Книга - Miracle For The Neurosurgeon

Miracle For The Neurosurgeon
Lynne Marshall


From doctor…to daddy?Neurosurgeon Wes Van Allen is used to being at the top of his game, so when an accident puts him in a wheelchair, he’ll push himself to the limit to regain his strength – he just needs a physical therapist who can keep up!Enter Mary Harris, whose sweet kisses he’s never forgotten! She’ll help Wes achieve his dream, if he helps her achieve hers – a baby! Captivated by Mary’s sunny optimism, dare Wes hope for the ultimate miracle – a family, with Mary by his side?







From doctor...to daddy?

Neurosurgeon Wes Van Allen is used to being at the top of his game, so when an accident puts him in a wheelchair, he’ll push himself to the limit to regain his strength—he just needs a physical therapist who can keep up!

Enter Mary Harris, whose sweet kisses he’s never forgotten! She’ll help Wes achieve his dream, if he helps her achieve hers—a baby! Captivated by Mary’s sunny optimism, dare Wes hope for the ultimate miracle—a family, with Mary by his side?


Dear Reader (#u0e9d4b31-95fd-5d94-a4af-89efae783f07),

One of the perks of having a romantic’s world-view and getting to write books is taking a tough story but featuring the silver lining. When I put my hero Wes in a wheelchair I knew that was the focus I needed to take.

Wes—or the Prince of Westwood, as I like to call him—had it all…and then he didn’t any more…and this book focuses on his journey after that. In walks Mary from the other side of the tracks, with her never-say-die attitude, her tiny house on wheels, plus a crazy bargain. And his current world, based on discipline and survivor’s grit, gets turned on its head.

Doing research for this book was enthralling, and I was amazed by the leaps that have been made in dealing with spinal cord injuries. Of course this book focuses on Wes and Mary’s love story, but I drew so much inspiration from my research and from the people who refuse to limit themselves because of where they sit.

I hope you enjoy the fireworks and the admiration these two meant-to-be lovebirds have for each other as they struggle through to their well-deserved HEA. As I mention in my dedication, I wouldn’t have had the guts to bring this story to life without the encouragement of a truly gifted editor: Flo Nicoll.

I hope you enjoy the book!

Lynne

PS Visit lynnemarshall.com (http://www.lynnemarshall.com) for the latest news and to sign up for my newsletter.


Miracle for the Neurosurgeon

Lynne Marshall






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Books by Lynne Marshall

Mills & Boon Medical Romance

Summer Brides

Wedding Date with the Army Doc

The Hollywood Hills Clinic

His Pregnant Sleeping Beauty

Cowboys, Doctors…Daddies!

Hot-Shot Doc, Secret Dad

Father for Her Newborn Baby

200 Harley Street: American Surgeon in London

A Mother for His Adopted Son

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.Harlequin.com) for more titles.


To Flo Nicoll, for giving me the courage to write this story, then helping me make it all it should be. Having you as an editor has been a blessing.


Praise for Lynne Marshall

‘Emotionally stirring, sensually mesmerising and beautifully written, His Pregnant Sleeping Beauty will keep you engrossed until the end.’

—Goodreads


Contents

Cover (#ufbc034f3-6dbd-5ca5-a9f7-fd4ee469cb55)

Back Cover Text (#u8e7152ff-1aa6-5754-bc7d-f2eb174511f7)

Dear Reader (#uff5755ef-47ca-5e4b-b18c-e34f4d9d8044)

Title Page (#ud5027a64-a901-53a3-8208-38e70488d990)

Booklist (#u7dde9313-b567-50f7-9c2c-f4bd84c577c9)

Praise (#u3bdf39a4-6207-5f28-b4a5-4e31a6c563a9)

CHAPTER ONE (#u9e4cf309-2e25-588b-a370-15d1972bdf22)

CHAPTER TWO (#uc2c27955-af76-55aa-8431-956b700b5a12)

CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#u0e9d4b31-95fd-5d94-a4af-89efae783f07)

WESLEY VAN ALLEN looked like hell in a shirt. Not even a shirt, a T-shirt. A worn and dingy old white undershirt, with holes, that would be better suited for dusting furniture than wearing. Plus, it was wet, and he was obviously sweaty.

On second glance he looked more like hell on wheels with that driven dark stare. The pride Mary Harris had always admired in him was still in fine form, and so was that glint in his gaze. From the looks of the bulging veins on his deltoids and biceps she must have interrupted his gym time.

Mary bent and lightly kissed his cheek. “Remember me?” Yeah, he’d definitely been working out.

“How could I forget a pest like you?” Looking surprised, he used the hand towel from his lap to wipe his neck, as he gave her a lazy smile.

When he’d first opened the door, she’d had to adjust her gaze downward to accommodate his being in the wheelchair. His nearly black hair was longer than she’d ever seen it, and she had to admit it looked sexy all damp in disarray. For a man who’d always been proud to a fault and strutted around, letting the world know it, his posture hadn’t changed...from the waist up, anyway. But strutting was no longer possible.

Those once sparkling, take-on-the-world eyes Mary remembered as pale brown, coffee and cream, to be exact, seemed darker, more intense than ever. The way they examined her now, made her question why she’d dared to come here today.

She instantly remembered, he’d become a man who’d nearly lost it all. One who worked every day, far too hard, to regain his balance, or so she’d been told.

Mary fought every muscle on her face to hide her sorrow over the guy she’d once known versus the man she saw now, fearing her eyes would betray her. Do not cry. Do not.

She forced a bright smile. “I’ve come to see if I can be of any help. I am an expert, you know.”

He could probably see right through her, but she was determined to pull this off.

Alexandra, Wesley’s sister, had contacted Mary when the accident had first occurred nine months ago—the shockwave had hit so hard she could barely walk the rest of that day, her chest felt caved in, crushing her heart for the man she’d never gotten to know like she’d once dreamed she might. Mary had just signed on for a six-month hospital physical therapy position in Bangor, Maine, when he’d had his waterskiing accident. Far across the country, she couldn’t get home to see him. But she’d mourned his loss, and had worried about him every day, until Alexandra had assured her he was out of danger. Though he would never walk again.

How many times had she wanted to pick up the phone and call Wes, or write him a card expressing her truest thoughts and feelings, but had chickened out because in the end she’d felt she’d had no right? She was just a girl he’d once known. Nothing more.

Alexandra had called again last week, out of desperation, and Mary had heard the panic in her friend’s voice. Wes had fired the third home health physical therapy assistant in as many months. “He’s taken independence to new heights. No one can stand to be around him!” Alex hadn’t known what else to do, so she’d turned to her long-time friend for help.

Though about to sign a contract for another job, this one in New Mexico, Mary had rearranged her work schedule on the spot to get here. That was the beauty of being a free agent, an interim employee, getting to call the shots while traveling the country. But since that phone call, and after not being there for Wes in the beginning, nothing could stop her from helping the man she’d had a crush on since she was fifteen.

“Seriously, what are you doing here?” His unwelcoming tone stung like a paper cut. He rolled his wheelchair backward to allow her to enter. At least that was something.

