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Mr. I-Know-What-You’re-Thinking-Because-of-Your-Feet would never have that problem. He studied body language, she studied bodily injuries. Not the kind of emotional injuries that might help her understand him.

And maybe that was why he was good at reading people. Maybe it wasn’t just study but something he’d developed during a rough childhood.

She sank back into her spot on the seat and looked toward her window as he uttered an expletive and dragged her back to him.

This time, rather than wrap an arm around her, he twisted and grabbed her by the hips. One second she was on the seat, the next she was in his lap. “You’re going to hurt your ankle!”

“Shut up, Grace.” He caught her by the back of the neck and pulled her against him, his mouth immediately on hers.

His lips, soft and sweetened with the lingering taste of berries, stroked and nibbled, coaxing her mouth open within seconds.

Her arms rested against his chest, but as his tongue sought hers and the kiss deepened, the fighting from the past long minutes fled her mind. Instinctively, her arms slid around his shoulders as his went around her. Wide, hot hands pressed against the cool skin of her bare back and on down to her hip to keep her close to him.

She’d seen him kiss countless women, and had always wondered what it was like even while envying them. Even when her coping mechanism was to pretend that she didn’t think anything about him at all.

It felt like a drug. Like it heightened her senses and tuned her into him so acutely that her heart changed rhythm to match his beat. She breathed his air and plowed her fingers into his hair to kiss him better, get him closer. Every kiss dragged her deeper into him.

A kiss like no other. If it was because of all his practice, she didn’t care.

If it was because she’d been starved for it for so long, had imagined it so many times, she didn’t care what that said about her either.

Their time together was almost at an end. Soon they’d be back at the clinic, and frequent visits would dwindle to only a few and then back to none. None, because that was normal for them. They’d done all they could to unweave all their ties six years ago, and she had no illusions that he’d start unweaving them again once he no longer had to have her with him. He might still want her, but there were so many women who could be whatever he wanted. A girlfriend without their baggage, without their obstacles, without jeopardizing the friendship he held dear.

This bubble that New York cast around them, it felt like a different planet. A place where they could talk about that stupid trench coat, and a place where inexplicable anger and hungry kisses could confirm that old desire still clung to them both. The only place it could exist.

The door they sat beside opened, a blast of humid air hitting them both. Liam jerked his head back, eyes glazed and panting.

“Sir?” the doorman said. “Want me to close the door back up?”

Tonight they were at the front entrance. She’d forgotten that they weren’t sneaking in and out through the back since he’d deigned to use the cane. A flash went off. Then another. Stupid cameras.

She felt him retreat before he’d moved an inch.

The wall came up, and he put her down gently. The next instant he had his cane and had climbed from the car.

This time he didn’t wait for her to get his elbow but started forward with the cane and a stronger hobble.

She got her bag and accepted a hand out from the doorman, thanking him before she went to catch up with Liam.

Something had just happened, she just wasn’t sure what.

Two days later, decked out in her classy, cotton, roomy, embroidered polo and slacks, Grace walked beside her morning patient at the clinic, holding on to the small woman’s support belt as she used the double bars to take shaky but supported steps toward the end.

Finally, a patient who didn’t confuse her.

A patient who liked her and listened to her advice.

“You’re doing great. Don’t rush.”

“I want to sit down and the sooner I get to the end, the sooner I get to sit down,” Mrs. Peters said.

“And every step gets you closer to needing to sit less. You’re doing so well. I can honestly say you’re the best patient I have had in days.”

The woman stopped midway and Grace kept holding on to the support belt, as she always did.

“I need just a little breather.”

“Take your time. You standing here without walking is still making you do work.”

“Yes, it is. I don’t know how I got so weak.”

Grace knew. Stroke. It had been caught fairly quickly, but it had still had time to do some damage.

