Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Lucy
Three days later, Nash opens his front door and steps aside, gesturing for me to enter. “Welcome to Bootleg Rehab, à la Nash. The gym’s this way.”
I hobble past him, the thunk of my crutches echoing like a warning shot. All it took was one pointed conversation with Stella and Gabby to make me see how ridiculous it’d be not to take him up on his offer.
Okay. Two conversations.
Fine.
It was three.
Three conversations.
But they finally helped me see that letting my pride make the decision might cost me a chance at keeping my spot on the Sandro René tour. And if they were willing to give a Kincaid the benefit of the doubt, that speaks loads.
Still, being here feels… weird.
Today, I notice him more than his house.
A black T-shirt stretches across broad shoulders, sleeves hugging arms that definitely know their way around a weight rack.
Exercise shorts sit low on his hips, and that dark, tousled hair?
Completely unfair. He runs a hand through it as I glance his way, almost like he knows.
“Nice place,” I say, because complimenting the decor gets my focus off the man. “I don’t think I said that the last time I was here. I really like the way you’ve decorated the place.”
It’s masculine, but not in that fake, bachelor-magazine kind of way. Clean lines. Warm wood tones. Earthy colors that feel calm without being boring. A mix of leather and linen, metal and reclaimed wood, like he wanted it to feel like home, but didn’t overthink it.
I shift the bag on my shoulder, feigning casual. “Plus, you know, a gym. And a pool…”
“I’m an ER doc in Florida. The pool is practically required.” His voice is warm, easy, like we do this every day.
I glance out the window and nearly melt. Sunlight glinting off still water, palm trees rustling like they have nothing better to do. “If I lived here, I don’t think I’d ever leave.”
Nash shrugs and his shoulder muscles beg to be admired. “I only do under duress. Or to save lives. Sometimes both.”
There it is. That dry edge. A flicker of something wry beneath all that calm.
Of course he’s funny too. Great.
“Oh yeah.” I shift my bag and peel back the zipper to retrieve a small paper bag inside. “I made Stella stop at Holiday Coffee & Cakes to get a thank-you croissant. Violet makes them herself and they’re so good I haven’t found anything better in Los Angeles… and I’ve tried. Believe me.”
I hand the bag over, and Nash lifts it to his nose. When he inhales, something unguarded flickers across his face—soft, warm, a smile so real it makes me smile in return.
“I believe you,” he says. “Simon and Violet are my aunt and uncle. I probably spent half my childhood in their bakery. For the longest time, I believed I met Santa there when I was six.” His mouth quirks at the memory. “My cousins basically grew up behind that counter.”
“Oh my gosh, that’s right.” I shake my head, genuinely baffled I didn’t connect the dots sooner. “I can’t believe I didn’t put that together. I spent so much time at Holiday’s with Bennett, and then Stella and Gabby when we were kids. Simon and Violet are the best.”
“They really are.” Something shifts in his voice—quieter, almost reverent. “Simon stepped up after my dad died. I was sixteen. Old enough to think I didn’t need anyone, young enough to be completely wrong about that. He got through to me in a way no one else could.”
“I can totally see that.” Warmth rises behind my ribs, surprising and tender.
The image of Simon Holiday guiding a grief-stricken teenager makes my throat tighten.
“He and Violet helped me through some tough stuff with my parents. They have this way of making you feel like you belong. Like you matter. I don’t think a stranger has ever walked through the doors of their bakery. ”
Nash’s brows pull together, not with confusion—more like he’s noticing something he can’t quite name. “It’s kinda weird, isn’t it? You being so close with so many members of my family.”
“It is.” I pull my lips into a frown. “Especially since we never actually met until now.”
But the oddest part is how right it feels.
Like maybe I’ve known Nash Kincaid longer than just a handful of days.
Like some small, quiet part of me has been waiting to meet him.
We were both shaped by the same people, in different ways. Maybe that explains the strange tug low in my stomach whenever he looks at me.
“Well, thank you for the croissant,” Nash says. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“You didn’t have to do this.” I gesture uselessly. “I appreciate what you’re doing for me. So much.”
