Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nash
I open the door to find Bennett on the porch, hands shoved into his back pockets, baseball cap on backwards, shoulders hunched like a kid about to confess to breaking a window. “Don’t hate me.”
“Boy, with that as your opener, I feel real great about what’s coming.”
With a sheepish dip of his chin, my brother steps aside.
And there she is.
Lucy Calder. On crutches. Standing stiffly, like she’d rather vanish into the porch railing than meet my eyes.
But then she does, and that rollercoaster-drop sensation hits low and hard.
Her cheeks are flushed. Blonde hair twisted into a messy bun.
Gym clothes clinging like she barely made it through the workout alive.
Hold on now—
Workout?
She lifts a hand in a weak wave. “I think it’s kind of weird that I’m at your house too,” she mutters.
My gaze flicks from Bennett to Lucy and back again. “Why do I see sweat and Spandex?”
“Lucy was at the gym trying to rehab her ankle using a YouTube video,” Bennett says, like this is a perfectly normal, totally sane idea.
I blink. My brain misfires. I press a hand to my forehead and exhale, slow and sharp.
“That injury is four days old and you’re at the gym? Of all the reckless, idiotic…”
I catch the way Lucy shrinks back before lifting her chin with a flare of determined pride. Just a flicker of weakness before she covered it. But enough. I pivot and lock my glare on Bennett instead.
“You expect me to be okay with this? With her being this stubborn and stupid—”
“Before you dig yourself a big ole hole of judgment you can’t climb out of,” he interrupts, “I literally ran into her and knocked her over. I just want to make sure she’s okay like any decent human would.
And since I know a guy…” My brother raises his brows.
“Maybe stop with the lectures and open the damn door?”
An entire sermon on the possibility of permanently damaging that ankle marches around my brain, but I press my lips together and step aside, jaw tight, as Lucy crutches past.
The scent hits me first—coconut and sweat and something sun-warmed. It’s somehow both annoying and unmistakably pleasant. She moves through my space with careful, deliberate steps, like she’s not entirely sure she should be here.
And I feel the same.
Having her in my house is disorienting. In the ER, everything has rules. Hierarchy. Purpose. Here, it’s quieter. Personal.
Too personal.
Not only is she a patient, but she’s a patient I can’t seem to get out of my head.
And now she’s in my living room.
“Sit,” I say, pointing more gently than I feel. Lucy obeys, lowering herself slowly. I kneel beside her to remove the boot and immediately regret that choice.
Not because of the ankle. Because of everything else.
The smooth line of her calf.
The faint freckles on her knee.
Everything about her comes into my awareness, even the involuntary way she stiffens when I reach for the strap.
“Is it okay if I take this off?” I ask, catching myself just in time.
“Yeah. That’s fine.”
Her nod is small. Trusting. And, given the spark of want snaking through me, completely undeserved. If I thought she affected me at the hospital, it’s ten times worse here at my house, with all the boundaries of professionalism removed.
I focus on the ankle. Just the ankle. Not the soft skin. Not the muscular thigh or the skintight shorts.
Just the joint. Just the injury.
I ease the boot open and slide it off, fingers brushing warm skin as I check the swelling. Improved, but still puffy. Bruising lingers across the top of her foot, bleeding purple into the arch. The joint’s stable. Good.
I take longer than I should. Partly because I’m thorough. Partly because I’m stalling.
When I glance up, our eyes meet. Just for a second, but still too long.
Lucy looks away first and I remind myself why she’s here. This isn’t just any woman. Not just my brother’s childhood friend I’m doing a favor for. Not simply someone with eyes that hold too much fire for her age.
She’s a patient.
A young, impulsive, temporary patient.
And I am a grown man with no desire for the chaos of the young, the impulsive, or the temporary.
“You’re healing,” I say, sitting back enough to feel in control again. “But you need to stop trying to outsmart your body. What in the world made you think you could rehab yourself? With something you found on the internet?”
Lucy’s back stiffens. “Some of us don’t have the kind of money that comes with a medical degree.”
Well, hell. She’s got me there. Remorse stirs in my gut.
“Lucy—”
“No,” she cuts in, hands raised. “If you can call me reckless and idiotic, then I deserve a chance to explain.”