“Muscle weakens really fast. Many of the people who come visit me here don’t actually even have direct accidents or illnesses to blame for the atrophy. It happens if you just spend too much time sitting. My gran needed a bit of rehab after she had particularly nasty flu, just because she wasn’t active in that time. It sneaks up on you.”

Mrs. Peters nodded and inched her hands along the bars, supporting herself that way before they took another step. “A good reason to keep going.”

“You can wait a bit more if you want to. It’s probably only...six more steps to the end. That was one. Five more.”

Other physical therapists on staff came and went with their patients during the day, but the facilities came with the kinds of equipment that made it possible to do this kind of work with only one therapist. She had safety harnesses and leads that hooked to the ceiling if the client was too heavy for the belt, but Grace preferred the belt. She’d liked it best when she’d been rebuilding her own muscle after her accident. It was smoother than the cables. Felt more secure, even if that was the opposite of true. Being connected to a person rather than some apparatus brought trust into the equation, and she’d swear that patients who could use the belt with her help got better faster.

Together they counted the steps, and once Mrs. Peters got to the end, Grace helped her turn and sit in the chair that she’d already placed there. “Let me get you some water. Don’t go walking around while I’m gone, now.”

She stepped into the storage room and snagged a cold bottle of water from the cooler. Her phone rang when she was in there. She glanced at the screen and rolled it to voice mail.

She didn’t want to talk to Nick. She was having a hard enough time finding ways to not think about Liam, without Nick talking about anything. He invariably talked about his best friend.

And she was a terrible liar, and what was she supposed to say if he asked about her weekend? Great. I went to New York and made out with your best friend who I’d currently like to strangle because he’s being a big taciturn jerk?

After the steamy kiss in the back of the limo he’d gone to his room and she to hers, and she hadn’t seen him again until the morning when Miles came to knock and give her the ten-minute warning before they went to the airport and she’d gone to Liam’s suite to wrap his ankle.

Yes, he’d accepted the ice.

He’d been polite but had slept most of the flight.

He’d taken the anti-inflammatories when she’d foisted them on him.

But what he’d refused to do was talk. He didn’t actually say, I don’t want to talk to you. There had been no yelling. He’d just failed to engage about anything.

“I’d like to watch television for a bit, Grace,” Mrs. Peters said. “I didn’t sleep well last night and feel tired today, but my son isn’t coming to pick me up for another half an hour.”

Grace flipped the brakes off on the chair and wheeled the small, frail woman around to a wall-mounted television above where the treadmills faced. She confirmed that Mrs. Peters wanted her to phone her son to come and pick her up.

She didn’t have any other clients this afternoon as her clients had been shifted to other therapists—she’d only had Mrs. Peters because of a scheduling misunderstanding.

What she should do was call Liam and check on him. Even if he didn’t want to talk to her about anything else, he was the one who had dragged her into this patient-therapist relationship, so she’d do the job she was supposed to do.

She dialed.

Liam answered on the second ring. “Afternoon, Grace.”

“Hi. Just checking on the ankle. Doing all right? Keeping it elevated? Heat instead of ice?”

“Doing all prescribed actions.”

She opened her mouth but heard Liam’s name on the television and turned to look at it.

“You’re on TV. Mrs. Peters is watching something. Interview.”

“I had a couple of interviews this morning.”

“Did you use your cane?”

“I did. And they came to the house so I didn’t have to go to them. Foot elevated and all that. I told you I’d do what you told me as soon as I was able to.”

A picture of Grace flashed up on the television, all decked out in her beautiful deep taupe, sparkly halter gown. “They asked about me?”

Watching the interview and talking to Liam at the same time was...weird.

“Is that you, Grace?” Mrs. Peters asked. “You know that Liam Carter?”

“Yes. And it’s... Yes.” She answered Mrs. Peters first and then added into the phone, “Why were they asking?”

She stopped when Liam’s eighteen-inch head began laughing off the idea of dating her. Just his physical therapist. Just a friend from childhood. Just there to make sure he didn’t do anything silly with his ankle in wraps.

