“I had a client who was a former Green Beret. Toughest man I ever met. Also, the biggest gossip. By the end of his therapy, I knew everyone in his unit by name and rank, who had the biggest balls, and who was cheating with who.”
He snorted and shook his head. “That’s accurate as fuck. We love other people’s drama. Makes us forget about our own. You’re a physical therapist, right?”
“Mmhmm.” Doc rolled his medical tray closer, and she eyed the packets of alcohol wipes with suspicion. “Mostly military personnel and elite athletes who need extensive rehab.”
“Tough job,” he said, ripping open a swab.
“Depends on the client. Professional hockey players are the worst. Total babies when it comes to post-surgery recovery.” The alcohol stung less than she anticipated, and she let out the breath she’d been holding. “How many days before these can come out?”
She poked at her skin, and he brushed her hand away, re-wiping the area she contaminated with her fingers. “At least another four or five days. Can you pull them out yourself or do you need someone to do it for you?”
“I can do it. No problem.”
“Good.” He smeared some antibiotic gel on a pad of gauze and taped her back up. “Keep them clean and covered. Use a topical ointment. And try to avoid any strenuous exercise for the next few days. Ripped stitches hurt like a bitch.”
Eve’s face heated, and she thanked God when he turned his back to ditch his gloves and toss them on the tray. The only strenuous exercise she’d participated in was last night’s sexcapades, and he didn’t need to kno—
Oh God! Former or not, military men were gossip girls. All. Of. Them.
She let her shirt down and adjusted the waist on her pants. He knew, or maybe he suspected. Either way, no chance another night of rock-her-world-sex was happening, so no worries about putting his handywork at risk. Also, no point in worrying about what Adam’s men thought of her. She’d be gone in the next ten minutes, and they could talk about her all they wanted.
“How’s the shoulder?” he asked, turning back to face her. “Adam said you had some discomfort.”
“It was just a spasm.”
“May I?” Doc pointed at her wrist, and the gold band he wore on his ring finger surprised her.
“Sure.” She lifted her hand, and he inspected her skin, manipulating the joint back and forth to check her bones with care.
“Any pain?”
“Nope.”
“Bruises still tender?”
“Yep.”
He moved on to her shoulder, and after a quick physical exam, he raised her arm by the elbow to check for proper alignment and range of motion. “You’ve been stretching?”
“Yep.”
Releasing her arm, he felt along her cheeks with both hands. “Swelling’s gone. How’s the pain on the left side?”
“Minimal.”
“Well, you’re definitely on the mend physically. Looks like you’re good to go.”
“Thanks.” She swung her legs over the side of the exam table and would have hopped off except he snagged a stool with the tip of his shoe and rolled it over. He sat and held her in place with a professional gaze that told her he was about to get personal.
“Anything else you want to talk about?”
“Not particularly.”
“Adam also mentioned you’re having some nightmares.”
Goddamn it, she was going to kill the militant meddler. Stab him with her new knife. Straight through the heart.
“Let me guess,” she said her voice rough with anger. “He also told you I’m scared of the dark and have to sleep with the light on. Right?” She didn’t want help dealing with her nyctophobia, and she didn’t need it.
