Page 1 of Healing Love

1

ELLIOT

Another week, another physical therapy appointment.

The old guy sitting next to me is glaring at my leg, and for a second, I think he can see the mangled flesh and deteriorated muscle through my jeans. Then I realize I’ve been bouncing my good leg up and down enough to shake the flimsy, sorry excuse for a couch in the waiting room of the Veterans Affairs building.

I make a concentrated effort to keep from tap-tap-tapping my heel on the floor repeatedly, but I only last about five minutes before my anxious fidgeting finds another outlet. Instead of bouncing my foot, I begin picking at a rough patch of skin on my elbow.

I hate this. Hate sitting here, hate waiting, hate being surrounded by old men who served their country decades ago and never did anything else with their life, and hate that I'm going to be just like them. Hell, I already am. Broken, bitter, and waiting on the government to fix me just so they can forget about me again.

Jesus, that’s a depressing thought.

Checking my phone, I roll my eyes when I see it’s already ten minutes past my appointment time. I should be used to it by now, seeing how everything about coming to the VA is always a nightmare, but it puts me in a bad mood all the same.

Who am I kidding? I’ve been in a perpetual bad mood since waking up in that hospital bed six months ago.

I suppose I may be partially to blame for today’s delay. I was informed via email after my appointment last week that I would be assigned a new physical therapist. It wasn’t a surprise. The guy left the room in tears after I let out a string of expletives that may or may not have been directed at him.

The lady I worked with before him looked old enough to have come over on the Mayflower. I didn’t tell her that, of course. At least, not in so many words. I stand by the fact that she wasn’t a good fit. She could barely lift my leg enough to show me the stretches she wanted me to do.

The third time's a charm, right? That's how the saying goes, anyway. I'm prepared to strike out with this new physical therapist as well. Then maybe they'll consider me too much of an effort to work with and I can disappear up into the mountains and rot in my cabin alone.

Rubbing a hand down my face, I try to wipe away the dark thoughts from my mind. So many people have told me I’m lucky to have survived the blast, but I sure as fuck don’t feel lucky. Being an Army Ranger was my single goal in life. My father was a career military man who retired with well-deserved accolades and honors. Me? Honorably discharged at thirty-eight years old. The only lucky thing about the grenade damn near blowing my leg up is that my old man died before he could witness his son become such a disappointment.

The man next to me grunts and gets up, moving to a different seat. I must have started bouncing my leg up and down again. I can’t help it. Being in this building, smelling the cleaning chemicals mixed with stale cigarettes and cigars from the last generation of vets, the buzzing fluorescent lights beating down on me… My skin is crawling and my brain feels like it’s vibrating against my skull.

I close my eyes and try to take a calming breath. This time, instead of the dank, unsettling scent I associate with all hospitals and clinics, I get a hint of sweet citrus. My eyes snap open as I search for the source, shocked to see a stunning woman standing by the receptionist's desk. Her strawberry blonde hair is pulled back into a long braid, revealing soft, porcelain cheeks dotted with freckles. She's looking down at something, so I can't quite tell what color her eyes are, but I know she's the one who smells like sunshine and oranges.

My eyes are glued to her every movement, from the way she nibbles her bottom lip to her delicate hand tucking a few strands of her hair behind her ear. The woman finally looks up, letting me get a better view of her face. Her eyes are a brilliant, sparkling blue, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. She smiles at me, making my chest squeeze up tightly, and nearly pass out from lack of oxygen.

“Elliot Erickson?” the ethereal creature asks. I nod as if in a trance. Then the ugly reality of what’s happening slaps me in the face. “I’m Brielle. Your new physical therapist.”

She holds out her hand and I stare at it. I know she wants me to shake it, but I’m afraid to touch her. This woman somehow already has power over me and she’s only spoken a handful of words.

I clear my throat and nod my head again, dismissing her outstretched hand. To her credit, Brielle doesn’t seem fazed at my rudeness. She keeps that same smile on her full lips, all the while those blue eyes of hers searching mine, trying to understand me.

Good luck, honey. I don’t even understand me.

“Right,” she says, the cheeriness never leaving her voice. “I was warned about you trying to scare me away. Too bad for you, this ain’t my first rodeo, mister.”

Brielle arches one eyebrow, the smirk on her face sending an odd feeling ricocheting throughout my body. I hardly even recognize it, it’s been so damn long. I think… I’m attracted to her.

Nope. Shit. That’s not acceptable nor is it appropriate. I gotta shut that shit down.

Brielle leans forward slightly, bending down so she’s closer to my face. I rip my gaze away from the hint of cleavage she’s showing from this angle, focusing instead on her bright blue eyes.

“Between you and me,” she whispers, “I also think Helen is as ancient as the mountains and needed to retire at least five years ago.”

I blink at this mysterious woman, watching as she straightens up and gives me a little wink. What the hell? Who is this woman? Why is she smiling at me?

“Anyway,” Briell continues, “You’re about as chatty as everyone says you are. How about we go back to my office and I’ll take a look at your recovery plan and discuss some improvements.”

I nod and start to stand up, glaring at Brielle when she offers her hand again. “I’m not a cripple,” I growl at her.

"I'm not sure that's a politically correct statement, but I'll give you a pass since it's your first day with me. Another rude or disparaging comment and I'll… Well, I don't know what I'll do just yet, but it won't be pleasant."

She turns on her heel and takes off in the direction of what I’m assuming is her office. The curvy spitfire is walking rather briskly, which I assume is part of her punishment for my behavior. I follow my new physical therapist, down the hall and to the right, trying to keep from grinning at her cute little threat. If she thought that was rude, Brielle is in for a world of surprise.

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