9. Daisy
Chapter 9
Daisy
"New patient today," Isla says, brown bob partially covering one cheek as she sticks her head in my small office. Her neon yellow nails grip the doorframe. Isla has been my office manager/assistant/work companion for approximately eight months. A single forty-four year old mother of two teenagers, Isla is flighty and scattered, but there's something about her I find incredibly endearing. "Name is—" she straightens, glancing down at the office iPad. "Bravo."
I breathe a short, disbelieving laugh into the half-full coffee cup poised at my lips. "Bravo?"
Isla shrugs. "That's what he said when he called yesterday. I'm not sure if it's his last name, or his first name. That's all he said."
"Sounds fake. Did you collect his insurance info?"
"He said he was self-pay." She taps a nail on the top edge of the tablet. "I think it sounds cool. With that name, you almost have to become a spy, or an actor on Broadway, or someone who jumps out of airplanes."
I lean back in my ergonomic and also astronomically expensive desk chair. "You have a great imagination."
Isla steps into the small space and flicks a finger on the Alice Cooper bobblehead on the end of my desk, making it dance. A gag gift from Vivi six years ago, this bobblehead is a reminder of a carefree time in our lives, when we sang School's Out at the close of every school year.
Isla gives Alice's head a follow-up flick and asks, "Should we put my great imagination to the test and dream up what somebody named Bravo might look like?"
I shake my head firmly. "If we were sitting in King’s Ransom or Pour Me having a cocktail, I’d say yes. But since we’re at work "—I deliver a pointed look—"it would be very unprofessional to talk about a client that way."
Isla sighs dramatically. "You're right. Damn it."
"Maybe you should spend a weekend in Phoenix." I turn back to my computer screen. "Far more fish in the sea. Or, desert."
"I don't know," she drawls, "Hugo De la Vega is looking mighty good these days. I would let him do questionable things in my presence. With or without that fencing outfit on."
My cheeks puff out as I pretend to barf. "Please, Isla. That man is basically a brother to me. His sister is my best friend."
"Good thing I'm not saddled with either of those afflictions." She looks at me pointedly. "And good thing you snatched up one of the last eligible bachelors in this one-horse town."
My eyebrows pinch in confusion for what can't be more than a nanosecond, but Isla catches it. "Duke," she says, with a what the hell is wrong with you undertone.
I roll my eyes to make up for my faux pas. "Obviously. I'm just a little slow today. Didn't sleep well last night."
Isla's eyebrows pop and flex. "Duke kept you up until all hours of the night delivering mind-blowing orgasms?"
I stare at her long and hard, no expression save for the grim line of my mouth. Isla has a lengthy history prodding relentlessly for juicy details about my sex life. She never seems to tire, or become discouraged by my total refusal. At this point, I think she sees my sewn lips as a challenge.
She grins. "Bravo will be here in an hour. Like it or not, I will spend the next sixty minutes giving him a total makeover in my mind. By the time my brain is finished with him, he'll be a tall, tan, rippling stick of man candy."
I open my mouth to chide her again for sexualizing my patient, but she's already disappeared back the way she came, and she forgot to leave the iPad with the new client information for me to look over.
Briefly I consider texting Hugo and requesting his new-to-town friend's last name. But then he'll ask why I want to know, and it'll go from there, and I don't want to start a conversation that ends with me explaining why I was hiding out when I should've been at my engagement party. Also, I don't like the feeling of knowing things about people before they've shared them with me, especially when I have no reason to dig.
This Bravo guy is probably somebody's cantankerous old grandpa.
I don't have time to think about it, because my next client, a sweet seventy-two-year-old woman recovering from hip surgery, has just walked in the door. If I'm lucky, I'll have five minutes between clients to scarf down a muffin I grabbed from Sweet Nothings on my way to work this morning.
"Gird your loins," Isla mutters as she waltzes into the kitchenette on the other side of my office. It’s just big enough for a small fridge, microwave, and bistro table. "Bravo has arrived."
I swallow down the last of my poppyseed muffin. "Why?" I whisper, alarmed. “Did Bravo behave badly?” I won't hesitate to eject someone if they display objective behavior toward my assistant.
"My loins are"—she positions her hands in front of her lower stomach and makes frantic motions—"doing this right now."
I relax. I don't have to bounce anybody from my office. Except Isla herself if she doesn’t take an ice bath, stat. "Isla, that saying doesn't mean what you think it means. And for the love, stop talking about a patient that way."
