Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Lucy
Nash and I head back through the house, and he gestures toward a guest bathroom for me to change. I hesitate for half a second before ducking inside. The swimsuit I packed isn’t anything special—plain black, athletic cut—but suddenly it feels too revealing. Too something.
When I step outside, the Florida sun kisses my shoulders. The pool glitters under a perfect blue sky, and Nash is already there, crouched to check the temperature, then rising to his full, unfair height.
I pause on the patio, gripping my crutches a little tighter.
And… promptly forget how to use them.
Because he’s wearing the world’s most ridiculous pair of swim trunks—navy, low-slung, and clinging in all the places polite people aren’t supposed to notice. His chest is bare, lean muscle and sun-warmed skin, a single rivulet of water sliding down from his collarbone.
He catches me looking and grins like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.
His mouth tips into a smirk. “You planning to join me, or just observing?”
“Just, uh, just getting my bearings.”
I inwardly cringe—What is that even supposed to mean?
? Getting my bearings??—then lay my crutches down near the edge and carefully lower myself into the pool.
The water bites at first, cool against my skin, but the relief is instant.
Weightlessness wraps around me like a hug.
For the first time since the accident, I don’t feel like a broken puppet being dragged around by crutches and tape.
Nash swims toward me, his muscles flexing with each stroke. “Let’s start with walking. Slow strides, heel to toe. Use the water’s resistance and buoyancy to take weight off the joint.”
I nod and take a step. My ankle sends warning signals to my brain, but the water supports me.
I try again. And again. Each time steadier.
Nash walks beside me, close enough that our shoulders nearly brush.
Every now and then, his hand ghosts near my back—not touching, just hovering like a safety net.
“You’re doing great,” he says.
I glance up, surprised to find him watching me with something warmer than approval. Admiration, maybe.
“It’s easier to move here,” I say. “I don’t feel like I’m dragging a dead limb.”
“That’s the point.” He stops, gestures for me to turn around. “Let’s try backwards, then we’ll do some calf raises.”
I grab the wall to help balance myself through the calf raises while he watches me close.
Water ripples around us, and the sky stretches forever above us.
In the distance, there’s the gentle crash of waves from the bay hitting the shore.
I forgot how quiet it was here. How peace permeates everything.
It’s… nice. And something about being with Nash only adds to the feeling.
“So this job you’re fighting so hard to keep…” He says, his voice low and personal. “What is it, actually?”
“Backup dancer for Sandro René.” I wait for the typical, excited reaction.
Instead, Nash groans. “That guy? He’s the worst.”
“What?” I spin toward him in disbelief, nearly losing my balance. “Who even says that?”
He shrugs like it’s common knowledge. “People with ears.”
“You realize he’s won artist of the year for, like, five years straight? His concerts are amazing. They sell out almost instantly.”
“What’s popular isn’t always right.”
I stare, open-mouthed. “You’re serious.”
“As a heart attack. You won’t catch me dead listening to him, let alone at one of his concerts.”
“Wow. How old are you?”
“Old enough to know good music when I hear it. And that, my friend, is not it.”
Ready to hit him with a serious rebuttal, I instinctively step in Nash’s direction. My foot protests and I grab for him. My hand hits bare chest. His wraps around my wrist.
Our eyes lock, the water swirling quietly around us. There’s a moment of silence. Of recognition. Of oh crap I suddenly want to climb you like a jungle gym and wait, ‘cause I think the feeling might be mutual.
Nash clears his throat, but his grip doesn’t loosen. “I think we’ve had enough for today.”
We exit the pool, dry off in mostly-silence, but the spell doesn’t quite break. It lingers, warm and crackling, as he leads me back to the gym. I sit down on the mat again, pulse still tripping over itself.
“Let’s check that ankle,” he says, voice lower now. Rougher.
Then his hands are on me. Steady, skilled, professional.
But the vibe is nowhere near clinical. The air is cool against my skin. His fingers… not so much. Nash presses gently into the side of my ankle, and I flinch, not from pain, but from the sudden jolt of awareness.
“You okay?” His voice is quiet. Personal. The timbre sends a chill of pleasure across my nerve-endings.
“Yeah. Just…” aching for you to touch me more “…sensitive.”
His hands slow. “Want me to stop?”
“No,” I say too quickly.
He doesn’t respond. Just begins working the muscles, applying slow, deliberate pressure.
My breath hitches. The ache fades, replaced by heat.