I fall silent. Something in her voice makes it feel like a request, not a challenge.
“I quit both my jobs before driving out here to visit. That means no income and no insurance until this tour kicks off, which would have been fine except now I’m injured.
And if I don’t figure out how to get back on my feet fast, they’ll fire me from the tour, which is not only a financial disaster, but also, I’ve worked way too hard to lose the first big break to come my way.
I can’t even drive thanks to this ankle, so I can’t go home, and I’m sleeping on my best friend’s couch until some magical time when this foot is strong enough to press a gas pedal. ”
She swallows hard but keeps her chin high.
“I wasn’t being reckless or stupid. I’m taking control, doing the only thing I can to keep my head above water in an impossible situation.
I watched fifteen videos before I even set foot in the gym, then picked the gentlest exercises I could find.
All non-weight-bearing stuff. Just resistance bands.
Then I got on a stationary bike. Low resistance, just like the physical therapist in the video suggested. ”
Her voice dips to a whisper. “I can’t sit here and do nothing until my life falls apart. I hate feeling helpless, Dr. Kincaid. Hate it.”
I’ve heard people scream about far less. Rage at nurses. Cry in elevators. But Lucy just sits here, spine straight, hands motionless. Fighting for a future that could still slip through her fingers.
Somewhere along the line, I forgot how it felt to be young, broke, and desperate. But right now, I very much remember how it feels to be an asshole.
I scrub a hand over my jaw, something in me rearranging. “I get it,” I say. “Really. I hate feeling helpless, too. Sorry I called you stupid.”
Her smile is tired and wry. “Sorry you got my life story spewed out in your living room.”
“And I’m sorry I don’t have something to get me out of the room while you two wrestle with whatever weird tension this is,” Bennett chimes in, startling me because I somehow forgot he was here.
“Oh wait,” he continues, “just remembered, I’m parched.
” He spins on his heel and disappears into the kitchen.
I turn back to Lucy, a crazy idea forming. I rake a hand through my hair as if I could physically push the thought away. This girl surely has family. Friends. People in her life who can help her.
Solving her problem is not my job.
She does not need me running to her rescue.
“I have a friend,” I find myself saying anyway. “He’s a physical therapist. Owes me a favor.”
Lucy’s already shaking her head. “I told you; I can’t afford—”
“Let me finish.” I perch on the edge of the coffee table, elbows on knees, eyes steady on hers.
“He’ll build you a plan. I’ll run it with you here, in my gym.
Make sure you’re doing it right. Use the pool for cardio.
No charge. No strings. Just until you’re ready to drive yourself back to Los Angeles. ”
Lucy narrows her eyes like she’s trying to read the ulterior motives off my forehead. “Why would you do that?”
That’s a damn good question, I answer in my head.
“Because I can,” I say instead. “Because I want to.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“True. But like I said, I hate feeling helpless, too.” My voice dips, more honest than I meant it to be.
Silence stretches between us. She shifts on the couch, the crutches leaning beside her like a threat. “I don’t take handouts.”
“It’s not a handout.” I tap my fingers against my knee, searching for a way to spin this so it doesn’t tweak her pride.
“It’s a trade. This guy hates knowing he owes me and is constantly in my way, trying to help with something.
Think golden retriever with a guilt complex.
If I cash in on this favor, he’ll leave me alone. ”
It’s a weak explanation at best and the look on Lucy’s face confirms.
“I just… I can’t let you do that.”
“That’s fair.” I shift to slide my phone out of my pocket. “Still, text me so you have my number in case you change your mind.”
I give her my number, and she sends a simple text.
Just her name. I add her to my contacts while she watches, guarded but curious.
Before I can respond, Bennett reappears, drink in hand, brow furrowing as his gaze bounces between us.
Lucy winces as she adjusts on the couch, and without thinking, I reach out to steady her.
My hand lands on her arm and she looks at me.
Just looks. And for a second, I forget every reason she’s a bad idea.
But only for a second.
“You need ice,” I mutter, pulling back fast.
She nods, eyes unreadable. “Yeah. Probably. Thanks.”
I turn toward the kitchen, my pulse ticking a little faster than I want to admit.
What in the hell was that all about?
And why?