“I already told you, I’m here to help.” She followed him, hiding the hurt from him brushing her off.

“I don’t need any help. I’ve got this.” His suspicious gaze seemed to hunt for pity, and if he found it, she knew he’d attack.

She adjusted her over-bright expression to one of questioning. “Really? A guy who’s fired three physical therapy aides in three months doesn’t need help? I beg to differ.” Did she honestly expect him to welcome her when showing up out of the blue?

He harrumphed and made a U-turn and continued toward the opposite door in the large and beautifully furnished beach home living room. The ceiling-to-floor windows looked out onto the Pacific Ocean. At the moment it was teal and silver blue, covered with glitter from the sun, and she couldn’t avoid noticing. Yet the house felt shut down, dark and lonely, and she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to follow him or not. She did anyway, through opened double doors into a huge hallway where a wraparound staircase looked like open arms. Because of his accident, that welcoming entrance would forever be off-limits to him. How awful to be reminded every day in such an in-your-face way.

“I’m serious, Wes, you can’t fire the world. It won’t bring back your legs.” She’d always been one to name the elephant in the room head on, that was if she knew what it was, and in Wes’s case she knew exactly why he’d become this guarded and fiercely independent man. He’d become a paraplegic and was dealing with his disability by working too hard, beating the life out of it. And apparently everyone else. No one could keep up with his breakneck schedule, according to Alexandra.

“I don’t need you.” He spat out the words, reacting to her dose of reality, sounding nothing like the successful neurosurgeon who’d known the course of his life since he’d reached puberty. Who could’ve predicted this part?

“Alex doesn’t agree and she’s asked me to help out for a while.” When he immediately opened his mouth to protest, she held up her hand to stop him. “Because she loves you.”

“Alex needs to mind her own business. She’s got her husband and kids to worry about. Tell her I release her of all sisterly responsibility. And you can leave now.”

Crushed, Mary laughed, surprising herself. She hadn’t seen Wesley in ten years, the day Alexandra had gotten married. The day they’d claimed their second mind-boggling kiss and far more, blamed completely on sharing too much champagne. “Not so easy, Wes. I’ve taken two months off work to come here. I literally picked up my home and drove from New Mexico to California.”

“Why ever would you do that without asking first?”

“Because that’s what friends do. Show up to help.”

“My friends always ask first.” Dismissed.

Another paper cut, this one slicing deeper, drawing more blood. Do they ever get invited in?

He might still think of her as a charity case, a stray kitten his sister had once dragged home from public school, but she’d risen above her poverty and all the odds stacked against her. She didn’t deserve to be spoken to like that.

“You used to call me kid sister number two. I practically lived with you, Wes. You can’t deny you were all like a second family to me.” She tried to make eye contact, but he didn’t co-operate. “Your parents gave me shelter, and you, you insisted I make something of myself.” He’d told her that the night he’d been volunteered to take her to the prom. She stepped closer to him, hoping with all of her heart she could get through to him. “Well, I have. I’ve got a freaking PhD, and now I’m here for you, one doctor to another.” Funny how life worked out that way.

“So this is payback?” He looked directly at her, taunting her with hurtful insults to give up and leave him alone. “I don’t need your help. Thank you, though.”

He rolled toward a wall unit lift to take him and his wheelchair upstairs, intent on leaving her standing there, openmouthed. But the snub only gave enough time for fury at being dismissed like a servant to form into words.

“I’ve been told you’re being a total jerk.” Have proof of it firsthand now. She’d also spoken to his parents before coming. They’d thrown up their hands and moved back to their retirement home in Florida after spending the first six months of recovery with him. “Someone’s got to snap you out of it.”

“Have you been talking to my parents? Dear old Dad, who blames me for what happened? I don’t need toxic people like that around.”

His father may had been the pusher in the clan, but certainly his mother had never been anything but supportive.

“And I’m not like that. Toxic.” Had his father actually blamed him for the accident? Shameful. She’d always known Mr. Van Allen had expected the world of both of his children, but most especially from Wes. He’d raised hell when Alex had changed majors from pre-med to become a dietician, which only required a master’s degree. If Wes had ever dared to venture off his life path, who knows what Mr. Van Allen would have done? Somehow, even back then, she’d sensed that failure was not an option where the Van Allen kids were concerned, but to blame his son for a life-altering accident? Unbelievable.

“Can’t you see I’m doing fine?” He staunchly defended his shutting out the world.

It was time to double down. She knew, though on the surface Wes looked like he was in fact doing fine, he needed assistance from daily PT in ways he didn’t even think about, and not just on the parts that were working, but also the muscles and joints in need of passive range of motion. That was something he needed to learn to do for himself, too. And even in the gym, which she presumed from the looks of his upper torso, chest and arms, he did rigorous workouts, someone needed to be standing by in case he got hurt, possibly further injuring his spine. No. She wasn’t going anywhere. At least not today. “Have you ever performed surgery without consulting another neurosurgeon first?”

“What’s that got to do with this?”

“Everything. You may think you know what you’re doing but, whether you know it or not, you need a second opinion.”

They shared a ten-second stare down, and he was the first to look away. “Get used to it, Van Allen, I’m not leaving.” She waited for him to turn and look at her again. “For the next two months, anyway. In fact, regardless of what you want or think, I’m the best person in the entire world to show up on your doorstep today.” Pure bravado. False bravado. She caught up to him and placed her hand on his arm to make a point, her knees nearly knocking with insecurity as she did. He jerked at her touch, but didn’t yank the arm away.

“There’s no doubt you’re doing great, but you can’t do it all by yourself. You need some supervision with the process. I’m only temporary, but I’m necessary for now. You’re a smart man. You know that. So let me help you.” To hell with the anxiety summersaulting through her stomach over the possibility of being rejected, his long-term health was more important than her nerves...or her ego. Yet if he told her to leave one more time, she wouldn’t be able to justify sticking around.

He shook his head, looking irritated. Something told her to intercept his thought before he said it, to state her case one last time, this time pulling out all the bells and whistles.

“It’s because of you that I’m the perfect person to help.” She tried to keep eye contact, even though matching his resolute stare made her ankles wobbly. “Wasn’t it you who told me to make something out of myself? To not let my parents and poverty hold me back? Well, here I am, a bona fide physical therapist, with a doctorate degree, at your service. I understand it may come as a surprise, but I just might know a little about what you need at this point in your recovery. And I don’t intend to leave before you’re back on your feet.” Damn, she’d said the wrong thing! She saw his jaw twitch. Without intending to, she’d delivered her own paper cut. “Metaphorically speaking.” It was too late—she couldn’t retract the stupid and insensitive phrase.

“For a second I thought you were selling yourself as a miracle worker.” He let out an exasperated huff of air, like she’d solicited a service he didn’t want or need—subscribe to this magazine or donate to this cause—but felt obligated to take anyway. “If this is your sales pitch, I suppose I have to pay?”

“No!” She was making a total mess of everything, but couldn’t back down now. “Let’s get that straight from the start. I don’t work for you. I’m here as a friend.” That way you can’t fire me!

“And where do you expect to live?”

“I’ve got that all taken care of.”

