Page 4 of Healing Love

I snort out a laugh. “And how did he take that?”

“With the same stoic glare he always has on his stupidly handsome face.”

“Handsome face? That’s a new detail,” I say, perking up a bit. “Why didn’t you mention that before?”

“Because it doesn’t matter. He’s impossible to please. I’d have handed him off to one of the other agents by now, but this is my first client, you know? I don’t want them to think I’m incompetent.”

“You’re not incompetent,” I tell her.

"Well, I know that. I just need everyone else in the whole wide world to also know that.” Calista barely makes it through the sentence before bursting into a giggle.

I join her, but my joy is cut short by an incoming call. I pull the phone away from my ear and look at the screen, my chest tightening when I see my mom’s contact info flash across the top.

"Cali, I'm sorry to cut our lunchtime short, but my mom is calling."

“Got it. No worries,” she replies. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I deadpan, knowing there aren’t any good reasons my mother would be calling me.

The second I switch over the calls, my mother starts spewing her craziness. “Bri, where the hell is the vodka?” she screeches. “I told you last night that I needed another bottle today.”

“I was going to pick up groceries on the way home from work, so I can grab some–”

“After work? That’s at least…” she trails off, pausing to count in what I’m sure she thinks is a silent whisper. “Four hours from now,” my mother finally finishes.

“It’s actually six,” I correct, though I know I shouldn’t poke the bear. Especially a bear that’s accidentally sober for the first time in at least a year.

“Six?!” she exclaims. “Brielle, that’s unacceptable. What did you think I meant when I said I needed the alcohol today?”

“I suppose I thought supplying you with vodka before you woke up at noon was less important than showing up for my job.”

“Well, I… Brielle, you can’t talk to me that way. You know this is all because of you, right? I wouldn’t need to self-medicate if I was still married to my husband, but oh, no. You just couldn’t let me have any amount of happiness, could you?”

“Mom, that’s not fair. I didn’t–”

“Whatever. Don’t be late.” She mutters something under her breath that sounds like worthless, but I choose to ignore it.

“Bye, love you, too,” I say to a dead line. She already hung up. Great. Can’t wait to go home to that mess.

My computer dings with a reminder that my lunch break is coming to a close. My next client should be here in a few minutes. Let’s see, who is it today?

I look over my schedule, my face heating when I see Elliot Erickson's name. I'm not sure what to make of him quite yet, but I know he's in far more pain than he shows. It's not just the physical soreness and nerve damage that's ailing him, though. Elliot is scared to let anyone close. I don't think he's ever talked about the traumatic incident that landed him here doing physical therapy after several extensive surgeries. My heart hurts for him, for what he's been through, and for the healing that still needs to happen.

After tossing the scraps of my lunch and filling up my water bottle, I comb my fingers through my hair and check my reflection in the compact mirror I keep at my desk. I shouldn’t care about how I look, and normally, I don’t. But when Elliot looks at me… I want him to like what he sees.

“Ugh, stop it,” I whisper to myself, giving my reflection a hard glare. He’s a client. He’s vulnerable. Off-limits. Plus, he’s the most gorgeous, rugged man I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I need to keep myself in check when I’m around him.

I head out to the waiting room, pausing just before turning the corner. I peek my head out, catching a glimpse of Elliot tapping his foot hard enough to make the chairs around him rattle. He rubs his eyes and takes a deep breath, the entire scene breaking my heart. I wish I could tell him he’s safe with me, but I’m not sure how he would react to that.

Elliot is stubborn and growly, and possibly the grumpiest person I’ve ever encountered in real life, but I see something more when I look at him. He’s handsome, of course. No, not just handsome. He’s… freaking drool-worthy is what he is. With dark hair, dark green eyes, a sharp nose, and a full beard I shouldn’t like so much, Elliot towers above me at nearly six and a half feet tall. He was supposed to have been resting these last few months of recovery, but apparently he ignored that advice and hit the gym instead. How else would his muscles be so well-defined?

Focus, I chastise myself. Yes, Elliot is hot. Scorching. Hot and angry and cranky. And also achingly vulnerable and lonely, though I know he'd never admit that.

“Elliot,” I call out, stepping fully into the waiting room. I’m not helping things by gawking at the man.

His eyes snap to mine, sending a rush of sensations scattering through my veins. His gaze is locked on mine as he stands, and although he appears to be standing and moving just fine as he walks toward me, I see a slight twitch in his left eye. I notice the way his nostrils flare slightly with each step like he needs to do something, anything to express the pain, as long as it's not verbalized.

Elliot nods once he’s standing in front of me, which is about as much of a greeting as I was expecting. He follows me down the hall, close enough that I can hear his breath. It should give me the creeps or make me stop and tell him to back off. If it were anyone else, I would do just that. Instead, I let the idea of Elliot wanting to be near me fill my mind.

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