Page 11 of Frozen Flames

“Yeah, whatever.”

I close the door behind me and release a breath.

Then I place all my equipment around the living room, including mats, parallel bars, weights, and straps.

When Harvey shows up, he wheels himself to the kitchen chair next to the bars. He’s wearing a loose white muscle shirt that covers the entirety of his shoulders and gray pants.

I quickly look away, not wanting to ogle him, even though the man is beautiful.

“I don’t need your help,” he reminds me as he gets up from his chair and holds on to the end of one of the bars.

I nod. “Do you prefer me at your front or back?”

“Are you asking me if I prefer being the little spoon or big spoon?”

I laugh, shaking my head at his comment.

“The front is fine,” he says then quietly, looking pensive.

“Okay,” I say, going around one of the parallel bars to stand in front of him. I give him a bit of space, yet I’m close enough in case he needs me.

As he starts taking a few steps, one of his legs is shaking more than the other. His knuckles are white as he holds on tightly to the metal.

He breathes deeply and pauses, a million emotions swimming in his stark blue eyes when our gazes lock.

“I have gloves with a good grip if you want.” I step closer, seeing the perspiration on his neck and arms. The angry-looking phoenix tattoo on his forearm is on full display. And while it looks nice on him, I can’t help but wonder if he’s always had a cluttered mind. Or if his accident was the sole perpetrator of this change.

I read his file.

I know what happened to him.

Still, I wonder…

He takes one more step. His arm starts shaking, so I make the mistake of moving closer to him. His sharp breathing intertwines with mine, and I swallow when he stares at my lips before looking me dead in the eye.

I can almost see it—first, the shock from our little moment, then the frustration of it. It’s as if he’s blaming me for doing my job. I didn’t expect my patient to be this gorgeous twenty-four-year-old. Yet it shouldn’t matter. If I see he’s struggling, I must step up.

“Back off. I’m not about to drop dead.”

I bite my lip, backing away.

He’s so disrespectful sometimes.

I move from the space between the bars and position myself at his back instead.

To avoid having another moment with him.

To avoid frustrating him further.

If ever he needs me, I’m right here behind him, ready to come to his rescue, and letting him save face because it doesn’t take a genius to understand that his pride is tremendously wounded.

I wish I could make him laugh or see the beauty in everyday life.

But I’m not here for that.

I’m here to assist him with physical therapy, ensure he takes his meds, and make sure he moves around during the day.

A part of me is relieved that he has good bladder control and can shower by himself.

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