He sat quietly, offering a dead stare in her vicinity, along with a sigh. “Suit yourself,” he said, as though he couldn’t care less, and continued on toward the wheelchair lift. “I’m going to the gym.”

Dismissed again. Well, not so fast, buddy. “I’ll be back at eight o’clock tomorrow morning to begin your therapy. In the meantime, do you have a groundskeeper? I need some help with something.”

He tossed her a quizzical glance, then propelled himself out of the room, calling a woman’s name as he did so. “Rita!” His housekeeper? Once she’d come out from the far recesses of the kitchen, making Mary wonder exactly how big the house was, he gave a quick instruction for her to find someone named Heath, as he rolled his chair onto the lift and began ascending the stairs.

Rita tipped her head at him and passed an inquisitive gaze at Mary. “I’ll call him now.”

“Thanks. I’ll be on the porch.”

She stepped outside the front door, her hands shaking, her body quivering. She leaned against the wall biting her lip, blinking her eyes, until sadness overtook her. The man she’d idolized as a teenager was sentenced to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. She’d known it in advance, of course, but seeing him—the same yet so changed—drove the point home and deep into her heart.

The ocean blurred, her skin flushed with heat, and her pulse jittered, forcing her to let go of the threatening tears. To stop fighting and release them before she choked and drowned on them. It had been a long time since she’d cried, and they pricked and stung the insides of her eyelids. She buried her face in the bend of her arm, smothering the sudden keening sounds ripping at her throat, thankful the screeching seagulls overpowered her mourning.

* * *

Wesley took a break from his demanding workout routine and peered out the upstairs window, not believing what he was seeing. Heath, his groundskeeper, directed Mary as she backed a tiny portable wood-covered house, complete with porch—if you could call that a porch—onto the graveled ground beside his unattached garage. So that’s how she’d taken care of living arrangements. She drove the pickup truck like a pro, threw it into park and jumped out to check her handiwork. Clearly satisfied with the parking job, she dusted her hands and went about releasing the house from the towing hitch.

This wasn’t her first time at that rodeo.

His guess was that the RV-sized house couldn’t be more than two hundred square feet, tops. Sure, Mary was petite, no more than five-three and a hundred and ten pounds wringing wet, but it had to be snug in there. Why would she want to live like that for two months?

She smiled, and from all the way upstairs he could see the self-satisfaction in her expression. Determination had always been her saving grace, and he’d admired it. Until just now when she’d trained her grit on him and weaseled her way back into his life. He didn’t need anyone—didn’t his family get it? He shook his head, frustrated yet amused. That same tenacity had always been the key to her survival. Could he fault her for not letting him send her away?

He moved further into his gym and grabbed some free weights.

Mary had gotten a lousy start with her parents stumbling their way through life, blaming everyone and everything else on their failings, rather than taking a good look at themselves. Fortunately, she hadn’t picked up their lax habits. In fact, she’d done exactly the opposite—she’d taken a long look at her parents and had become convinced she could do better for herself. Then she’d set out to prove it. And prove it she had. She held a doctorate degree. Could work anywhere she wanted. And at this point in time she’d chosen to work here. Lucky him.

When Alexandra had first brought her home, Mary had been scrawny and had worn clothes from thrift shops. They’d been assigned to work on a science project together, and instead of judging Mary on her appearance Alex had been raised to be open-minded. She’d treated Mary like all of her other friends, though those friends had all been rich. Without passing judgment, Alexandra had quickly zeroed in on how bright Mary was—beyond how nice and sweet she was—and their team project had taken first place. She’d also realized that Mary couldn’t always depend on meals at home so she’d quickly become a regular guest for meals at the Van Allen house. Soon Mary had become best friends with his big-hearted sister.

Back then, he’d also been taken in by Mary’s upbeat spirit, and secretly by her waist-long strawberry blonde hair, which she wore only shoulder length these days. Her shining inquisitive green eyes had stood out like a newly discovered gem in a household of brown-eyed people, and he’d been drawn to her from their very first meeting. Plus, he’d seen something else in that wide and intelligent stare of hers—admiration. Admiration for him. He’d enjoyed knowing his sister’s new best friend had a huge crush on him, accepted it with pride, even fed that crush from time to time.

But she’d been innocent and vulnerable and, with parents like hers, hungry for love and attention. With a father like his, who had unwavering expectations for him, well, Wes had been wise enough to play gently with Mary’s heart by keeping her at arm’s length, knowing his future would take a far different direction from hers. Still, selfish eighteen-year-old that he’d been, he’d strung her along, given her enough attention to keep her hopeful.

Damn, he’d been mean even then. Or careless? Egotistical for sure. Hadn’t the Prince of Westwood been his family nickname? Especially the one time he’d slipped up and let his—what should he call it—curiosity or desire get the better of him.

Long before everyone had had a cell phone—especially kids like Mary—and social media had taken hold of the entire world, she’d appeared on their doorstep, breathless and excited. Alexandra hadn’t been home—come to think of it, no one else had been either—but he’d invited her in anyway. When he’d seen her disappointment at not having Alex to share her great news with, he’d offered to listen and to deliver the information personally to his kid sister.

Mary had made the principal’s list, which would ensure she’d be able to continue on at the Magnet school for the next year. She’d only been admitted the prior year on that contingency, and because, like most private schools, the school held a certain number of slots for marginal teens like her. Her joy had been contagious and swept up by her beaming smile—the same one she’d tried to flash at him just minutes earlier in his entryway—he’d let down his usual barriers where Mary had been concerned, crossed the line and kissed her.

What had started out as a congratulatory kiss had soon changed into one packed with typical teenage male need and longing that he’d kept hidden since the first day he’d met her. And she’d been a very active participant in that kiss, a kiss so heady he remembered it clearly to this day. If his mother arriving home from her charity meeting hadn’t abruptly broken things up, being young and driven by hormones, not to mention dumb enough to let desire take over back then, who knew what might have happened?

He traded in the first weights and lifted two heavier weights and began vigorously trading repetitions, like a locomotion locked in place.

He’d always been lucky that way, saved from his wandering, kept on the straight and narrow if not by himself then by outside forces, especially by his father, because he was meant to be a doctor. And not just any doctor, a neurosurgeon. He’d planned his entire life around it, and a young, pretty and fresh face like Mary’s couldn’t get in the way. Yes, his parents were open-minded about many things, but getting mixed up with a girl literally from the wrong side of the tracks would never have been tolerated by dear old Dad. Alexandra having Mary as a friend had proved to be charitable enough for the Van Allen family.

Until her prom two years later. When no one had invited Mary the first week after the school prom kick-off announcement, Alexandra had begged Wesley to invite her. He’d fought it at first, knowing there had to be several guys who’d love to take a girl like Mary, unless they were snooty and let her being poor get in the way of good taste. By the end of week two Alexandra had gotten her mother involved, and what had seemed beneath him as a twenty-year-old university student had been foisted on him. Two-three years older than all the others attending, he’d been volunteered to take Mary to the prom.

