Feels So Right

But he shouldn’t have tried to get back to training so soon. Demi had been right, damn it. He’d left her in exasperation last summer, disgusted that an athlete of his caliber should be doing exercises a couch potato could do without effort. Infuriated by her insistence he’d have to cut his recovery expectations to a more “realistic” level. Frustrated that she didn’t understand why his level of fitness couldn’t be compromised, not now, not this year, not when he had so much to accomplish. So he’d left. Tried another therapist, then another, both of whom had babied him even worse than Demi had. Finally he’d decided he could manage his own damn recovery. Who knew his body better than he did?

Pain shot through him, and he tried like hell to breathe through it, not to tense into the spasms, which made them worse.

Yeah, guess what, managing his own recovery had been a bad idea. Everything sounded like a bad idea these days. Including going back to see Demi.

Because there was another reason he’d left her. By the last of—what was it, three, four appointments? maybe five?—he’d spent the entire session desperately trying to keep from having an erection. He had no idea what she did to him, but it was hell. Demi couldn’t hold a candle to his ex-girlfriend Stephanie’s fresh California-girl beauty. Demi was dark; he preferred blondes. And she was withdrawn, where he liked a woman with spirit. She was decently attractive, but not beautiful, with wide eyes and a faint cleft in her chin. She had style and grace to burn, and she exuded peace that both stirred and soothed him.

And her hands …

Not going to think about that. The only thing on his mind in her studio today would be multiplication tables and baseball statistics. Unless the crazy attraction had run its course and he’d react more normally this time. That would be good.

He waited for the attack of pain to subside, then drew one knee up slowly toward his chest to stretch, barely able to get it halfway. His flexibility was crap. He couldn’t work. Couldn’t train.

This sucked.

Yeah, he was being a big poor-me baby, so sue him. He had good reason.

His cell rang. The act of twisting his head to locate his phone on the bedside table caused another spasm, this time in his neck and upper back.

Thirty-four years old and he was falling apart.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he picked up the phone. Nick. His erstwhile training partner, and the other half of the collision that had pitched Colin off his bike. Nick had skinned his knees. Not that Colin would ever wish this injury on anyone else, but sometimes life was damn unfair.

He took a deep breath, willing his voice to sound normal. “Hey, man.”

“How’s it going?”

“Not bad.” He didn’t dare use long sentences in case he had to break off and groan in agony.

“John and I are going to run some hills. Wondered if you’d like to meet up for lunch after.”

Yeah, he’d love to. Sit there, the sad cripple, while they exulted in how well their training was going.

“Can’t today. Got an appointment.”

“Yeah? You back at work?”

“Nah. Physical therapy.”

“Dude, you’re doing that again?”

“Yup.” He didn’t feel like explaining.

“Okay. So, uh …” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “You heard from Stephanie lately?”

“Nope.” This conversation was not making him feel any better. His girlfriend of four years had gotten sick of his bad attitude and his misery and dumped him on his ass, ironically just as he was seriously considering giving her what she wanted: a proposal.

Stephanie was a marathoner and they’d done a lot of training together. Colin should have noticed how hard it was on her that he was suffering, but he’d been a selfish jerk for quite a few months now. He figured it was only a matter of time before Stephanie came back to him. No doubt in his mind that he could make things right when she cooled off. She loved him. He loved her. They liked the same things, shared friends—at least they had before the breakup. What more did they need? Maybe the relationship had gotten a little stale, but the initial excitement never lasted. He needed to settle down if he wanted kids, which he did, and Stephanie would make a good mom and a solid partner.

One thing at a time. “Have a good lunch, Nick. Maybe I’ll be up for it next time.”

“Sure. Sure.” His tone made it clear he wasn’t holding his breath. “Nice talking to you.”

“Same.” No, it hadn’t been nice for Nick. It wasn’t nice for anyone to talk to Colin lately. His mom had told him he needed to see a shrink. Dad, predictably, told him to suck it up and be a man.

Yeah, well, he’d never been the kind of man Dad wanted him to be, so why start now?

He closed his eyes, smiling grimly. His level of cranky misery was even disgusting him.

After a few more careful stretches he’d loosened his muscles to the point where he could just manage to get out of bed. A stunning victory, one that lifted his spirits at least a little. The visit to Demi, if she could help him, would do more of the same.

For the past decade Colin’s pursuit of physical power and endurance had dominated his life. He’d been something of a missionary about the miracle of fitness, becoming a personal trainer to help others find the same high of good health and solid self-esteem he’d been able to achieve through working his body.

Now what he could reclaim of his old life rested in the talented hands of a woman he’d sworn never to cross paths with again.

2

DEMI GLANCED AT the clock on the wall of her office, embarrassed to be so jittery. Two more minutes until Colin arrived. Stay cool, girlfriend. He was just another client, a man in pain, one of the many she’d treated, one she’d be able to help. For today she’d ignore her whole-client philosophy and concentrate on seeing his body as a collection of muscles, tendons and bones. There would be time for worrying about his brain later—if he stuck with the therapy.

Mysterious, this upset to her system. Demi knew what kind of guy attracted her, and the überjock was definitely not it. Besides, Colin had a serious girlfriend. Sharon or Tiffany or something. A marathoner. Not that he’d look at a woman like Demi twice anyway, especially after she’d pissed him off so badly last time by gently trying to get him to face the truth about his recovery—or lack thereof.

Another glance at the clock. One more minute. Would he be out in her waiting area already? Her studio space, originally a two-bedroom apartment, had been renovated into a waiting room, office, one small room for examination and massage and a larger one for exercising, with a gym mat, treadmill, stationary bike, and the free weights, balls and other tools of her trade.

The minute hand of the clock joined the hour hand at twelve. She gave up her rather lame attempt at updating her previous client’s file and stood. Ready, set, go. Reminding herself of Colin’s anger and poorly hidden contempt at their last meeting, she lifted her chin and opened the door to the waiting room.

Her body went on an immediate adrenaline fizz.

Yeah, he was there. And he was still gorgeous.

At least she’d prepared herself. The first time she’d opened this same door to him back in August, she’d been so flustered by the intensity of his brown eyes and the sheer beautiful size and shape of him, she’d blushed, dropped her gaze and mumbled like a complete geekazoid.

“Colin, hi, come on in.” She smiled and gestured toward her massage room, this time blushless, in control and professional.

He nodded and stood slowly, hitches in the motion indicating muscles lashing out at him.

“Uh-oh.” Demi’s smile faded when she saw what the movement cost him. “You don’t look so good. Bad pain?”

“It’s—” His response was cut short by what must have been a killer spasm. “Not the greatest.”

Translation for a normal human: nearly unbearable. When it came to pain, elite athletes spoke a different language.

“I’ll work on that today—should be able to give you some relief.” She followed him into the small room where she did her massages. Decorwise, she’d worked to achieve a balance between clinical and luxurious. Half examining room, half spa, with softer lighting than one would expect from a medical office, and nice touches like fresh flowers courtesy of Bonnie Blooms, a CD player for music and a light scent she sprayed on the bedding, floral for women, spice for men. “You know the routine. As many clothes off as you’re comfortable with, under the sheet on your stomach. If you need help getting on the table, yell and I’ll come in.”

“Right.”

She smiled and left the room, waiting outside the door, knowing he wouldn’t call even if he was in agony. Honestly. What an ego. Risking serious injury to avoid asking for help? Crazy. But he wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last. She’d gotten used to people’s peculiarities. Women who hated being touched, men who liked it way too much …

“Ready,” he called. Sooner than she’d expected.