Page 161 of Boyfriend of the Hour
“You need to stop looking at me like that, too,” he said as he pulled the milk out of the fridge.
“I thought you weren’t good at reading people’s expressions.”
“That one is pretty obvious.”
I chuckled. “Then you need to stop reminding me about your oversized equipment, sir. Don’t want a girl to stare at the goods, then don’t point them out.”
Nathan looked at me for a moment. Then the fridge door was slammed shut, and I was yanked to him for another scorching kiss.
Many more seconds later, I was gasping for breath. Nathan appeared to be having just as much difficulty finding oxygen.
“We have to stop,” he said against my lips.
“I know.”
He kissed me again. “We have company.”
“He could leave.”
Another kiss. Then an audible groan. Nathan released me with a quick smack on the butt.
“Go change,” he said gruffly. “Before I kick Jayce out and finish what you started.”
I grinned but reluctantly followed orders.
A few minutes later,I returned to the living room, where Nathan and Jayce were chatting again over coffee, and a third mug was waiting for me. I had changed into another pair of shorts—ones that fit me properly—and a sweatshirt that didn’t make Nathan yank me out of the room again.
I wasn’t sure I liked that effect, but it was the polite thing to do.
“So, Joni,” McAndrew said, already eyeing the still-dark scar on my knee with interest. “Why don’t you tell me a bit about what happened with your knee.”
I glanced at Nathan beside me, who nodded.
“Ah, all right. Well, I was a dancer inChicago. And my knee gave out during rehearsal about a week before I was supposed to open.”
“That had to be rough,” the doctor said sympathetically.
I nodded. Rough didn’t even cover it. Having your lifelong dream ripped out of your grasp days before it was supposed to happen was the end of everything for me.
“What were you doing when it happened?”
I told him the story. The basics of the routine which was very jump-intensive. I was one of the few cast members with a solid enough ballet background to handle moves like fouettés and cabrioles—it was one of the reasons why I’d gotten the part, despite not having quite as solid a background in vocal training as some of the auditioners. The choreographer had a lot of new ideas he wanted to implement for the new production. A cross between Fosse and Balanchine.
The combination proved fatal. To my knee, anyway. One twisted landing and I ended up in surgery two weeks later to repair a torn ACL.
McAndrew nodded throughout, asked a few questions here and there, listened carefully, and then had me do a series of evaluative tests to see how strong the joint was. By the end, hehad typed out several notes on his tablet, all of which I was dying to read.
“It could be a variety of things,” he said after we were finished. “It’s possible your recovery is just taking longer than normal, although, in someone with your strength, I’d expect full range of motion by now.” He scratched his chin. “I’d like to do an MRI, to be sure.”
I wilted on the couch. “Oh. Well. We might have to wait a while then. I can’t really afford that now, since I don’t have insurance.”
“When?” Nathan asked. “She needs to dance, Jayce—this is her livelihood. And it’s been almost six months since her operation.”
When I turned, his eyes met mine with silent instruction to follow his lead.
I didn’t know what that meant, but he knew my situation. How was this going to work?
McAndrew pulled out his phone and made a quick call. “Hey, babe. Quick question—any chance we could get into the MRI twenty minutes earlier this morning?” He listened and smiled. “Thanks, hon.” After the call ended, he smiled at me. “My wife’s the chief radiologist at Sinai.” He winked. “Up for getting some pictures taken?”