If he’d let himself look deep down, he wouldn’t have been able to deny he still had vague feelings for her. He’d become a sophisticated pre-med student and a seventeen-year-old woman was not only jail bait but socially undesirable. The Prince of Westwood had taken her to the prom anyway, just so his family could wear the “aren’t we good people” badge.

His worldly-wise self hadn’t expected to be knocked off his feet when he’d seen Mary that night in the dress his mother had bought. Not as pricey or special as Alexandra’s dress, of course, but perfectly suited to her. His conscience had been dealt its first blow when he’d picked her up at the ratty mobile home park she’d lived in, her parents not even bothering to make an appearance. Maybe they’d been embarrassed? Regardless, he’d taken Mary back to his house where Alexandra and her friends had waited to take before-prom pictures, wondering how such a lovely flower had grown in such bleak surroundings.

Then he’d spent the entire evening keeping her at arm’s length, being a boorish cosmopolitan-minded university man, The Prince of Westwood lecturing her on making something of her life. Explaining to her how insignificant something like a high school prom registered in the course of a lifetime. So why was he still thinking about it now?

While on his soapbox that night, he’d warned her about guys—like himself—who’d love to take advantage of her.

So wise. So stupid. So moved by her poverty. So protective of her. Out of obligation, he’d asked her to dance and when holding her he’d made the mistake of looking into those eyes, a shade darker than her pastel green dress. Innocent and beautiful and calling out to his soul. To love her.

He’d known he couldn’t. He hadn’t been nearly enough of a man to risk that. When he’d taken her home, out of gratitude she’d thrown her arms around his neck, and he’d nearly kissed her the way he’d wanted to all evening. But he’d known it would change everything if he did, and he couldn’t stray from his calling. Nothing could keep him from medical school, and surely getting involved with a girl like Mary would change his life. For the better? Who knew?

How pompous he’d been, lecturing her on making something of her life. To do it for herself because no one else could.

He stopped the repetitions and stared out the gym window down to where her crazy little house stood.

Wes had seen the disappointment in Mary’s gaze after their chaste kiss the night of the prom, yet her sweetness had remained. She’d dutifully thanked him and promised not to let him down, playing her “kid sister” role perfectly. Before he’d left, he’d told her how beautiful she looked and even in the dark of night she’d beamed. So princely. Such power. All the more reason to save her from him. Yet he’d walked away wondering who between them had the most power over the other and sure he’d left a piece of his heart behind. Forever.

The least he could do was let her share her expertise with him now. Who knew, he might learn something, and if that helped his recovery and goal to get back to work again, it would be worth all of these memories bombarding him about his unwanted guest.

He’d had enough of the free weights and trained his sight across the room, out of that blasted window...to her house.

Returning to university that next afternoon, it had been easy to brush the moment—their special night—under the table and move on. Not really, but he’d worked at it at least. Truth was he’d carried those memories around with him for a decade until they’d been replaced with an amazing kiss they’d shared at his sister’s wedding several years later.

He rolled under the pull-up bar and grabbed hold, lifting himself out of the wheelchair, pressing his chin to the bar, over and over, until sweat rolled down his temples and his arms trembled.

Still on the fast track to success back then, he’d been about to become engaged to Giselle, a young woman of his social standing, with all the proper credentials and diplomas to be a rich doctor’s wife and a doctor herself. Plus she’d been vetted by dear old Dad. Yes, the decision had been cold and calculated, but it fit in with his future. To this day, long after his engagement had fallen apart, his medical practice had taken off and his bank account had doubled—but what did success matter anymore?—he’d recalled that champagne-inspired kiss he’d shared with Mary at Alexandra’s wedding with a longing smile.

He let go of the bar and landed with a plop in his waiting wheelchair—his special, no-choice buddy for the rest of his life—remembering the night of his sister’s wedding.

Mary had changed at twenty-four. She’d become a woman who knew herself and how to tempt a man. She’d taken control of her life just like she’d promised the night of the prom, and she’d radiated confidence and inner peace because of it. Always reaching for that next step on his ladder to the pinnacle, Wes had wanted that. A taste of her secret recipe for contentment. She’d also happened to look amazing in the strapless maid-of-honor dress. It had been ice blue, he vividly recalled, enough to make him smile.

A forgotten sensation tickled down his spine until it reached the location of his spinal cord injury and stopped. He glanced out the window again, watching her sweep her tiny porch as he experienced phantom tingles in his toes. What was that about? Maybe he’d pulled something during his workout?

He’d always known Mary deserved a family of her making, a place to call home. A shot with a decent guy. He’d also had the wisdom to know that they were never meant to be together, so he’d never followed through on his “what if” thoughts. BP—before paraplegia. Useless, silly thoughts, meant only for thinking, savoring even, but never acting on. Until it was too late... AP—after paraplegia.

He wiped his face with the towel, searching the room for another form of man-against-machine torture to take his mind off these wandering thoughts. What was the point? He chose the cable machine, first lowering the sides of his specially made workout wheelchair, then grabbing the bar to begin a series of triceps cable extensions.

Was this how she lived now? Dragging her mini-house with her everywhere she went like a mega-sized backpack? What kind of vagabond life was that for a woman like Mary? She’d been raised in a trailer park by inattentive parents. He’d always pegged her as a girl who wanted to set down roots, who wanted a family more than anything else in the world, the kind she deserved, not the one she’d been born into. Though he could never picture a guy worthy of her, he’d still imagined her settling down, raising children. Now, apparently, she traveled the country alone. In that thing. A house suited more for a mouse.

The irony didn’t take long to sink in about him wondering about what kind of life she led. Take a look at yourself. More money than one person could ever use, living alone in a fortress made of the latest building materials, a ten-million-dollar view of the Pacific Ocean out his front door, yet completely alone.

The last thing he needed to do was examine his own situation. Nope, he was determined to ignore that.

He shook his head. He wasn’t ready to think about the AP future. Not after failing miserably when he’d tried to go back to work prematurely three months ago. How the humiliation had burned like a branding iron when his department head had suggested he’d come back too soon, telling him to take more time off to get a better handle on balancing his demanding job with being in a wheelchair.

His father’s words to live by had infused his way of thinking. Failure is not an option.

The problem was, he already had. Failed. Big time.

He glanced out the window again, catching sight of the back of Mary as she pushed into her doll house.

One finger skimmed the area on his cheek where she’d bussed him when she’d first entered his house. He hadn’t had the chance to dodge it. Oddly enough, her touch had produced a sweet warm feeling, as she always had for him, and had unleashed his wrath for catching him off guard, for daring to make him feel something. Because these days he, like his legs, refused to feel a thing, other than pain from working out too hard and too long. Which he believed was strength. As crazy as it seemed, physical pain reminded him he was still alive, not locked away by his own choice in this castle by the sea.

He guided his top-of-the-line workout wheelchair down the hall, past the specially built elevator to his bedroom, where he would have slammed the damn door if he could’ve only figured out how to get the right amount of leverage to do it.

This was his truth now. He was a guy stuck in a chair.

* * *

Mary went about the business of settling her home after another long journey. For the last two years and over a half-dozen moves, she’d lived in the tiny house she’d helped design and for which she’d paid cash. Another lesson she’d learned inadvertently from her parents.