His thumb slides in a slow arc behind my calf, tracing the line where muscle meets tendon.
Every stroke is controlled but there’s nothing casual about the way it feels.
I glance up and find him watching me.
There’s nothing casual about the way that feels, either. His storm-thrashed grays meet my blues in a riot of connection. Of tension. Of recognition.
Neither of us speaks. Nash’s mouth twitches like he’s got something to say, but then his eyes dart away and he gives his focus back to the massage.
He’s close—not close enough to touch my face, but if I leaned in, just a little, I could thread my fingers into his hair, press my lips to his—
My phone rings.
I react fast, fumbling for it, heart hammering in my throat. The name on the screen knocks the air out of me.
Terrence. My agent. The man I should have called days ago.
Desperate for a distraction, I answer, then gape as he gives me the worst news yet… in front of a man I barely know and kinda sorta almost kissed just now.
“What do you mean, I lost the job?” My chest feels empty. My stomach drops. In another world, I’d excuse myself to a different room, but I’m not exactly mobile.
Terrence sighs. “You should have called me, Lucy. I could have talked to the casting director and the choreographer. Not saying it would have gone any better for you, but you might have had a chance.”
“What happened? Rehearsals haven’t even started yet.” I glare at my ankle, then reluctantly meet Nash’s eyes. The concern I see there has me pushing back the knot of fear in my chest.
I will not emotionally detonate in front of this man with his grownup job, gorgeous house, and stable life.
I won’t.
I can’t.
“Someone told the director you’re stuck on the other side of the country with a concussion and a grade three sprain,” Terrence says with a heavy undercurrent of and I should have heard about it from you, not them.
“One mention of torn ligaments and he decided it was safer to go with your alternate.”
My alternate, otherwise known as Trish, my roommate, the only person not in Stillwater Bay who knew what happened to me.
“So now what?”
I don’t know if I’m asking Terrence, Nash, or God himself, but it’s my agent that answers, sighing like I’m an injured racehorse and he’s loading his rifle.
“Take some time. Heal. Follow your physical therapist’s orders like they’re the ten commandments.
Get your ass in class ASAP and I’ll line up some auditions once you’re back to full strength.
In the meantime, I’ll talk to the director, see if I can get you listed as Trish’s alternate, in case she has a problem. ”
Oh, Trish is gonna have a problem, all right. A problem in the shape of a big, black boot kicking her right in the behind.
We say our goodbyes. I end the call and stare blankly at my phone, my pulse thrumming in my ears. My body feels like it’s both too light and too heavy all at once, like I might either float away or collapse in on myself.
I mean, this is it right? Rock bottom. A week ago, I had everything I ever wanted. And now?
My God. What now?
I blink, forcing the sting from my eyes, then swallow hard.
I will handle this with grace.
I blow a breath past my lips and meet Nash’s gaze. “So, yeah,” I say, spreading my hands as I shove my emotions into a black box in the back of my mind. “Probably should’ve seen that coming from a mile away.”
Not the part where my roommate stole my job. Who really sees something like that coming?
Nash sits back on his heels, his expression unreadable. “I’m really sorry, Lucy.”
He hesitates, like he’s weighing his words. Then, simply, “How can I help?”
The way he says it—like he means it, like he isn’t just trying to fix me or feel better about himself—makes something sharp twist in my chest. I trusted Trish even though she had serious red flags and this is how she repaid me. I can't let that happen again.
“The physical therapy is already amazing,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “The faster I heal, the faster I get back on the audition circuit.” I tack on the brightest smile I can manage. “So really, thank you. So much. Humble perseverance from this point forward.”
I almost go so far as to hit him with the finger guns but reign it in before I do.
Nash watches me for a moment longer, his gaze sharper now. Not pitying. Measuring.
I brace for the lecture that’s sure to come. A continuation of the tirade he held back the day Bennett knocked me over. He’ll tell me where I went wrong in my life, how I could have avoided this mess, then offer a string of solutions that really aren’t helpful at all.
Instead, Nash nods, like something inside him has clicked into place.
“Let’s give your ankle tomorrow to rest,” he says. “Then we’ll meet the next day. I want to see how hard we can push without setting you back. If you’re good, we’ll set up an aggressive schedule but reevaluate how you’re doing at the end of each session.”
Gratitude rushes through me. He doesn’t say poor thing. He doesn’t tell me to slow down. He gives me a plan. A path. A sliver of control.
Instead of a lecture, he gives me a chance.