Six Weeks To Catch A Cowboy

Over the years, he’d made regular if not frequent visits home, and Kenzie had always been careful to stay away from any and all of the places he might be.

If Megan was right about the reason for Spencer’s return, and if he planned to stay in Haven for any significant period of time while his unknown injuries healed, it was inevitable that Kenzie would cross paths with him.

But she was confident that when that happened, he wouldn’t detect any hint of the pathetic, lovestruck teenager she’d been inside the confident and capable woman she was now.

* * *

“Your two o’clock is waiting in treatment room four,” Jillian, the clinic receptionist, told Kenzie when she got back after lunch.

She glanced at her watch. “Mrs. Ferris is early today.”

“Mrs. Ferris canceled,” Jillian informed her. “She wasn’t feeling well.”

Kenzie shook her head. “She complains that her treatment isn’t working but refuses to take any responsibility for the fact that she only shows up for half her scheduled appointments.”

“And complains when we bill her for the ones she misses last-minute,” the receptionist added.

“So who’s my two o’clock?” Kenzie asked.

“A new patient rehabbing a shoulder injury.” Jillian sighed dreamily. “And, oh-my-god, does he have fabulous shoulders. And a smile that could melt any woman’s panties from across the room.”

Though Kenzie was accustomed to Jillian’s outrageous and unapologetic objectification of their attractive male clients, the remark made her cringe—and glance around to ensure there were no other clients within earshot.

“Not my panties,” she asserted confidently. Because only one man’s smile had ever had the power to do that, and that had been a long time ago.

“I’m telling you, if you’d been five minutes later, I might have snuck into the treatment room to massage him myself,” Jillian said, then immediately amended her claim. “No, I probably wouldn’t have lasted more than three minutes.”

Kenzie shook her head. “Does Mr. Panty-Melter have another name?”

“As a matter of fact, he does.” The receptionist glanced down at her computer screen, where the scheduled appointments were displayed. “It’s Spencer Channing.”

Chapter Two (#u4c669689-867b-56bf-8ded-97fa83c888af)

It couldn’t be.

There was no way Spencer Channing was here. In Haven, yes. In her treatment room, no.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t catch that.”

Jillian touched the screen, where his name and number were noted in the two o’clock slot. “Spencer Channing,” she said again.

Clearly. Unequivocally.

An injury, Megan had said.

Kenzie had immediately wondered what kind of injury and how bad it was. Somehow, she’d never considered that he might come to Back in the Game for treatment.

She made her way to room four, then paused with her hand on the knob to draw in a deep breath and will her heart to stop racing. Confident and capable, she reminded herself, then stepped into the room.

“So it’s true,” she said, by way of greeting.

Spencer’s head turned toward the door, the widening of his deep blue eyes suggesting that he was as surprised to see her as she’d been to hear Jillian speak his name.

Then his lips curved in a slow, sexy smile that confirmed the receptionist’s assessment of its power.

That smile was lethal. But it was only one weapon in an arsenal that included mouthwatering good looks, a tautly-muscled physique, quick wit and effortless charm.

Yeah, Spencer Channing was all that and a whole lot more.

But it was her job to treat his injury, not lust after his body like a hormonal teenager.

“It’s good to see you, Kenzie.”

“I take it you didn’t know your appointment was with me,” she guessed.

“I didn’t,” he confirmed. “When I was told there’d been a cancellation, I just said I’d take it, without asking any questions.”

She wondered if it would have mattered if he’d known, but she didn’t voice the question.

“What brings you in?” she asked instead.

He tipped his head toward his right shoulder. “Glenohumeral dislocation.”

She winced sympathetically, imagining the pain he must have endured. Of course, he showed no outward evidence of any discomfort now. Then again, Spencer had never let anyone see what was going on inside.

He handed her a large manila envelope. “Copies of the doctor’s report and test results.”

She opened the flap, slid out the sheaf of papers. “Have you had any therapy?”

He shook his head. “The doc said not before six weeks.”

“How long has it been?” she asked.

“Six weeks and three days,” he admitted.

“Not that you’re impatient,” she noted dryly.

He smiled again. “I don’t believe in sitting around.”

And because she refused to admit that his smile did strange things to her, she took a jab at him instead. “But that’s your job, isn’t it? To sit on the back of a bull for eight seconds.”

His smile didn’t waver. If anything, it grew wider, and the twinkle in his eye suggested that he knew exactly what was going through her mind. “Most people wouldn’t consider it sitting,” he told her.

She shifted her attention back to the papers in her hand and began to scan the report.

“You look...different,” he noted, when she flipped the page.

“I’m not sixteen anymore,” she told him.