She’d chosen to bring her house along with her wherever she got assigned, rather than stay in cold, short-term rentals or soulless extended-stay hotels. This was home. She’d carefully chosen the floor plan to meet her every need, yet using the smallest amount of space necessary. That had turned out to be two hundred and fifty square feet. She’d gone the woodsy cabin route, yet the repurposed materials they’d used to build the house were surprisingly light, making it easy to travel, as long as she was willing to drive a pickup truck. Which had cost nearly as much as the house!

Her living room space came complete with a large enough mounted flat-screen TV. The kitchen had been a bit trickier, yet she’d made it state-of-the-art enough to make do, since she enjoyed cooking. She’d settled for a two-burner gas stove, minimal counter space but with a built-in table that folded down and opened up when it was time to eat or if she needed a place to knead bread dough or cut out cookies. The half-sized refrigerator kept her eating fresher and healthier, since she didn’t have much storage. Yes, the kitchen sink had to double up for face-washing and tooth-brushing, but for payoff she’d managed a nearly full-sized shower, with a stackable mini-washer/drier nearby and a petite toilet, all at the back of the ground-floor living space.

She chuckled, thinking of her mini-house as two stories, but her favorite spot in the entire tiny house was her loft bedroom. That counted as a story, didn’t it? Plus, the permanent wood ladder she needed to climb to get to the loft doubled as a small A-framed bookcase downstairs. No space went to waste, and she liked living like that. Unlike the ratty tin and Formica filled trailer she’d been raised in, this was truly a home. Cozy. Warm. Filled with life. Her life.

She might not be able to stand up straight in her bedroom but, whichever city she set the house up in, each morning she could peer out of the small “second story” window at the head of her bed to greet the day. The view changed often, and so far she liked it that way. This time, she had the luxury of parking on Wesley’s grand Malibu estate, and she was guaranteed to see the ocean first thing every sunrise. If she hadn’t been so depressed about seeing him, she’d be excited about living here for the next two months. What she needed was a serious attitude adjustment.

She sat on the long pillowed and comfy couch, which doubled as a storage bench, with a cup of tea, and thought about Wesley. His situation broke her heart and she’d proved it with her meltdown on his doorstep earlier. He’d always been her hero, the guy with the world at his fingertips. The Prince of Westwood! Invincible. He’d made her want to be better than who she was, to build a dream then follow it to the end. Because of him, she’d pursued a doctorate after her post-graduate P.T. degree. She took a sip of hot black tea, thinking of his intelligent eyes, hers welling up again as her heart pinched.

The man might be considered disabled by everyday standards, but he was also a skilled neurosurgeon, and the world still needed him. She couldn’t allow him to hide away in his gym day in and day out.

It seemed he had to relearn how to be himself. The confident, outgoing guy he used to be. That was a task far beyond her physical therapist’s pay scale. All she could hope was for their once shared friendship and mutual respect to pull him back to what he’d been before the accident. Not the gym rat he’d become. Didn’t he know that true strength came from inside, not from muscles?

Her phone rang. It was Alexandra. “How’d things go?”

“A little rocky at first, but he’s agreed to let me stay for now.”

“How does he look?”

Great! Sexy as ever. “Determined, and obviously buffer than I’ve ever seen him.”

“If anyone can get through to him, I know you can.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Promise?” Mommy! Mommy! Mary heard children’s voices in the background. With three kids, Alexandra never seemed to make it through a phone call without interruption.

“Promise.”

“I’m going to have to cut things short.”

“I understand. I’ll keep you posted. Give those kids a hug from me, and two for Rosebud, okay?”

“Can you believe little Rose is one now?”

“Unreal.” She’d missed her birthday from being out of state, but had seen videos, and had also had face time with her on the computer when little Rosebud had opened the gift she’d sent—a small rocking horse that talked to the rider. Rose had loved it and the grin on her face when she’d opened the package had managed to wrap around Mary’s heart and change her life forever.

They hung up, and Mary remembered the day she’d first held Rose when she was less than a week old. The tiny bundle, completely helpless, had still managed to get her needs across with grunts and stretches, cries and flailing pink spindly arms. And the newborn had felt more amazing than anything Mary had ever held in her life.

Her education and traveling had kept her away from the births of Alexandra’s first two children, Oliver and Bailey. But she’d been given the honor of becoming Rose’s godmother so she couldn’t very well miss out on meeting her right off. That meet and greet had changed her life.

A loving warmth fanned over her skin as she remembered how deeply she’d been moved by holding her goddaughter. How the tiny baby had reached into her heart and planted a need she’d never dared to dream of before.

As she stared out of the two decent-sized windows of her tiny home, looking out toward the beach, she thought of her own situation. She was at a crossroads in life and, at nearly thirty-four, she finally admitted what she really wanted. More than anything. A child.

It was little Rosebud’s fault. And Matthew’s, the sturdy little six-month-old she’d held just last week. Her patient, his mother, had been instructed to do some exercises and the baby had needed to be held. Mary had thought nothing of helping out until the sturdy boy with those chubby dimpled hands, two chins and a Buddha belly had looked into her eyes and squealed with joy. She’d never wanted to cuddle, squeeze and kiss a baby more in her life. Oh, yeah, she wanted one.

Now she dreamed of having a child. Illogical, yes, with no man in her life. Living completely without roots. An inconsistent job that took her all over the country. Yet she’d finally heeded the whisperings of her body that had been building for years, and with the recent help of two little ones, that whisper had turned into a scream. She wanted to be a mother more than anything. To have a baby all her own...before it was too late.

Finishing off her tea, she stood and walked the few short feet to her kitchen sink. How exactly did a woman go about such a task on her own?

She glanced at the mansion up the walk, which may as well be a prison for its current purpose of shutting out the world for Wesley Van Allen, M.D. Then she put her yearning for a baby aside. Wes needed to be her first priority for now.

She was adamant about setting a time limit with him, though. Two months. Tops. She’d allowed for the lapse in a paying job into her annual budget for exactly that amount of time. If she intended to pursue her dream of having a child on her own, she’d need to change jobs to one where she could settle down in one place in order to be a stable parent. It was her chance to provide for her baby what she’d never had herself. Permanence, unconditional love, protection and opportunity. And, father or no father, she wanted it with all of her might.

She washed her teacup, deciding to take a walk on the gloriously beautiful beach. Maybe when she got back she’d crack open that bottle of wine she’d been saving, sit on her cozy front porch, have a toast to her latest post, and lift a glass to her future plans. Truth was, she could spend the entire evening daydreaming about becoming a mother, but...

Right now, her long-ago—but never forgotten—first crush had to come first.


CHAPTER TWO (#u0e9d4b31-95fd-5d94-a4af-89efae783f07)

THE NEXT MORNING, Rita met Mary at the door and escorted her as far as the stairs, which Mary took two at a time, priming herself for a fight when she reached the gym. Instead, she found Wesley dressed, freshly shaved, and with his hair tied up, waiting for her. Surprise.

“This is a change.” She smiled, entering the workout room, but Wesley, dressed in a black T-shirt and grey sweatpants, didn’t exactly return it. At least he didn’t scowl.