She makes a face like oops and drops theatrically into a chair. "I’m sorry, ok? Just wait until you start menopause."
I pull a confused face. "What does that have to do with anything?"
She gestures the length of her body. "Estrogen and progesterone dip, and testosterone starts flexing and strutting around. There's a horny teenager living inside me right now." She presses the iPad into my hands. "There's even a name for it. It's called the ‘Sex surge.'"
"Ohh my."
"Yeah," she nods, pointing a neon nail my way. "Just you wait, youngin."
I'm not sure how to respond, but I manage a sorry to hear about your issue and dart away.
Isla has led Bravo into the consultation room. It's a small space, enough room for a 3x5 gunmetal gray desk and two white leather chairs. The largest wall is windowed, looking out on the main area and all the equipment. The wall opposite boasts framed inspirational quotes.
A little progress each day adds up to big results.
When you think about quitting, consider why you started.
A dream becomes reality through sweat, determination, and hard work.
A snake plant in the corner keeps the space from looking too aseptic, but beyond that, it's boring.
For the life of me, I cannot figure out why I sorta kinda maybe want this Bravo guy to be the Peter guy from my engagement party. It's not a stretch, is it? Olive Township is a small town, but it's ever-growing, constantly adding to its population. Tourists flock here from that viral travel article, calling our little hamlet a Jewel in the desert . Once they arrive, they see the author was right. They fall in love with our eclectic vibe, our white stucco store facades, our little honor system store Inconceivable! with its unmanned old-fashioned cash register for payment.
A few steps to the left, and Bravo comes into view. Even folded into a seat with his back to me, I recognize those broad shoulders, the gentle slope.
It's him .
My throat takes on the attributes of the dry, dusty desert outside as I propel myself forward, catching sight of myself briefly in a windowed reflection. I’m a mess.
I coax back flyaways, swipe at muffin crumbs on my chest.
Muffin! Poppy seeds, also known as tiny hell raisers, are probably lodged in my teeth.
I steer right, filling a paper cup of filtered water from the little machine in the corner and swishing. Then I take a deep breath to quell my nerves.
Oh-kay. Loins are girded. Shoulders are straight. This is my town, and my business. I've got this.
"Bravo," I say smoothly, sailing into the small room. " Peter Bravo."
His gaze snaps to mine. Surprise parks itself in those turbulent irises, and is that a flicker of horror ? Why? It's unexpected, shaking my confidence a smidge.
There's no way he had a look of horror. I'm misreading his emotions. The last words he said to me float through my mind. You don't know me, Daisy St. James, so don't go assuming you can read my body language.
Corralling my unease, I take the seat opposite him. "I didn't take you for a last name only kind of guy, but with a last name like Bravo, I see why you would go that route."
His hand, palm resting on the table top, flexes. "It's no St. James, but it'll do." His voice is deep, gruff, smoky, like he's recently spent time around a campfire.
The comment sparks confusion, and curiosity, in me. Does he already know what my last name means to this town? Perhaps Hugo filled him in.
Balanced on the tip of my tongue is the question of why he shot daggers my way in front of that house yesterday. On its heels is the question of why he left so abruptly two nights ago. It would be unprofessional of me to ask, and also, it doesn't matter. Because this guy, Peter Bravo, doesn't matter. I mean, I'm sure he does somewhere, to somebody. But not to me. Not in the long term.
In the short term, however, he is my client. At least, I'm assuming so. That's why he's here, right? Physical therapy. Clearly I should've completed at least one minute of due diligence before whipping in here. My eyes fall to the iPad, lying haphazardly on the table in front of me.
"So," I begin, adopting a detached, but friendly, tone. "What brings you to my office today?"
His eyes squint, regarding me with laser-like focus. He leans forward, hands clasped on the desk. Tattoos I could not make out two nights ago are on full display now.
A frog skeleton, wrapped in?—
I swallow my gasp.
No way.
Daisies?
A coincidence. It must be. I mean, it definitely couldn't be anything but. We're perfect strangers. Or nearly, anyway.
Strangers who shared the same champagne bottle, a hell of a sunset, and some terse words on engagements. But strangers, nonetheless.
And now, very likely, my patient.
"What's wrong with you?"
His question snaps me from my thoughts. "What do you mean what's wrong with me ?” I hear my tone, how affronted I sound. I have got to rein that in. What is it with me around this guy?
"You're making a face."
"I'm not making a face,” I say, pleasant this time. I gesture vertically, the same length as my face. "This is just my face."
