curl of a summer wave.
Liam Carter.
What the devil was Liam doing there?
She grasped the edge of the pool and kicked hard as she pulled herself up again, turning immediately to plop sideways on the tiles, as graceless as a walrus, and breathing about as hard as one in full flounder.
Through sheer luck, she managed not to smash her face into the floor.
A walrus in a bikini was bad enough, one with an injury would just make it so much worse. And the last time she’d seen him, she’d— Oh, God.
Suddenly, she was eighteen again, and full to bursting with humiliation. Not the years-old variety—the kind you felt and then discarded—it felt as fresh as newly picked daisies, and her inner walrus wanted nothing but to escape back to the water.
Before the blazing heat roasting her cheeks could spread to the rest of her visible flesh, Grace snatched up her towel and climbed to her feet, whisking it around her before she’d even truly found her balance.
This wasn’t happening.
This was...chlorine poisoning. Had to be.
Or maybe oxygen deprivation.
She needed a mask.
Or just to get out of there. Before he figured out her transparent panic. Or saw the scars. Proof of yet more foolishness. And she’d really like him to think she’d come through that unmarked, or that they were basically invisible...since he’d never even deigned to visit her hospital room after it had happened. Not that she’d have wanted him to.
Liam had his hands up, a gesture of surrender, but his eyes reeked of concern—she’d assume it was fake except she’d seen that look before. Same frown. Same posture. Different setting...
But she was practically in the same freaking outfit. It was too much to hope this wasn’t real. She never got that lucky.
“You’re all right.” He said the words more than asked. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just here... Thought I’d say hello.”
As he spoke, he backpedaled from the room about as smoothly as her first attempt to get out of the pool, strongly favoring one leg.
She tucked the corner of the towel to form a tight band above her breasts and, once covered, looked down at his feet—not only to indulge her curiosity but to have something as far from his head as possible to examine kept accidental eye contact from recurring.
Which was when she noticed one ill-fitting shoe, the sides bulging out from a splint supporting his ankle.
She coughed to force words through her tight throat. “You’re usually a better actor than that, aren’t you?”
Thankfully she hadn’t also honked when she’d spoken.
Grace shifted, arms crossing over her waist as if that would cover her better, or make sure he didn’t start drawing the same parallels between this and the last time she’d set eyes on him.
Pretend this was normal. Pretend the thought of running away didn’t make her feet tingle and her knees itch with anticipation. Say normal person words.
“Are you here to see me, Liam... Mr....Liam?” She usually tried to be professional when addressing prospective patients, but “Mr. Carter” felt even weirder than “Liam.” But all of this felt wrong. Bad-dream wrong. Naked-without-your-homework-on-the-day-of-the-big-exam wrong.
What did a woman call someone from her past she no longer had a relationship with but whom she’d once forced to see her in her underwear? What was the proper, professional comportment for that situation?
“Or someone else, maybe?” Please, God, a lightning bolt would be good right about now. She could use a little smiting. Maybe not enough to die. There were lessons to teach actors to cry on command, where could she get lessons to learn to faint on command? Shouldn’t there be some holistic expert in pressure points who could teach her something for this kind of situation? Just in case it should come in handy again in the future.
“I was thinking...” He stopped the denial and shrugged his affirmation. “Yes. I’m here to see you.” He stopped his limping backward cadence and his arms fell lifelessly at his sides. “I sprained it. And with my schedule right now...”
Treatment. This wasn’t a coincidence. At least treatment meant she had something to do other than stand around and wonder if he could see her nipples through her bikini top as he’d been able to do through that ridiculous bra. Or the other stupid thoughts shouting in her mental echo chamber, none of which would make him go away any faster. But treatment might.
Examine him. Offer advice. Refer him to someone else. Call it a day!
Good plan.
But get dressed first.
Act normal. Like nothing is wrong.
“Can you make it back to the treatment room?” She glanced into his eyes long enough to see the furrow of irritation marring his too-handsome features and was almost proud she finally sounded normal and professional.
“Of course.”
“Okay. I’ll just dry off, change, and then come check on you. Have a seat in one of the reclining chairs and get your foot up. It’ll help with the throbbing.” More sane words.
He paused a moment and then nodded. Without another word, he pivoted on his good leg and hobbled back out into the hallway, leaving Grace to make a beeline for the locker room to change.
Had Nick sent him here? Her brother was still friends with Liam. They had a bond that never weakened, even through the months when Liam was too busy to hang out or whatever it was they did together. Grace didn’t know. She always tried her best not to know what Liam was up to, as much as was humanly possible in LA when she couldn’t even go to the store to buy toothpaste without seeing his pearly whites gracing the cover of some magazine.
WORLD’S SEXIEST MAN!
How Does Sexy Megastar Liam Carter Keep Those Rock-Hard Abs?
Hollywood’s Most Wanted talks life, love, and his favorite blah-blah-blah...
Or the ones she’d seen that morning when buying fruit: racks of tabloid headlines about Liam destroying his ex-girlfriend, who could only find comfort in the pills she got hooked on.
With minimal toweling efforts, she dried just enough to get her clothes back on without sticking, roughly combed her hair back into a ponytail, and stuffed her feet into sandals.
She’d go and examine him. Figure out what he was doing and what he should be doing to get back on his feet as quickly as possible. Fetch some crutches, maybe a different splint, and find someone to go to his house and give physical therapy. Someone who wasn’t her. Someone who’d never thrown her pride to the wind and herself at a man who had clearly never wanted her.
Or at least not thrown herself at this particular man. Someone who’d always known you can’t rehabilitate the bad boy.
But if you were lucky, maybe you could rehabilitate his ankle.
There had to be at least one such physical therapist in LA.
* * *
Liam half fell into the first chair he saw inside the treatment room. Not a recliner. Foot still down. All the better should he need to make an escape, an idea that stubbornly refused to go away. And the idea of reclining made his stomach roll, much like the first summer together when they’d all gone to Six Flags. Fifteen, stupid, with something to prove...jumping on his first ever roller coaster right after gorging himself with junk food and a milk shake...
The world felt tilted enough, without a chair adding to it.
Grace clearly didn’t want to see him. First time that had ever happened. After that night he’d stayed away, but before that night she’d always been happy to see him, full of smiles.
Maybe