Page 39 of Opening Strain

My gaze meets Jenna’s, and—despite the pain—I laugh. “She’s quite overdramatic, right ice queen?”

Jenna’s hand goes in front of her mouth. “I’ve never seen anyone handle her quite so effectively. Even Darren was taken by her, ah, décor.”

“Oh, she’s hot enough. But an ugly piece of work.”

Jenna moves the ice pack over my thigh. “How’s this feeling?”

“It’s still throbbing,” I confess.

“Maybe Michelle was right about one thing. I’ll order us another round of drinks while the muscle calms down.”

“Thanks.”

She leaves to get our beverages while I rub my angry groin muscle. This sucks. I thought I was making much better progress. Although, our lunch provided much more insights into my physical therapist. Ones I really want to explore, despite all the reasons why we shouldn’t.

Jenna returns with two glasses of water. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted alcohol.”

“Water’s fine.”

She takes a sip from her glass, then removes the ice pack from my thigh. Her fingers trace the muscle, causing me to inhale through my nose. Her gaze bounces up to me and returns to my leg. “It’s tight.”

No shit. “I know.”

She continues to massage the muscle. She does a funky maneuver and the contraction subsides. My eyebrows fly to my hairline. “What did you do there?”

She half-smiles. “Therapist trick.”

“I’ll say.” My fists unclench. “My pain level dropped to a six.” My whole body relaxes and my eyes drift shut. A vision of my therapist floats before me.

When my eyelids open again, Jenna replaces the ice pack and retakes her seat across from me. “I’m glad I could help.”

“You’re a miracle worker, Miss Westfield.”

She giggles before her lips close around the straw. Damn. Even her giggle is sexy. “I wish. But my degree did give me some insider knowledge that helps from time to time.”

I drain the rest of my water as the pain continues to subside. “I think I’m going to stick with miracle worker.” I can think of a few other descriptions I’d like to add. “Are you ready to go back to work?”

The moment hangs, filled with possibilities, which end when she says, “Let me help you walk to the entrance, and I’ll bring the car to the front.” She pushes away from the table.

“I’m sure I won’t need help to the front door. It hurts but it’s manageable. I need to learn how to handle this pain in the future, just in case.” Tossing the baggie of ice onto the table, I get to my feet. The first few steps are pretty horrible, but then I get my “sea legs” and walk, albeit a bit unsteadily, to the front door. I don’t fight with her when she leaves to get her car, though.

To distract me from my wayward thoughts, on the ride to the clinic, I ask, “So tell me more. How many therapists work for you?”

“All told, ten. I’ll add another five when I get the third building.” She makes a left turn. “I loathe the hiring process, but it’s a necessary evil.”

“I hear you. I’m involved in hiring roadies and techs for our tours more often than I care to be. The other guys in the band don’t like to be bothered, so I get to represent UC in the interviews. At least the candidates are screened before I’m part of the process.”

“Lucky you.”

Something in the tone of her voice speaks to me, perhaps determination or hope? “You said you want ten clinics?”

“Yes, ten is my goal.” She turns her head toward me, her ponytail swinging. “I want At Your Service PT to become a household name around here. Not because I’m looking to increase the bottom line, but rather to help people after surgery or who get injured, like you.”

Her generosity of spirit shines. “A worthy goal.”

She pulls into an empty parking spot. “Are you sure you want to do more therapy now? You could wait and come back tonight. Or, after the incident at lunch, perhaps even tomorrow?”

“With only a few more days, I think I need all the pointers I can get. I’ll take this session slower, if you don’t mind.” I join her in front of her car, my pain level settled around a five.

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