Page 2 of Fake Fiancée for the Grump

She gives me a full-teeth grin. Same Brinn.

"I’m surprised you remember me."

If she’s holding any grudges, she’s hiding them behind a thousand-watt smile.

“I didn’t know you were a physical therapist. Your brother never mentioned it.”

“Almost, I’m finishing up my doctorate. You’re my last patient before I graduate.”

“Lucky me,” I snark.

But there’s that smile again. This is going to be infuriating. How did I get stuck with the world’s most cheerful therapist?

Brinn is Greyson’s sister so I should try to be nice, but I’m not in the mood. I just want to get this over with and get out of here, back to the solace of the house.

"Please sit." She points to a long therapy table, pulling down a sheet of paper to cover the length of it.

I pause, reluctant for her to see me in this condition. The thought of limping and relying on my cane contradicts the confidence I’ve always shown her. But it’s impossible to avoid now.

I pick up my cane from the floor and move slowly across the room, doing my best not to limp. I hesitate again at the table, realizing I need help to climb up. Before I can even ask, she’s there again, offering her arm.

Why does she have to be so considerate?

Settled on the table, I stretch out my leg. It feels good to rest it.

Brinn asks me a few questions about my medical history and the cause of my injury. I grunt short answers, giving her as little information as possible. I tell her nothing about the military. She doesn’t press me for more details.

She asks permission to perform a thorough physical examination. She wants to evaluate the range of motion, strength, and stability of my injured limb. I reluctantly agree with a mumble and nod.

Her first touch sends a shiver down my spine.

What in the world was that?

I quickly send a message to my brain that this is my best friend’s little sister, not a breathtaking woman.

She continues her assessment, gently moving my leg into different positions. I try my best to stay focused and ignore her warm hands on my skin.

"Where exactly do you feel pain?" she asks, continuing with her professional demeanor.

I point to the area below my knee. She presses on it. Pain spikes through my leg, instantly transporting me back to the moment of the injury.

"What are you doing?" I rage at her.

"I'm so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“This isn’t going to work,” I bark, stumbling off the table. She instinctively reaches her hand to help, but I wave her off.

“No. Don’t touch me.”

Her ever-present smile disappears instantly. Her mouth hangs open in shock and disbelief.

I want to apologize, but pride stops me. I refuse to show more weakness.

“Please, come back,” she pleads, eyes full of empathy.

I ignore her, an act she should be used to with our history, turning to leave. As I close the door behind me, I hear her call out, “Jackson,” once last time.

Chapter two

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