Why am I offering to rehab a stray, in my home, free of charge?
Why didn’t I just check out the ankle and keep my dumb mouth shut?
As I yank a plastic baggie out of the box to fill with ice, I hear Bennett ask, “How come you’re staying with Stella and not your parents?”
“Dad didn’t exactly get easier with age.”
Bennett makes a knowing sound. “That sucks.”
“It is what it is.”
I don’t miss the weight behind her words. They sit heavy on my shoulders.
That’s why, whispers a voice in the back of my mind.
A knock hits the door.
“I’ll get it,” Bennett calls as Lucy murmurs something about that being her ride.
I step into the living room while my brother throws the door wide to reveal a striking woman with big energy, lethal eyes, and battle-ready posture.
“Stella,” he says, voice flat.
“Bennett,” she snaps. “Seriously? You body-checked a woman on crutches?”
“Wouldn’t have happened if you’d picked her up on time.” My brother draws himself up to his full height and glares down at the woman on my porch.
She looks as bothered by him as she would a baby bunny. “I was just heading out when she told me about this whole thing.”
“Oh, look at that,” Bennett says dryly, “all these years later and still, nothing’s ever your fault.”
Charged silence descends between them and suddenly I’m the one looking for an exit strategy.
Lucy struggles to her feet with a heavy sigh. “That’s enough, you two. Thank you, Dr. Kincaid, for looking at my ankle and for the help you’re offering.”
“Please, call me Nash.” I hand her the bag of ice wrapped in a paper towel, not sure what I find more disconcerting, the flash of feeling jolting through me when our fingers brush, or the palpable tension thrumming between Bennett and Stella.
“And my offer to help is genuine. Text me when you’re ready to take me up on it. ”
Stella watches me like she’s memorizing my face in case she needs to kill me later. “Appreciate you looking after her.”
“Anytime,” I say. Weirdly, I mean it.
She and Lucy head out, the door shutting behind them. Bennett watches them go, then blows out a breath like he’s been holding it the entire time.
“What was that all about?” I ask, crossing my arms.
“The sexual tension?” He widens his eyes and holds out his hands, almost like he could wipe it away. “I thought I was imagining it.”
“Definitely not your imagination. I thought you hated each other.”
Bennett snorts. “Lucy? I could never hate Lucy.”
“No.” I recoil, because how in the world is he confused here? “Not Lucy. Stella.”
“There was zero tension between me and Stella,” Bennett says, completely lacking self-awareness as per usual.
“You’re kidding, right? You two practically had a standoff on my porch. I’m shocked the windows didn’t fog over from the heat.”
He guffaws. “That’s what they call projection, my friend. Or maybe transference. You took all that pent-up tension between you and Lucy and slapped it right onto me and Stella.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Am I?” Bennett drops onto the couch with a look only a younger brother could get away with. “Because if she’d blushed any harder or you’d stared any longer, Jane Austen herself would’ve crawled out of the grave to write a sequel to Pride and Prejudice.”
I raise a brow.
“Don’t look so surprised. I’ve had girlfriends.”
I scrub a hand down my face, almost ready to push him out the door.
But he’s not done.
“What really has me questioning your sanity is this whole rehab plan thing.”
Honestly? Same. But I said what I said, so there’s no point in admitting it now. Besides, the look on Lucy’s face made it clear she won’t be taking me up on my offer.
Thank God.
I plop onto the couch next to my brother. “I thought helping people was the decent thing to do.”
“It is,” he says. “But when exactly are you planning to fit this into your overflowing calendar? Did you suddenly unlock a bonus day between Tuesday and Wednesday? Maybe Jadelyn was wrong when she said you were married to your job.”
My jaw tightens. “Not cool.”
Bennett scoots forward on the couch with an apologetic wince. “Yeah. That was a low blow. I was going for funny and overshot. Strike it from the record?”
I nod once. “Struck.”
“All I’m saying is, don’t let your savior complex commit to Lucy if you don’t actually have the bandwidth. She’s been let down enough. If you’re going to show up for her, really show up. Otherwise… it’s better to step back.”
I look toward the door, where the scent of coconut shampoo still lingers faintly in the air.
He’s right. It’s better to step back.
For both of us.