“The sooner we get on with this, the sooner...” He stopped himself.

But she had a hunch what he’d planned on saying was, the sooner you’ll be gone. “Two months. Remember? Give me two months and you’ll be a different man.”

Now came the deadpan stare. “I already am a different man.”

She refused to take the bait. “You may be buffer than I ever remember, but there’s more work to be done, though the outcome will be less obvious...” she held up her index finger “...but necessary.” Without giving him a moment to protest, she grabbed a stool on wheels by the nearby wall in his top-of-the-line equipped gym and rolled over to his wheelchair. “I need to do a complete evaluation of your muscles and reflexes.”

He pulled in his chin and his brows pushed down.

“You didn’t think I was going to start you on exercises without first evaluating your motor and sensory status, did you?” From her large shoulder bag she pulled out a multi-paged form. “Let’s get started.”

“I’ve already been through this.”

She’d learned from his online records—which she’d been approved to view—that he’d had sufficient occupational training for activities of daily living. She’d also learned about his past and personal medical history, which, to be honest, prior to the accident had been uneventful. But if there was any health issue, she’d leave that part up to his primary physician. He certainly seemed independent from the looks of him, all dressed and ready to go so early in the morning.

“Yes, but you haven’t had a thorough examination in several months, and I need to compare your current status with the last one.”

Her plan was to measure muscles, grade their power, tone and level of flaccidity. She’d test modalities of sensation, both superficial and deep, above his injury and compare them to the American Spinal Injury Impairment Scale. He’d nearly severed his spinal cord at T11-12, which made him paraplegic but able to sit on his own, which he obviously handled like the Prince of Westwood, and that definitely helped with breathing and the ability to deep cough. Both important for general health and well-being.

After the first part of the evaluation, which took a good half-hour, though impressed with his upper body strength and the fact he’d increased muscle mass since his last evaluation, she was most concerned about the decrease in the use of joints below his waist. With him being a doctor, she’d have thought he would have cared about such things, but she hadn’t taken into account his mental outlook. He was an achiever and worked like the devil on what he could change, in his case developing strength and muscles like a regular Adonis, while ignoring the part he had zero control over—his hips and lower extremities.

She continued with her examination and as she used her hands to feel and measure his thighs, she sensed his discomfort and decided to lighten the mood. “Hey, it’s not like you haven’t had women groping and crawling all over you before, right?”

“They were usually naked.”

He’d actually tried to make a joke—or a snide remark, but she preferred to think of it as a joke—and she couldn’t let his effort lie flat so she played along. “Are you asking me to take off my clothes?”

She pinned Wesley’s caramel eyes with her own, wondering where she’d gotten the nerve to be so bold, but rode it out in spite of her inner cringing. Acting this way felt completely wrong. He didn’t look away and it sent a subtle shudder right down her middle.

“That’s a thought,” he said, his voice a rough whisper that definitely wasn’t snide.

She’d never pull something like this with a patient, and as long as she was here to help she’d expect nothing less from herself. “Excuse me, Wes. That was uncalled for. I apologize for crossing the line. You being an old friend shouldn’t make a difference.”

He didn’t let her off the hook but studied her, his head tipped just so as he did. Inside, she squirmed, wishing she’d never pretended to be bold, waiting to see if she’d offended him and if he was going to let her have it.

“I’m still considering your first offer.” His were now the eyes doing the pinning...and the teasing. The internal cringing doubled. He was testing her. She may as well be naked since she couldn’t hide the total body goose-bumps.

“Gah! You win. I had no business acting all vampy with you. I’m the least sexy person on earth.”

“Says who?”

“Oh, trust me, I am. Anyway, you win. I bow to your poker face.” She went overboard, taking the ditzy route, hoping to keep him from realizing what she instantaneously had. He was paralyzed from the waist down. She felt safer with him. It was a sad truth she’d have to face herself with later in the mirror. She’d judged him without even realizing it, putting him in the “safe” male category, becoming gutsier as a result.

For that one instant, she understood how he must feel about the rest of the world judging him as a man. She’d inadvertently labeled him as less of a threat and had acted differently than she would’ve with any other male patient, simply because he was a friend sitting in a wheelchair. Inwardly, she shook her head. Ashamed.

He was an incredibly smart man, and intuitive, and, well, with friends like her, no wonder he’d become a recluse and an overachieving gym rat. Barbells didn’t judge!

She took a deep breath and continued the examination using only the most impeccable professional skills from then onward.

And her heart broke again as she discovered how stiff and nearly locked his hips, knees and ankle joints were. She had to get him back on track as this weakness would eventually impact on all the strength he’d developed above the waist. Not to mention his circulation and oxygen uptake. He might feel like “half” a man these days, but half of him was a lot, and the best parts, his brain and those strong shoulders and arms, would help keep the rest of him going. As long as he was willing. But he couldn’t ignore the parts that didn’t work.

She glanced at him. He still stared her down, keeping her feeling naked without a place to hide.

“So here’s what I propose.” She sat back on the rolling stool, and met him as close to knee to knee as she could get with his feet on the wheelchair footrests. “We work on a regimen to improve your lower body strength with passive range of motion exercises at first.”

In response she got a blank stare.

“We need to preserve your joints—your hips, your knees, your ankles. Heaven forbid you should develop foot drop.”

“Why?”

“For a better quality of life.” That went over like a conk on the head. “You know that.” More staring. “Or how about for when they finally figure out how to help paraplegics walk through nerve innervation.” Still no response. “Come on, Wes, you’re a neurosurgeon, you crack open people’s heads for a living and do all kinds of things to their brains. Surely you’ve thought about the future, right?”

He shook his head. “These days I only think about the present.” End of topic? Not if she could help it. Besides, she detected his defense mechanism in full force.

“Baloney. I believe there are hundreds of patients you’ve helped and saved who need you back on the job. I believe your future is still bright.”

“Anyone ever tell you how annoying you are?”

Wesley was impressed with Mary’s thoroughness, and also with her positive attitude, but wasn’t about to let her know that. Why give her the upper hand? His personal doctor had promised him a much rosier recovery than he’d had, and as far as he was concerned he’d done his part to get as strong as possible. Yet he’d never get out of this damn wheelchair.

“I’m annoying?” She mocked surprise. “Yeah, all the time. I’m a physical therapist, what can I expect, I tick off all my patients. It’s part of my strategy.” Her expression went serious. “I know I’m bothering you, but I’m doing it because it’s important. And speaking of important, where’s your stationary bike?”

He screwed up his face. “In case you haven’t noticed, I can’t use my legs.”

“You need the aerobic exercise to enhance circulation and increase oxygen. Let me show you.” She dug into her shoulder bag and shoved a catalogue at him. “This is expensive, but from the looks of your house you can afford it.”

He took a look, but wasn’t the least bit enthusiastic about what he saw. The bicycle strapped the legs and feet in place and stimulated the muscles as the patient rode it, or so said the product description. Completely high tech and necessary for paraplegics, according to some Norwegian study.

“Since they did this study, I’ve recommended this bike to all of my paraplegic and even quadriplegic patients.”

