Page 23 of The Spark Between Us

I came back in front of her and looked her in the eye. “You can’t turn your head, can you?”

She blinked a couple times and took a sip of her coffee. Stalling. “I’m fine.” Her eyes darted away.

“How long did it take you to get down the stairs and onto this barstool?” Given what I could see of her limited range of motion, I couldn’t imagine how she’d hoisted herself on there.

She took a deep breath, then exhaled, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “A while.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” I asked calmly.

She started to push herself up like she planned to get off the stool, but the movement caused her to suck in a sharp breath, and she lowered herself back down. “I’ll be fine. I took an Advil.”

She took an Advil.

“Why are you like this—so stubborn?” I tried and failed to keep the frustration out of my voice.

“I’m not stubborn. I’m self-sufficient.”

She was stubborn. And I knew stubborn.

I’d been accused of being an immoveable chess piece willing to throw the entire game rather than admit I was on the wrong square. I used to take pride in my obstinance, thinking it was grit. Now I knew it came mainly from not wanting to rely on other people, and I wondered if she was the same way.

My heart squeezed at the visible pain she was in, but it ached more at the amount of pain she was willing to endure rather than ask for help.

It was all too familiar, and seeing it from the other side made me feel worse for her.

“Damsel, an Advil isn’t the answer. Your body’s gotta recover.” I reached for her, wrapping my hands around her hips.

“What are you doing?” Her eyes were wide with shock.

“I’m getting you down from the stool, so you don’t have to wrench your neck doing it.”

“Oh. Okay.” She relaxed a little bit and let me pick her up and put her on the floor.

Gently, I put my hands on the slope of her shoulders and splayed my fingers across the back of her neck. “Are you completely locked up?”

“Yeah. I can’t turn my head without a sharp shooting pain.” I heard the defeat in her voice.

“Dammit.” I could feel the muscles in spasm. They were hard as river stones. “I’m hoping this is just muscular. If you herniated a disk, you’ve got a bigger problem.”

“Don’t get mad at me. I probably just slept weird. I’m not used to the pillows. I’ll go walk on your life-sucking treadmill and it’ll loosen up, I’m sure.”

I took my hands away and came around to look at her. “I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at myself for not insisting you get checked out by a doctor or at least doing some preliminary physical therapy.”

She pressed her lips together, stiffening at the obvious pain. She shifted as though she was going to reach and touch my arm, but the motion made her cringe. “It wasn’t on you to force sense into my stubborn brain. I should have been smarter. The wine was helpful though.”

“I’m glad. But I’m not getting you drunk and sending you off to work. Can you skip today?”

Her look of horror gave me my answer. “No way. It’s my first day. I have the whole team meeting me. I need to be there.”

“Fine. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ve got an e-stim machine and some ice packs. I’ll get you moving again so you can look people in the eye without grimacing, but you have to promise me—promise—that you’ll go straight to a neck and back guy I know in Pleasanton. If I can, I’ll drive you.”

“You don’t have to drive me everywhere. I can take an Uber.”

“That’s hardly the point of this morning’s lecture.”

“Fine. Yes. I’ll go. Where’s Pleasanton?”

I shook my head. “You’re kidding, right? You grew up in Oakland. Did no one teach you local geography?”

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