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Just then, the second door opened and out walked Caleb Cardoso in a pair of slate gray scrubs. Years of watching him swagger down school hallways and sprint across football fields did nothing to prepare me. He’d added more muscle to his lean frame, his broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. His dark, tousled hair looked styled to suggest he’d just climbed out of bed after an all-night sexfest. His jaw was sharper, his cheek bones more chiseled. When he looked at me with those rich chocolate eyes, all the air left my lungs.
“Mrs. Norris,” he said, glancing at the tablet in his hands.
The sound of my married name lifted the lust fog from my brain. “Please call me Rowan,” I said, relieved I’d finally managed to speak in his presence.
He studied my face, frowned, and looked back at his tablet. “Nice to meet you,” he said, studying my face again. “I’m Cal. Take a seat on the first table.”
Lauren would have politely told him that we were two years apart in school. Poppy would have flipped the embarrassment of being forgotten back onto Cal with a snide comment about his observation skills. Not that anyone ever forgot Poppy. I just turned my back to him and hoped he hadn’t seen my cheeks burn. People often didn’t remember me, but it still stung, especially when it was someone I’d spent so much time fantasizing about in my teens. As I crossed the room, I could feel him behind me, watching my every movement.
When I reached the table, I stared at it, wondering how I was going to hoist myself up. Cal pulled a stool from underneath the table, standing so close I could smell him. Thank goodness teenage me never got near enough to sniff the unholy concoction of cedar and pheromones. I would have panted like a cartoon character. I was more experienced now. I could control myself, barely. Cal held out his hand, and I took it. Then I blushed again, thinking maybe he was just motioning for me to climb onto the table.
“Can you manage stairs?” he asked as I stepped onto the stool.
“She climbed to the second floor before we got the elevator,” Cammie shouted.
“That’s great,” Cal said with an encouraging smile. He squeezed my hand ever so slightly, and I did my best not to hyperventilate. Nope, zero self-control still. The second my butt hit the table, he let go of my hand and grabbed a rolling stool for himself. He was so tall, we were eye to eye, despite the table being a foot higher than his stool.
“Your orthopedic surgeon sent over your X-rays and your prescription, but his chart notes weren’t compatible with our system. I’ll try to get them before our next session. For now, it’d be helpful if I had more information about how the injury occurred and where you’re in pain.”
“Um, it was a stupid accident. I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Most nonsurgical recoveries are,” he said with a lopsided smile that made my core clench. “Trust me, Rowan. You have no reason to be embarrassed. I’m here to help you. I’ve heard it all, and I don’t judge.”
I doubt he’d had a patient get plowed over by a tourist on a Segway after catching her husband getting a blow job from her boss. I opened my mouth and closed it again.
“We could start with where you’re feeling pain. What hurts the most?”
My heart. My pride.
“My back. I had a nasty bruise on my hip and a concussion, but the bruise is fading, and my head hasn’t hurt for a while.”
He glanced at the tablet again and nodded. “I can see by your X-ray you didn’t fracture your spine. Hopefully, we’re just dealing with muscular pain. If you haven’t made sufficient progress after our sessions, you should have an MRI to check for bulging or excised spinal discs. Unfortunately, that’s something we can’t fix with PT.”
“Should I get the MRI now?”
“Ready to get rid of me so soon,” he said, flashing another smile.
My stomach flipped, and my face grew hot. “I don’t want to waste your time.”
“You can call your insurance company, but most won’t approve an MRI until after you complete the physical therapy your orthopedic surgeon prescribed. Your script is for two sessions a week for the next six weeks. Even if you have an issue with your discs, the work we’ll do here should improve your mobility and reduce your pain. Knowing how you got hurt would really help me design your treatment plan.”
He waited. And waited.
I blew out a breath and let the words rush like water from a broken pipe. “I was texting and collided with a vehicle. And a tree.” It was mostly true. A Segway is a type of vehicle and it did pin me against a tree. I wasn’t texting, but the lack of attention was real since I was crying so hard I couldn’t see anything. But telling him all that would only lead to questions I didn’t want to answer.
“Was anyone else injured?” he asked, his voice cold.
“Um, I don’t think so,” I said. “I passed out for a bit, but it wasn’t mentioned in the police report. See, stupid accident. I shouldn’t have been texting.”
“No, you shouldn’t have. You’re lucky your injuries aren’t worse.”
So much for not judging.
He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “Let’s test your range of motion,” he said. Unlike before, the warmth in his voice sounded forced.
I nodded and followed his curt directions. I felt a jolt the first time he put his hands on my legs, but the pain that followed when he tested how far I could move zapped any pleasant tingle. It hurt. Bad. I knew he was just doing his job, but he pushed me as far as he could until the pain became too much for me to handle. He always stopped when I told him, but then he’d move on to another stretch that left me breathless with pain.
Neither of us made small talk. I wouldn’t have minded a little distraction from the agony that sliced through me with increasing intensity as the hour dragged on, but as usual, I felt too awkward to start a conversation. Apart from instructing me how to do each exercise, he remained silent while he studied every movement and grimace I made.