He tossed her his best “so what” face, straight out of the teenage contrarian handbook. It didn’t faze her.

“You might think it does all the work, but this little baby will keep you in tip-top shape.” She stopped herself from saying more, but he understood she was about use the “D” word—“deteriorating”, and take the broad-brush approach for life expectancy in paraplegics.

“Look, I get it, Mary. My tough-love doc showed me a video early on when all I wanted to do was shut down.”

That notorious video, which he could tell from the change of expression on her face she knew of, used time-lapse photography to document a young man’s demise. Hell, she probably carried around a copy of it in her bottomless shoulder bag, to use on uncooperative patients like him.

The patient in the video had been eighteen at the time of his skateboarding accident and had quickly given up on himself. The photographer had crunched ten years down to one minute. The brutal video transformed a young generally healthy man into a shadow of his former self and had shocked the defeat right out of Wes. Mission accomplished. From that day on he’d worked at his rehab with a vengeance. Never wanting to quit, even when hospital personnel pleaded with him to slow down, he’d refused to give up. Since he’d been home, if the rehab PT didn’t like his work ethic in the gym, he’d fire him or her. He didn’t care which gender they were, out they’d go.

“So I don’t have to paint that graphic picture for you, right?” Little Miss Sunshine returned.

“Right. I’ve seen it and I never want to go there.” The thought terrified him; his worst fears had been laid out before him by that video. Never, ever, did he want to wind up like that. Not without a good fight.

“So I can order this for you, then? It says they can have a rush delivery here in a week to ten days.”

The room went thick with silence as they carried out a staring contest. Why was she pushing this bike so hard? Did she have stock in the company, or know something he didn’t?

She used her thumb and forefinger to pull back the hair above her forehead, a frustrated gesture, for sure. His stubbornness had gotten to her. “You’re still a doctor, Wesley. It’s completely possible for you to go back to being one and performing surgery again.”

“Ha! That’s rich.” He let his honest reaction slip through the cracks. Been there, done that. Failed! Now he didn’t believe a word. She may as well be selling snake oil. “I’ve already tried to go back to work and it was a miserable failure. My department head sent me home.”

“Because it was too soon. How can someone as smart as you be so dense?” He saw determination in her eyes as she sat straighter, and he let the slur slide. Maybe he needed to listen to her. “As long as we keep your motor skills intact and your mind alert, there’s nothing to stop you from going back when you’re ready. The key phrase being ‘when you’re ready’.”

Mary went back to her large bag, which apparently held the world in it from everything she kept taking out. She lifted a stack of medical journals and handed them to him. “Here. Why not catch up on the latest in neurosurgery?”

“Look, I appreciate your enthusiasm and concern, but I’ve got my own plan for getting back on the job.”

“Sheer will and body sweat isn’t a plan, Wes. My plan can’t make you perfect again. No. But I guarantee it can and will help you improve and increase your chances of performing surgery again.”

“How can you guarantee that?” He dug in, because he wanted what she preached so badly it hurt, but what if her promise never came to be? So far his Neanderthal work-out-until-you-drop approach hadn’t panned out. Sure, he was buffer, but ready to go back to work? She was right. Not yet.

She pushed her face right up into his, those daring green eyes seeming to have X-ray vision over the battle going on inside his head. He tensed, shutting down a little, but he didn’t look away.

“Prove me wrong.” She put the journals on his lap. “Prove it. Give me a month and you’ll see and feel the difference, then give me another month and you’ll be amazed. I know it and totally believe it, and you’ll just have to prove otherwise. Of course, all things considered, I’d rather you co-operated.”

He couldn’t deny the determination in her stare, or the genuine look of caring. She gave a damn. About him and his situation. And from the fire in her gaze, she wouldn’t give up.

Then he felt it, that tiny flash of hope that throughout all of the trauma and disappointment and pain he’d suffered had refused to die. That pinpoint of faith in modern medicine and optimism for the future suddenly beamed brighter, because of her enthusiasm, and he found his mouth moving before he could stop it. “I doubt that I’ll be amazed, but I’ll take your challenge. Hopefully, you’ll win.”

Her eyes widened, she was obviously as surprised as he was, a sweet beam spreading across her face. She clapped her hands then pumped the air with a fist as if she’d just scored the winning point. “Yes! So does this mean I can order that stationary bike?”

“Order the damn bike,” he said, rolling himself out of the gym.

* * *

The next morning Mary arrived with a mug of coffee, and found Wesley waiting for her in a halfway decent mood. She chose the stairs, two at a time once again, as he took the elevator to the second-floor gym.

“The first thing we need to do today is get you loosened up.” She pointed to a thick floor mat beneath the workout bench. “Can you lower yourself to the floor?” She didn’t have a clue how much he could or couldn’t do for himself, so today would be one of discovery.

“Sure, but I don’t make a habit of it.”

“You should, you know. You have perfectly good arms, so I’m sure chair presses are a cinch for you.”

“Let’s find out.”

She laced her fingers, stretched her arms and cracked her knuckles, then rolled her shoulders and stretched her neck side to side, like she’d be the one to do the lift and lower. He got a kick out of it, but didn’t let her know. Then he put his hands on his locked chair wheels and pushed up until his hips left the seat. She stood back and let him move himself forward, repositioning his legs on his own, using his arm and shoulder muscles to their capacity as he lowered himself as close as possible to the mat and plopped down.

“Great,” she said, helping him lie down and straightening his legs for passive range of motion. “Okay, you know what I’m going to do, right?”

He tipped his chin upward. “Yup.” Reminding himself to be tolerant, that she wanted to help.

Positioning herself beside Wes, Mary took his right leg, carefully lifted and bent the knee and pressed the leg toward his chest, noticing how tight he felt. How long had he been ignoring the parts that didn’t work? She ran him through several basic exercises to loosen his hips and knees and then concentrated on his ankles. He watched her intently as she repeated the same exercises on the other leg.

“Once I loosen your joints, I’ll show you how to do all of this for yourself.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Yeah, so why haven’t you been doing these?”

He shrugged, and she would have given anything to know what was going on inside his head. It didn’t make sense to work himself to the limit with weight training, then ignore the fragile part that needed equal attention. “Okay, I’m done here, for today anyway. You can get yourself back in that wheelchair, and we’ll do your favorite part.”

She sat back on her heels and watched with admiration as he bent his own knees then put the other arm on the wheelchair seat and essentially did a one-arm press to push himself back in. Impressive. And for someone who’d avoided doing this regularly, he made it look damn easy, too.

As they worked through Mary’s planned program of weight exercises, Wesley was struck by how intent she was on balancing his training. She’d forced him to remember he had a lower half where circulation was just as important as the top. Where bad things could happen if he didn’t take care of all of himself. Like a child, he’d been playing a game—Maybe if I ignore it, it will go away. One thing was sure as the sun, paraplegia didn’t go away.

Halfway through the second set of butterfly presses with free weights, he focused away from himself, and watched Mary in all of her earnestness as she studied his technique like a perfectionist, adjusting his elbow here and his shoulder there. He liked the attention.

