Page 36 of Opening Strain

“I don’t remember agreeing to go out to lunch with you.”

I grin. She didn’t tell that to the Asshole. “We need to eat.”

“Well, true.” Her shoulders lower.

“How about this? You drive, I pay.” When she doesn’t look convinced, I add, “Then we come back here and do it all over again.”

“Guess I’ll save the weights until later.”

Weights? This woman has way too many tricks up her sleeve. “Should be interesting. Let’s go eat.”

Chapter Twelve

Jenna takes a moment to change out of her scrubs. Now in a pair of black leggings and purple tunic top, she drives us to a tiny café about fifteen minutes from her clinic. It has a contemporary vibe. I open the menu and am surprised by the unique offerings. “I almost feel as if I’m back in California. This menu is rad.”

“This place never disappoints.” She plays with the silverware, switching the fork and knife, and depositing the white paper napkin onto her lap.

I follow suit, then we give our orders to the server. “I think I’m making progress. The pull still bothers me, don’t get me wrong, but it’s less pronounced.” I consider. “Less growly.”

“Exactly what your therapist wants to hear.”

“Especially with less than a week to get me fully functional.” I want to talk about something other than my rehab. I want to get to knowher. “So, tell me Jenna, did you always plan on being such a business mogul?”

She chuckles. “Business mogul? Hardly.”

The server drops off our drinks—a diet soda for Jenna and abottle of water for me. When she doesn’t continue, I say, “I think owning two physical therapy clinics—and opening one more—qualifies. Was that always your goal? To move on from working directly with patients to overseeing a number of clinics?” When she doesn’t speak, I add, “I can attest to how awesome you are with patients.”

Her hand goes to the back of her head, and she tightens her ponytail. “Well, no. I never thought I’d be an administrator. I love working with patients, one on one.” She takes a sip of her drink. “Loved,” she amends.

I tilt my head. “You don’t enjoy working with me?”

Her head shakes. “I do. I really do.” Her finger runs over the top of her glass. “Perhaps I should’ve listened to Austin when he reminded me it’s best not to fraternize with patients.”

I may only have my GED, but you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to know where she’s coming from. “Because of Darren.”

“We didn’t date until he was no longer a patient. But, yes, because of him.”

An awkward silence descends. I remember how chuffed Darren was to have her on his arm. How he turned all the other chicks away and bragged about Jenna. Spending time with her now, I’m starting to understand his fascination.

The fact she treats me like a normal guy is a massive turn-on. She doesn’t get caught up in the trappings around me. Maybe I should let her be, as I don’t have anything other than my rock star status—and a GED—under the hood. On the other hand, she’s a warm and wonderful human being who has advanced degrees and two clinics under her belt. What do I bring to the table?

Maybe I could help her loosen up a bit and enjoy her life? Because I can’t control my imagination, I ask, “Do you miss working with patients? I mean, the threat of not going on tour as we planned is enough to make me do all sorts of weird exercises. Like standing on a towel and doing squats. I can’t imagine not doing what I love.” How else could I mask all my faults?

“Being an administrator is related to the field, you know. I advise therapists who work directly with patients. I’m still sort of hands-on.”

“Once removed.”

“Well, yeah.”

The server chooses this moment to deliver our meals, so we dig in. I place the sweet potato fries into my meatloaf sandwich and cut it in half. The mere aroma makes my mouth water.

Glancing across the table, Jenna’s picking up her tuna melt. She takes a big bite, and cheese oozes out of the side. I like the fact she’s eating real food. Not a lettuce-fest in sight.

I taste my lunch and it’s like heaven in between bread. After I swallow, I remark, “Damn. This is fantastic.”

She grins. “I know. We were lucky to get a table, but a late lunch like this is usually okay. Dinner always requires a reservation.”

“I can see why.” I insert more of the sandwich into my mouth. When it’s gone—and she still has a half to go—I drink my water and contemplate what she told me. My finger traces the condensation rolling down the bottle.

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