Page 1 of Physical Therapy

ONE

Boe

Sterile white walls, stiff furniture, and cheap art prints encased in fancy frames to exude an air of sophistication. Medical specialist offices are all the same.

The woman across from me peeks up from her magazine—again. Her painted fingertips flex against the glossy cover, the slightest parting of her lips an indication of a deeper desire.

I smile.

Her lashes dip, as does her chin. A slight shift of the legs to press the thighs together. A subtle tilt of the hips to alleviate pressure on her most intimate area.

Body language can reveal so much.

The time on my phone lock screen reads 10:02. Already late. With a sigh, I unlock the device and navigate to the message thread with my sister. Thumb tapping furiously at the small keyboard, I flex my jaw left, and then right. The muscles that run down to my neck ache, the stiffness radiates upward to leave a dull throb in my temples.

Fucker had a mean swing.

First impressions aren’t good,I type. The woman can’t keep her schedule.

Lusty, across the room, heaves a sigh as she checks her own watch. Better not be double booked as well. I have a long list of things I could do instead of entertaining the Crown’s request. Lusty included.

She flicks her gaze my way once more.

I contemplate the complications of getting involved with a woman who needs to use a therapist. Then again, perhaps she wonders the same? Why does a man who clearly has his shit together—given the tailored suit and un-scuffed dress shoes—need to see a shrink?

For crying out loud, Boe. Look at the upside. She clearly cares more about her patients than keeping exact time.

I chuckle at my sister’s response. I should have known she’d have some positive reasoning for my complaint. One of many ways we’re polar opposites.

And I care more about how much ground I lose being here and not at the office.

One hour, plus travel. One hundred minutes was all I scheduled for this diversion. Every extra minute this woman takes out of my day is one less I’ll sleep tonight. Not that I sleep that well, anyway.

You’ll lose a hell of a lot more if you’re in jail, won’t you?

Damn, Clara. I send back the hand emoticon with the middle finger raised. I get a prompt kissy face in reply.

Two court-mandated sessions, minimum. More if decided so by the therapist. I rise from the cheaply upholstered seat and pocket the phone in my breast pocket. Lusty watches from behind her magazine while I shake the steel gray jacket from my broad shoulders and then carefully fold it in half, lengthways, before laying it over the arm of my seat and resuming my position.

Given the lack of decent air conditioning in this room, I take it Ms. Edith Potts doesn’t make much from her head-shrinking enterprise. Edith. The moment Clara handed me her business card, I had the woman pegged in my mind. Oversized floral blouse, tan slacks or shapeless skirt; a motivational kitten poster on the wall, and probably one or two handmade crafts from the grandkids; plus the stale smell of dusty books in her office, offset by the ratty flowers she brought in from her own garden.

Oh, yes. I’ve got Edith figured out already.

Question is can she figure me out?

---