Page 11 of Wild Horses

“Um, not too bad, but I haven’t plunged into the wonderful world of scapular retractions yet.”

She gives me an indulgent smile. “Yes. I‘m quite the taskmaster, aren’t I? But you’re here for a reason.”

“Because you’re the best.”

“Because I’m the best. All the soreness and seeming setbacks will be worth it in the end. I promise, if you keep putting in the work, you will be back to where you were in time for your March competition.” She pauses, serious black eyes narrowing. “Though I wish I could talk you into a less dangerous goal. I don’t want you back here a year from now. Which is also why it’s important to pace yourself and putallyour attention into getting better.”

It’s like she senses how split my concentration is. Pieces of it siphoned away by a chiseled jaw and wide shoulders.

As if thinking of him summons him from the ether, War is there, his warm honey-brown eyes locking on mine as a slight grin plays on his full lips. It’s unfair how pretty he is. A bubbling, buoyant sensation and a sudden rush of heat spread through me. Did someone turn the temperature up in here?

“Ah, Mr. Phillips, how nice of you to join us. You’re late.” Dr. Panter scolds him like he’s a wayward child.

War runs a hand through his hair, mussing the neat strands. “Please, Dr. Panter, I’m begging you, call me War. And I’m sorry; I had a personal matter to attend to.” A flash of something, hurt maybe, flickers across his face before disappearing. “It won’t happen again.”

Dr.Panter nods. “Alright, let’s get you started then. Laramie, you know what to do. I’ll check your progress in a bit.”

I watch War move to one of the cardio stations, appreciating how his tapered joggers and tight-fitting t-shirt cling to his toned body. Damn this handsome man. He wields entirely too much power over my brain.

It’s been over a year since I’ve dated anyone, and for good reason. Men are turds. Of course, there are good ones out there—my dad and Ted Lasso, for example—but as a majority? Turds.

Is War Phillips a good one? I tilt my head, trying to study him without getting caught. Physically? He’s very, very good. Broad and trim. Tall with big hands. But emotionally? Who knows?

My instincts, my twin devils, shout at me to take him for a ride. However, those little bastards are also the ones who led me to this point. I wouldn’t be rehabbing a busted shoulder if I hadn’t listened to them.

But I also wouldn’t have half the fun I’ve had without those instincts, and Ireallylove fun.

One night. One night of kissing and tasting and entwining my body with his. One night to work him out of my system. People do that, right? Granted, in every romance book I’ve ever read, once is never enough, but that’s fiction. This is real life.

Plus, I’m not built for more. My last relationship—if one date at the local Dairy Queen and a night making out in a pickup qualify as a relationship—ended when I beat his younger sister’s qualifying time. The one before that was two dates with aDone in 60 Secondsfella, and I prefer more staying power. Or at least a reciprocal offering… And before that was the cheater. My track record speaks for itself.

No, relationships and Laramie Larson do not mix, anddespite not even knowing the guy, I get the feeling my Pretty Boy is looking for more than a quick lay.

Blowing an errant hair out of my eye, I give myself a mental slap.

Laramie, get your shit together.

I refocus on my weights. Well, I mostly refocus on my weights. Okay, fifty-one percent of me totally focuses on the weights. The traitorous other forty-nine percent is busy drooling over the sweat dripping down the column of War’s throat.

Guess it’s a good thing I can multitask?—

I'm busted as soon as the dumbbell slips from my grip and hits the ground. Dr. Panter and War’s heads snap in my direction, one tight with concern, the other with a shake of her head. War takes a step forward; this man is always half-rushing to my aid. It’s like he’s part white knight but only just got his horse and has no clue what to do with his shield.

Dr. Panter points to a massage table. “Go to the massage table, Laramie.”

Sufficiently embarrassed, I skulk behind Dr. Panter to the furthest corner of the PT room and haul myself up on the padded table.

“There are,” she pauses and waves, “distractions everywhere. My job is to give you the tools to rebuild your body. Your job is to let me, and that means giving it your all when you’re here.” She lowers her voice. “He is handsome, but I can’t have you injuring yourself. It’s not safe if you aren’t paying attention to yourself, your muscles, your motions.”

Dr. Panter works the stiff tissue in my shoulder as she delivers her motherly lecture. Not that I don’t deserve or need it.

“Laramie, are you hearing me?” I nod at the doctor without seeing her. Her snort proves she isn’t buying my bullshit. “Youaren’t, but I need you to.” She pauses in her massage and settles her hands on my shoulders.

Not meeting her eyes, I pick at the sheet draped over the table. A hundred excuses rise and die on my tongue. I want to shrug off her gentle reprimand. Defend. Deny.

“It might be best if you switch to a different time. You’re an adult, so I can’t force you to do anything, but in my professional opinion, you’ll make a faster recovery with better results if you fully focus. And right now…”

She doesn’t have to say anything else. I slump forward, huff out a breath, then meet her gaze with mine. “Right now, there are other things diverting my attention.”

---