“Wow,” she said into the phone, not even sure what she felt about the denial. The way bighead TV Liam phrased it, the notion was laughable. Like there had been no kissing. No history worth mentioning aside from having been childhood friends. Nothing romantic at all.

“It’s just the way you handle the press, right?” he said, trying to lead her to the same conclusion.

But all she could say was, “Wow.”

Mrs. Peters’s son arrived, having just wandered back inside from the grounds. She needed to go.

“I’ll call you tomorrow to set up your first appointment in two days.” Before he could say anything, she hung up and stashed her phone.

The chair her patient was currently using belonged to the facility, so she needed to transfer her back to her own chair and remove the belt once she was securely seated. She could think about Big Laughing Head Liam later.

Right now she didn’t have room inside her own small head for all...that.

“What the hairy hell, Liam?”

Liam winced into his phone at his best friend’s voice crackling down the line, loud and sharp enough to peel the eardrum from his ear. He’d been expecting Nick to call all afternoon, but he’d expected to get a greeting out before the expletives came into play.

It took a little effort, but he kept his voice steady and calm. He deserved his friend’s wrath, but knowing that still didn’t make it easier. “Hi, Nick. I guess you’ve been watching the gossip blogs.”

“No, television, actually. And there you were with my sister in New York. Together. Holding hands, and then more... So let me ask again, what the hairy hell, Liam?”

“I sprained my ankle.” Liam had expected a call, but for some reason he hadn’t expected anger. Even in the rare instances that he and Nick had disagreed, it had only ever gotten physical once. And that time? His temper had started it, over nothing of consequence, and it had ended after they’d exchanged punches.

He’d always skipped this part during his Interlude with Grace fantasies. Consequences were rarely fantasy material, so he’d cut off anytime his imaginings had strayed in that direction.

“And?” Nick said.

“And I went to Grace to get help to finish my press tour and go to the premieres, she went with me to the East Coast premieres because having a date helps keep me from doing as much walking as I do when I’m alone. Right now, I’m sitting with my foot elevated and a heating thing on it. I have physical therapy at the clinic starting in a couple days. After I’ve had a mandatory rest on it.”

“That doesn’t explain the shots of her on your lap in the back of a limo, man.”

No, it didn’t.

That he couldn’t explain. He’d done precisely what he’d sworn he’d never do—he’d crossed lines with Grace. “That was bad judgment. A mistake.”

“You could have found another date. You could have found twenty dates to take with you and keep you from walking around too much.”

He gripped the phone and switched to the other ear, this one starting to hurt from how hard he’d been smashing it with the earpiece.

One mistake in fifteen years wasn’t so much.

Especially considering that he had turned her down in that trench coat, not that he had ever told Nick that. And he wouldn’t tell him now. Nick didn’t know about it and Grace deserved more. “It’s complicated, but it’s fine. Everything’s fine now. It was a kiss, we didn’t do anything else.”

“Then why isn’t she responding to my texts or answering my calls?”

“I don’t know. Because you’re acting like a possessive older brother?” The words came out before he could stop them and Liam suppressed a sigh, trying again. “She’s seen the interviews I did this morning, so she’s probably not answering because she didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Why not? What else did you do?”

“Dude! Do you really think I’d ever set out to hurt her?”

He heard Nick sigh and after a moment he said in a quieter tone, “You’re my best friend so don’t take this the wrong way, but Grace is not a player. She’s a good girl. She went through a bad-boy phase and she couldn’t handle it. I’m not sure how she grew up around us and remained an innocent little angel, but she did. She can’t handle you.”

Nick saw what he wanted to see, but there was a naughty side to Grace that Liam would never expose. A side that family should never see. But other than that, she pretty much fit the word Nick had selected. “I didn’t molest her.”

“You don’t have to. All you have to do is be yourself. She’s been more than half in love with you since she was twelve years old.”

