Baby Im Back

Ballantine—I’ll write you the script for the pain meds, if you agree to a one-hour session with our physical therapist before you leave today.”
    Barry pushed his tongue into his cheek—he didn’t like being blackmailed. But he’d been trained to handle torture at the hand of the enemy…he could handle Lora Jansen for one measly hour.

    *****

    “Again,” Lora said.
    Frustration ballooned in Barry’s chest and he made a face.
    She arched an eyebrow. “You have a problem with walking?”
    “No,” he said more vehemently than the situation warranted. “But I’ve walked across the room and back a dozen times.” And he hated that each time she’d studied him as if he were a newly discovered species of animal.
    She lifted a camera. “This time I’m going to record you.”
    “This isn’t like any PT I’ve had,” he grumbled as he once again traversed the floor of the long, narrow room furnished with equipment, sets of stairs, walking corrals, and massage tables.
    “And now back, please.”
    He retraced his steps, feeling irritable and self-conscious. And the more self-conscious he felt, the more he leaned on the cane. “Do you get paid to watch people walk?”
    She lifted her head from the camera. “Sort of. Okay, you can have a seat.” She nodded toward a chair, then hooked up the camera to a television monitor in front of the chair where he sat. The video of him walking came on the screen. She stilled the picture, then picked up an erasable marker, drawing lines and circles on the screen as she talked. “Your alignment is off here and here. See how your hips are tilted?”
    He scowled and rubbed his aching left knee. “Yeah, it’s called walking on an artificial leg.”
    “You’re actually relying way too much on your prosthesis,” she offered. “If you improved your posture and balance with Pilates and weight belts, you could shift your center of gravity back to where it used to be.”
    He chewed on his tongue as anger churned in his stomach…anger at a violent world, anger at the randomness of life. If only he’d stepped right instead of left that day, he’d still be with his unit in Afghanistan, instead of sitting here in la-la land with a slip of a girl who wanted to fix him with yoga. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said through gritted teeth, pushing to his feet. “I think the requisite hour is up.”
    She glanced at her watch and nodded, then used a dry eraser to remove the marks she’d drawn over his figure. She walked to the door with him, then stuck out her hand. “It was nice to see you again, Barry. Good luck.”
    He shook her hand, startled at the bolt of awareness that traveled up his arm at the softness of her fingers wrapped in his. She smiled, flashing those dimples he’d suspected lay in hiding, then extracted her velvety hand. As she walked away from him toward the video equipment, remorse bled through him. Lora Jansen was a sweet woman who, despite having past and present reasons to dislike him, had only offered to help. It wasn’t her fault he was angry at the world, or embarrassed for her to see him like this.
    “Lora.”
    She turned back, her eyebrows raised in question. She was lovely, he thought, naturally pretty with fine-boned features and luminous eyes. Her shapeless white lab coat hid her figure, but after seeing her earlier in wet running clothes, her slender curves were emblazoned on his mind. His pulse pounded as he suddenly realized he was very much looking forward to spending more time with her—that is, if he hadn’t blown it…again.
    He cleared his throat. “I’ll be in Sweetness for a few days. If you can work me into your schedule, I might as well try some of the things you suggested.” He shrugged. “I don’t have anything better to do.”
    She gave him a curt nod, as if it didn’t matter to her one way or another. “Be here tomorrow morning at ten.”

Chapter Four

    “FIFTY MORE, and more slowly please,” Lora said to Barry, who lay on the floor of the PT room doing jackknife sit-ups.
    He fell back on the floor with a noisy exhale. “What is this, boot camp?” He reached down to massage his left knee, exposed in the gym shorts he wore. His metal prosthesis began just below his knee and ended in a lifelike foot wearing an athletic shoe.
    The pain pinching his face tugged at her heart. “May I?” she offered, gesturing to his knee.
    He looked wary, but nodded.
    As a professional, she was trained to mentally remove