One dark brow lifts and I suddenly feel like a little girl about to get a lecture from her dad. “So, the use of my time, my home, my gym equipment is worth one croissant. Good to know.”
I practically choke, immediately regretting… well… everything. “No. No. It’s worth way more. Obviously. I just wanted to do something nice…”
Nash holds up his hands. “Easy there. I’m joking. Remind me never to do it again.”
I huff a nervous laugh, biting the inside of my cheek as he gestures me toward the hallway. “Come on. Let’s get to work.”
The gym is more functional than flashy. Padded floors, weight racks, a treadmill, resistance bands, and two yoga mats stacked neatly in the corner—one of them looking suspiciously new. Light filters through a row of narrow windows near the ceiling, casting soft shadows across the space.
“We’re going super easy today, starting with some light resistance work.
Very light,” Nash emphasizes, grabbing a foam mat and unrolling it for me.
“Then we’ll do some weight bearing exercises in the pool, so you can start testing range of motion.
After that, I’ll check for any increase in swelling, and we’ll finish with a massage.
” He claps his hands together like this is no big deal and I blink in surprise.
“Massage?”
He arches a brow. “Therapeutic massage. Part of physical rehab protocols. It’s not spa day, it’s targeted therapy.”
“Yeah. Totally. Targeted therapy.” I lower myself awkwardly onto the mat, trying to keep my tone neutral, even though the thought of Nash Kincaid giving me a massage has my heart doing that funny little tripping thing again.
Like, what the heck even is that?
“I’d like to try and push a little today,” I say, refocusing on why I’m actually here. “Not to the point of hurting myself, just, you know, I’m chomping at the bit to get my life back. The sooner this ankle is back in action, the sooner I can figure out my next move.”
Nash eyes me with a mixture of frustration and, is that...? No. It couldn’t be.
Is that respect?
“I’ve never had a patient as stubborn as you before,” he says with a solemn shake of his head.
I arch a brow and hit Nash with my best smile. “You mean you’ve never had a patient as stubborn as you before.”
“That’s what I said.” A flicker of amusement sparks in his eyes as he catches what I meant. “Fair point. Clever girl.”
Oh wow.
A compliment…?
My cheeks catch fire so fast they might qualify as a second injury. I can feel the flush creeping down my neck, heat prickling at my collarbone…
Great. I’m blushing. And I can’t even blame it on embarrassment this time.
“Fair warning, though,” Nash begins—and wait, hold on now… tell me that’s not a smolder—“no one’s as stubborn as me.”
If Stella were here, she’d be smirking so hard her face would cramp.
“We’ll see about that.”
A ghost of a grin flashes across his face as he hands me a band. “Hook this around the ball of your foot. Not too tight. Just give me steady resistance.”
I follow his directions. My ankle protests at first, then settles into something tolerable. Nash watches every movement with quiet focus, occasionally adjusting the angle of my leg or the placement of the band. He doesn’t talk much. Just watches. Corrects. Watches again.
There’s something intimate about it.
Which is weird, right?
With a real physical therapist, in a hospital with other patients doing their thing, I wouldn’t think twice. But here, with Nash, in his home, there’s a level of care that unnerves me.
He guides me through a series of exercises designed to rebuild my poor shredded tendons.
The mechanics of it fascinate me—the whys, the hows—and I ask a million questions he patiently answers.
It’s also harder than I thought. The ankle is weak, unstable.
I tell it to move the way he instructs and it responds, but not the way I’m used to.
All my blind hope and optimism strips away and, for the first time since the accident, I recognize the extent of the damage.
“I’m both disheartened and determined,” I say, watching my ankle quiver with effort.
“Disheartened is normal but let it go. Well, maybe use it to set more realistic expectations and then let it go.” Nash gives me a knowing grin—wow he should smile more—then continues.
“Then we can focus on that determination together. Humble perseverance will get you back on your feet. Maybe even stronger than you were before.”
“Humble perseverance, huh?”
“That’s the name of the game from here on out, kid. Humble enough to admit where you are. Strong enough to push through and persevere.” He stands and offers a hand to help me up. “Let’s move to the pool.”