“She had a crush.”

“No. She had...she had feelings for you. That’s why when she stopped talking about you I stopped inviting her out with us. You still come up in conversations, but she shut down after you left. For a long time. I don’t know what she feels now, I just know that you’re a weak spot for her. You might not mean to make women fall at your feet, but it could be messy with Grace. Even if you don’t mean to hurt her...”

This understanding and caring older brother thing chafed his already raw conscience, and he couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice. “Are you telling me to stay away from her?”

“Do I have to?”

“No. I’m seeing her for my physical therapy, but we’re not traveling together anymore. They’ve got me scheduled for, like...ten visits. Five days a week for two weeks, weekends off. And it will be in a clinical setting. She’s good at what she does, and she understands what’s going on. She’s the one who was taping my ankle and keeping me upright this weekend.” He could probably find all that with a different physical therapist, and that’s where his conscience was catching. The secret was out, so any decent physical therapist could see him in the clinic for the next two weeks. There were probably even other PTs at the clinic he could see instead.

But he didn’t want to go to them. And that he couldn’t defend, so when Nick started cautioning him again, Liam cut in. “I know you’re protective, but you don’t have to protect her from me. I love your family, Nick. I’ve got to go, but give her some space. She’ll call you back when she wants to talk.”

He hung up before he started shouting.

Because, yes, he’d screwed up, and he kept screwing up when it came to Grace.

When she’d called earlier with that interview playing in the background, he’d been hoping she’d walk out of the room, or that someone would change the channel. It had been an example of what not to do: go to an interview without knowing what you were going to say about everything. He hadn’t known what to say about Grace, so he’d stuck with the physical therapist story they’d sold to his producers. It was easy. It flowed off the tongue. He’d had to force the levity there at the end, and the laugh had rung false to his ears. But, then, he knew his fake laughs from his real ones. He’d gotten good enough at faking them that most other people didn’t. Grace hadn’t spent enough time with him in the past few years to even have a chance of recognizing them.

To her ears, that all probably sounded legit.

Everything with her had somehow spiraled out of control. That dress had made him stupid. Dinner. The conversation he should have never started. A smarter man would have just left that subject alone rather than pick at it, thinking he could fix it.

He dropped the phone onto the table beside him before he gave in to the urge to throw it.

He was supposed to sit still for three whole days. All he wanted to do was run. Run from all this, find a peaceful beach and let his feet pound wet sand.

And it was the first time he’d ever wanted to run from any of the Watsons.

When he’d first known them and he’d run, it had been toward their house. The safe place. The place with parents who’d made sure he’d done his homework, given him a standing invite to dinner, and had always picked up a third one of anything they’d bought for their own two kids.

Even when she’d shown up at his door in her black underwear, he hadn’t wanted to run from her. Every step away had been sluggish and hard.

He didn’t want to feel that again. He just didn’t know how to fix things with her. It could be that they could never be friends. That there was too much there for them to resist. Too much pull. Too much need—to laugh, to kiss, to talk.

They might never be able to be friends, and if he kept trying, the one friendship he could hold on to would sour.

Because Nick was right. Even if he didn’t mean to, he would hurt Grace in the long run. She was innocent. She was good and loyal. She had a shining example of a long, happy marriage to aspire to.

And the look in her eyes when she’d talked about the bandage exchange with little Brody. Grace was mother material. Grace was built for marriage and the fairy tale. While he was doomed to be surrounded by addicts and to watch them fall off, one by one, she had white picket fences and playdates in her future. He was the product of something twisted and ugly. He knew enough about the way people passed their sickness on to their families, their children...and he couldn’t risk it.

Nick was right. He needed to stay away. He just needed to keep things cool between them until then.

Professional. Being friends would never work. Not now.

Not after that kiss.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THREE DAYS SINCE Liam had last seen Grace, he walked with the aid of his crutches into The Hollywood Hills Clinic. After signing in, he headed downstairs, praying for a good reception.

