Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Nash
Lucy leaves the house, crutching down the walk, turning to call out, “Thanks again!” before lowering herself into Stella’s car.
I wave. Watch as they pull away. Scrub a hand down my face and exhale, slow and deep, shut the door. Lock it.
Then I just… stand there.
What the hell happened today?
I have no context for anything that occurred in the last couple hours. Seeing a patient, for free, in a field I’m not proficient in, in my home… that’s ridiculous. All of it. Everything on that list? Sheer stupidity.
Bennett was right. I don’t have free time in my schedule, a fact that’s already wreaked havoc on my life.
So obviously the next logical step is to learn how to rehabilitate a grade three sprain, only to then meet privately with a woman who has me so off my guard I was stupid enough to make the offer in the first place.
And then there was that second, that heat charged moment where all I could think about was pulling her close and pressing my lips to hers…
hard no. Bad call. Big mistake. Lucy’s life is falling to pieces and she’s grasping at straws to keep it together.
Kissing her would complicate an already complicated situation.
When her phone rang, interrupting the moment and freeing me from the next mistake in a string of them when it comes to Lucy Calder, I was so relieved.
Until I watched her face crumble.
So what did I do? Instead of distancing myself like any sane man would, I doubled down and offered to meet her again the day after tomorrow.
Set an aggressive schedule.
What the actual hell?
Part of me wants to call Bennett, just to get these thoughts out of my head.
But he’d just tell me I’m in my own way somehow, or that the change to my routine might be good, or that I need to stop offering Lucy things if I don’t mean them and I don’t want to talk about any of that.
Instead, I head to the gym, crossing to where the foam mat still lies on the floor, faintly indented from the weight of her.
I crouch to roll it up, the motion familiar but sluggish, like my limbs are operating a beat behind the rest of me.
A resistance band sits where she left it, curled at the edge of the mat like a dropped ribbon.
The air still smells faintly like coconut shampoo and chlorine.
I should change. Catch up on a medical journal or two. Go for a run. Do literally anything other than mentally replay everything that just happened.
“Probably should’ve seen that coming from a mile away.”
She said it like a joke. But her shoulders had sagged. That fake smile had trembled, just for a second, before she caught it.
The thing is, most people break when they lose something that matters.
Lucy didn’t. She tightened.
I respect that kind of fight. It’s how Dad faced difficulties. How he taught his sons to deal with challenges. Adapt. Adjust. Reorient.
But don’t
give
in.
Younger me thought I’d found that in Jadelyn.
She used to talk about ambition like it was oxygen—always chasing more.
More recognition. More acclaim. A better neighborhood, a flashier job, a newer car.
She wanted to be seen, needed to be known.
She’d grown up poor, with little to no support and there I was, with my innate desire to help, to lift people up and put them on a better path, eager to give her everything she ever wanted.
In the end, her hunger always made me feel like I wasn’t enough…
a point she nailed home quite beautifully by cheating on me.
So I promised myself I’d never let myself get involved with a woman again, let alone a woman like that.
And now here’s Lucy, also ambitious and driven, but somehow, she feels… different.
She doesn’t want to be seen, not really. She wants to prove something. There’s a difference. Subtle. But it’s there. Lucy’s drive… it kicks my inner protector into high gear. I want to provide solutions to her problems.
And that puts me in a tricky position.
Because helping people puts me at risk of being taken advantage of and I’ve already crossed too many lines with her.
But that doesn’t seem like it’ll be changing any time soon.
The next time she's here, I need to redraw my boundaries with her. Maybe even use my crazy work schedule as an excuse to back out. Get my life back together.
I shake off the thought and head upstairs to clean up, goosebumps flaring across my bare chest as the A/C hums steadily. I turn on the shower, then catch sight of myself in the bathroom mirror—hair still damp, jaw tight, that expression I get when something’s under my skin.
I huff a laugh. Something. As if I don’t know it’s Lucy who’s under my skin.
Which is ludicrous.
I close my eyes, shake my head, then meet my gaze through the mirror again.
You are not a young man anymore. Now is not the time to start thinking with your dick… or worse, catch feelings. Get a grip, Kincaid.
I don’t do casual and that’s all Lucy could ever be.
I step into the shower, promising to let the water wash away thoughts of the woman who has taken up residence in my head—and failing miserably.
I can’t shake the image of her in the water, light filtering across her shoulders, her movements slow but determined.
Her muscles long and lean, accentuating the curve of her hips and swell of her breasts.
Back in the den, I pull out an old medical textbook from college and flip through until I find the section on ligament healing protocols. I know the information. But rereading it feels like something I can do. Something concrete.
Halfway through, I pause. Lucy seemed fascinated in understanding the reason behind the exercises. She wanted to know the why behind everything we did, and even when I stumbled into medical jargon, she simply asked for clarification, nodded when she got it, and kept going.
I wonder if she’d be interested in reading through this book herself. It’ll be over her head, but Lucy is one of the most determined individuals I’ve ever met. I have a feeling that she’ll accomplish whatever she puts her mind to.
I think of the way she held herself together on that mat while learning she’d just lost her job, her voice steady despite everything breaking underneath.
She might be one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.
I open my laptop, search Sandro René, and click play on the most streamed track. The synth beat makes me want to wad up cotton balls and shove them into my ears.
“Time to build you a playlist that matters,” I mutter to myself.
I can’t fix her ankle overnight. But I can fix her taste in music.