Later, when he shifted from his chair to the bench for some chest presses, Mary leaned over him, like a life coach, motivating him to keep pushing. He didn’t need motivation, being determined as he was to be in top-notch shape so he could go back to work again—the upper half of him anyway—but he appreciated her interest and help. Which surprised him. All the other PTs had seemed like pains in the butt and he’d treated them all accordingly. But Mary was different.

“Let’s up the weight,” he said, testing her ability to let him call some shots.

“Sure.” She put more weights on the bar and he went right back to work. Okay, so she was fine with him pushing himself.

In amusement, he watched her facial expressions mimic what he assumed were his as he lifted the heavier weight, and it made him lose concentration. He pressed the bar above his head, then laughed and lost ground. Spotting the weights, she had to move in quickly to catch the bar before it slammed onto his chest. Though he was perfectly capable of doing it himself, since he’d had to many times on his own, and had the bruises to prove it, he admitted he liked having her there, on point.

“You okay?”

“Fine. Just wondering when you turned into a slave driver.”

“You’re the one who wanted more weights.”

“And you’re the one who loaded them on.” He got a kick out of goading her, and she fell for it every time. Just like she used to. And unlike the other PTs she was willing to push him as much as he wanted to go, not slow him down.

“So are you saying you want to take a break?”

“Could use some water.”

She lunged for a bottle. “Five-minute break.”

He gulped a drink. “I take it back. You’re not a slave driver, more like a dominatrix.”

“What?”

It felt good to tease and smile, like a lost and forgotten part of himself had suddenly shown up again. “All you need is some little leather get-up and a whip.”

Her cheeks flushed and she stepped back. So he’d rattled her. Excellent.

“You’d look hot in skin-tight leather.”

“Okay, the break’s over. Finish your water, and let’s move onto the back exercises.”

Wesley caught her gaze. He’d definitely gotten to her. Good. “See what I mean?”

Her gaze shot up toward the ceiling, just like it used to do when she was a teenager and he’d frustrated and bothered her.

He pulled himself into a sitting position and she separated his legs on either side of the narrow bench with the weight bar just out of reach above his head. She straddled the bench in front of and facing him, and used her legs as support beside each of his knees, with her feet guarding his, keeping them in place.

“We’ll start with fifty pounds, and go from there.”

“What do you mean, ‘we’? Seems like I’m doing all the lifting here.”

“As you should be,” she said, with a serious as hell expression.

She squeezed his shoulder and it took every last bit of his attention away from the teasing. Her hand on his shoulder woke a bundle of nerve endings, and warmed the skin all the way up to his neck. He couldn’t deny he’d missed the touch of a woman these past nine months.

Her touch made him think of the last time he’d seen her. It had been at his sister’s wedding, where they’d played a dangerous game of getting high on bubbly champagne and acting like they didn’t know what they were doing. Then they’d kissed, teasing each other with their lips and tongues, crossing the line with their touches. He glanced at her chest then quickly looked away, needing something to get his mind off those thoughts.

“So I’ll do these exercises, but you’re going to have to entertain me by bringing me up to date on your life.” He didn’t need her help to hold him in place on the bench. He balanced himself every day and used sand bags to keep his feet from straying, but he liked having her this close so he kept it to himself. Now he needed distraction from her nearness. “The last time I saw you, you’d just gotten your Master’s degree. Oh, and your hair was a lot longer than it is now.” Though he definitely liked this more cosmopolitan yet sexy look. He pulled down the weighted bar and did repetitions. Fifty pounds was nothing, but she’d find out soon enough.

She watched his every move, ready to jump in and catch him if he lost his balance. Again, unnecessary, but he’d let her do it since it probably made her feel useful.

“Well, I went on to get my PhD, then passed the boards and became a physical therapist.”

“I get that part. I want the juicy bits. How many hearts did you break? Love affairs. The good stuff.”

She gave a short laugh. “That’ll take all of two minutes.”

He raised a brow in mid-pull, hands spaced wide on the bar working the neck, shoulder and trapezius muscles. As always, it felt great. But her personal assessment of what he thought was a damn important part of a person’s life—interactions with the opposite sex—felt all wrong. Two minutes? “I don’t believe that for a second.”

“I was totally focused on my career and it was hard to meet nice guys.”

“So tell me about the rotten ones, then. Come on, I’ve been living in a cave. There must have been someone.” He challenged her to dig deeper, just like she’d been doing to him. “I need some dirt.”

She sighed, hands on her hips, her legs in a hip-wide stance. For a sex-starved man, even that looked sexy. He gripped the weight bar tighter.

“I got engaged when I was twenty-nine. I think it was more out of panic for my upcoming birthday. The first big one after twenty-one, you know?”

“Do women still let that bother them?”

“You do live in a cave. Wes, some things never change. Like right now, I’m almost thirty-four and I’m re-evaluating my life. If I wait too long, it might be too late.”

“You don’t look a day over thirty. In fact, I don’t see much change at all since my sister’s wedding and that’s, what, ten years ago now?” He stopped in mid-press. “And too late for what?”

“My eggs are getting old.”

“Eggs? Oh, for crying out loud, get a dog or a bird or something. You can have a pet in that traveling house, can’t you?”

“I could, I’m just not sure it would be fair to a dog or cat.”

“A bird would be in a cage, what difference would it make?”

She shrugged, then stared off into the distance. That made him curious. “So why didn’t you marry the guy you were engaged to? You could’ve had a bunch of kids by now.”

Her prior open expression closed down. She paused. “It was the other way around. He decided not to marry me.”

“That’s harsh.” Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to marry Mary?

A wistful breath laugh escaped her lips. “Let’s just say it took me by surprise.” She kept staring toward the ocean, and he wished he hadn’t picked at an old wound by being curious. “I guess he wasn’t the one.”

Wes wanted to guffaw at such a silly notion, but he could see she was still hurting, so he trod lightly. “You honestly think that? The ‘one’ bit? Hell, I figured that out after my first engagement.”

With all of her attention now turned back on him, she’d clearly moved on and it relieved him. “How many times have you been engaged? Sheesh, Alex obviously didn’t keep me in the loop.”

Having successfully captured her interest, he sat straighter, ready to boast like the jaded man he’d become. “When I first graduated from medical school I thought I was in love. Didn’t work out, though, when I caught her in bed with my roommate. Then, after Alexandra got married, I guess I was feeling a little pressure. I proposed to my girlfriend of the time, a fellow doctor, and we set a date. With my neurosurgery fellowship and her pursuing thoracic surgery, sometimes the relationship felt more like a competition. Anyway, we were both extremely busy and we wound up not having enough time for each other, and whatever we’d had going on before kind of fizzled out.”

“Why didn’t you bring her to Alexandra’s wedding?”

Ah, so she hadn’t forgotten their time together. Their second world-class kiss and more? To be honest, he’d purposely opted not to bring Giselle that weekend. When he’d found out that Mary was the maid of honor, and he’d also be in the wedding party, he’d wanted to go solo. He’d been planning to ask Giselle to marry him, but had put on the brakes at that point, deciding to wait until after he’d seen Mary again. He wasn’t even sure why, but he knew for a fact that it was what he’d needed to do to be fair to Giselle.





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