Their first day back she’d called to check on him, but he hadn’t heard her voice since that call. Oh, she’d still checked in on him twice each day, which was probably more than any other physical therapist did with unruly patients, but it had been via text. Short texts. Terse texts. One-word texts: Update?

And he’d taken the hint. Don’t call her. Because what could he say?

I can’t kiss you anymore because your brother will be mad at me?

I can’t kiss you anymore because all I want to do is rip your clothes off and find new, creative, and wildly satisfying ways to hurt my ankle?

Without direction from her, he decided to go to the big room with the equipment rather than the pool this morning.

“Morning.” Her greeting came from the office area and he forced himself fully into the room.

Liam tilted an ear, rolling her words and tone around in his mind as he called back, “Morning. Am I the first patient?”

Come out of there, Gracie. I need to see you, to see how you are...

“You’re my first patient,” she confirmed, stepping out of the office. “Everyone’s got their first appointment of the day. You’re not late, I just scheduled you about fifteen minutes after theirs.” Busily tapping on the tablet she carried to make notes, she didn’t even look at him.

Which told him enough. She was still very unhappy with him.

“Where are the others?”

“I don’t know. There are three of us here, and a few different therapy rooms that can be used. We’re going to one of the private rooms since we’re starting light this morning.” She gestured for him to follow her and stepped back out. A short distance away a bright corridor turned off and he followed her to the last room.

Inside there was a work table along with some chairs and counters. All very modern, clean, and comfortable looking as far as examination tables went.

What he should be aiming for was to handle this in a wholly professional capacity. It would be wonderful if they could be friends without all the rest of it, but it just didn’t look likely. So feeling let down that she didn’t want to look at him made him an idiot.

“Where do you want me?”

“Hop up on the table if you can,” she said, putting the tablet down and grabbing a rolling stool for herself.

“Of course I can. I’ve been navigating stairs with these suckers for days. I’m just about to go pro in the Stair Climbing with Crutches event.” He maneuvered himself up onto the table and scooted back, finally letting himself look at her more closely when he settled. All that professional nonsense aside, part of him still wanted her to smile at him. He had to do better than this.

Back in normal clothes, back in their own corners, she looked at him much like she had that first day: like she wanted nothing to do with him.

“I’m just going to unwrap and have a look at it. Have you been having any trouble wrapping it?”

“Yes. I am not nearly as good at it.” He leaned back and held his leg out for her to do whatever she was going to.

Still not looking at him, which was probably for the best. Eye contact led to words, and he had no words to offer her. Every time he tried to think about what to say, his mind invariably turned to replaying the limo ride, the way every time his tongue had slipped into her mouth she had rewarded him with moans and sighs, with pressing closer, with her hand tangling in his hair.

God. Stop it.

All he’d managed to riddle out was the fact that they’d have to go back to operating in strictly separate worlds after this ankle business was finished. If he were a stronger man—a better man—he could control himself. But apparently he couldn’t do that.

His foot bare, she stashed the support implements to the side and gently turned his leg this way and that to examine it.

And there would be no wincing. He might not be strong in mind but he would be...strong in pain control.

“How does it look?”

“A little better. The bruising where the blood pooled isn’t much different, but it’s almost gone from the higher areas, away from where the actual damage occurred. But we really can’t push it today. We’re going to measure range of motion, what you can do on your own without my help, and what you can do with a little help from me. Did you take any pain medicine this morning?”

“I took the one you have to eat with. It helps more than the other.”

She nodded and got some kind of protractor and a chair and began walking him through basic movements.

Businesslike, but still gentle with touches.

His range of motion was really bad. She had him moving until it hurt, and she would gently press until he cried uncle.

The up-and-down motion, the usual walking foot motion, was better than he’d thought it would be but any rotation in the socket made him want to jerk his leg out of her hands.