweats."
"As long as you're my client, you will. Jeans aren't flexible enough." I thrust the clothes at him. "Get changed, Callum. Now. The bathroom is over there."
I stab a finger in the air to indicate where he should go.
He squints at me while a muscle jumps in his jaw. Then he snatches the clothes away from me and hobbles off to the bathroom faster than he should, considering his injury. Oh, that stubborn, rude man. I don't care how attractive he is. Callum MacTaggart is a jackass.
My reluctant client hobbles back to me a few minutes later, now wearing gray sweatpants and a gray T-shirt. I'd borrowed the clothes from a coworker who's not as, um, well-built as Callum. The T-shirt clings to every muscle on his torso, and the pants mold to his groin and thighs. He might be a jerk, but damn, he's got a killer body.
"Are the clothes too tight?" I ask.
"No, they're fine."
"Good. Now, get on the bike."
Though I can tell he wants to gripe about it, he sighs and climbs onto the bicycle. "How long am I meant to do this?"
"Five minutes. There's a timer on the dashboard." I point at the box attached to the middle of the handlebars and the four zeros displayed on its screen. "Right there."
He starts pedaling, though he refuses to touch the handlebars, and instead locks his arms over his chest while he glares at the wall on the other side of the room.
Yeah, Jack is definitely getting an earful from me. Callum might turn out to be the most difficult client I've ever had.
I stand beside the bike while Callum pedals away, strictly to keep an eye on him and get an idea of how his knee is doing. He doesn't pedal too fast, so I don't need to "scold" him about that. I bet he drives his motorcycle faster than the speed limit. He seems like that kind of guy. My mind decides now is a good time to make me imagine Callum astride his motorcycle, those powerful thighs hugging the machine while it rumbles and vibrates, roaring down the road. And naturally, that fantasy spurs my gaze to gravitate toward the man himself and slide down to his thighs before my focus lifts to his arms and the thick muscles of his biceps.
What would it feel like to go for a ride on his motorcycle, with my body strapped to his, the engine vibrations shivering through my flesh and exciting my body? Is it possible to have sex on a motorcycle? Not while we're driving down the road, obviously. But we could pull over and—
No. I do not get down and dirty with my clients. Especially not rude ones.
But maybe I could have sex with him once, strictly to get this inappropriate lust out of my system.
Ugh, woman, what is wrong with you?
I shift my gaze to the timer on the handlebars. He's been pedaling for four minutes and twenty seconds. Thank goodness. I won't have time to fantasize about the jerk's body once we get started on his physical therapy.
The timer hits five minutes.
"All done," I say. "Now I need to evaluate you a little more."
"More?" He hops off the bike. "We did that already."
"When you were lying down. Now I need to see you in motion." Since he's just standing there, I lay a palm on his back and give him a little shove. It barely disturbs him. "Walk across the room and back so I can watch how you move."
"Is this really necessary?"