He points at me, one long, masculine finger held aloft between us. "Now it is, but it wasn't before."
I stare him down, trying to come up with any plausible excuse for why I made whatever face it was I was making. He stares right back, and I'm starting to think this guy's superhuman strength is stubbornness.
I sigh, forgetting myself yet again. "Are you going to let this go and allow me to do my job?"
"One hundred percent no."
I sigh once more, adding a deep grumble to it so he will know how absolutely aggrieved I am. He did tell me to feel whatever I wanted to feel around him.
"The answer is still no," he says. "It doesn't matter how many times you sigh."
"What if I sigh until I pass out?"
"That's not a thing." He crosses his arms, and it does something to his biceps and pectorals I'm trying very hard not to notice.
"Sure it is."
He smirks, and dammit if it isn't obnoxiously adorable. "Where did you get that little fact?"
"From the fact fairy," I say loftily.
It works. He breaks. He laughs .
Deep and rumbly, settling into my bones in a delicious way that brings with it discomfort. Because this man's laugh should not be delicious, or yummy, or any other food based adjective. It should be a zero. A nothing burger. A non-event.
"Anyway," I say forcefully, tapping the iPad screen. It comes to life, and I tap until I've reached the patient file labeled Bravo .
"You didn't give my assistant much to write about," I say, skimming the notes Isla entered. Aloud, I recite what it says. "Patient is nearing the end of progressive strengthening, and is ready to begin advanced rehabilitation." I stop, giving him the chance to add to it, to fill in details about how he was injured, and what exactly it is he's rehabilitating from, but he doesn't say anything. "Ahh. The stoic, military type."
He frowns. "Did the fact fairy also tell you I was in the military? Because I know I did not offer that information when I called to make this appointment."
I bite the inside of my lower lip to keep from laughing. "No. Your tattoo told on you."
He uncrosses his arms, holding his right arm out to appraise his inked forearm. "The flowers?" With the tip of one finger, he outlines a daisy. "This one right here? One of these basic, nondescript, typical flowers? The kind that are found anywhere?"
Does he want me to ask what kind of flowers those are? Because it really feels that way. But of course, I already know by sight the flower I'm named after. It feels like he knows I already know, but for some reason he wants me to ask. Which means I absolutely will not be asking, not only because I already know the answer, but also because I do not want to give him the satisfaction.
"One hundred percent no." It's my turn to smirk.
He drops his forearm on the table, poking at the frog skeleton. "I was a Navy SEAL."
There we go. A morsel. A little nugget of information from this otherwise tight-lipped man.
"Was?"
He nods. "I got a little too froggy."
A grin bends my lips. It's not a real grin, like I'm genuinely smiling, but more like I understand.
"Tell me more."
"A service-connected injury while on a mission. Our team was ambushed while we were setting up an explosive, and it detonated before we were clear of the area. I was luckier than some." He looks down. "Several broken ribs, and shrapnel. A little nerve damage." He makes a circular motion on the left side of his midsection.
I do my damndest not to show the distress sweeping through me. I can only begin to imagine the fear that accompanied his experience. "Surgery?"
He nods. "To repair the damaged nerves."
"In the torso?"
He nods again, and I add Peripheral nerve surgery to his notes.
"Thank you for your service," I say, to which he offers a small nod of his head. I ask more questions, mostly about timeline and what he remembers doing when he first started physical therapy. There are holes in his memory, which isn't uncommon for somebody who has undergone extensive treatment and physical therapy. It's hard to remember dates, times, names of exercises, especially when they consist of unfamiliar words.
"We can start with stretches for today while I put together a treatment plan. Does that work for you?"
"I guess so." Peter pushes back from the table. "I've started running again."
My brows knit. "Is that advisable?"
He shrugs. "Sometimes it hurts."
"Where?"
He points to his midsection.
"You might not be ready to run."
"I don't care," he says stubbornly. "I need to do something. And Slim Jim needs the exercise."
"Slim Jim? Like the highly processed, very salty meat stick from the gas station?"
"No."
My next thought, which is totally unacceptable, unprofessional, and impolite is please tell me that's not your nickname for your dick.
Wow. Isla is rubbing off on me.
I'll take the bait. "Who's Slim Jim?"
"My dog."
"Right," I nod, remembering the big animal I saw in his vehicle. "He was waiting for you in your truck."
It's the first mention of our interaction. Peter eyes me tentatively. "Man's best friend."
A pang of sadness seizes my heart. Peter has more to his story than appears at first glance, but then I suppose most of us do. From the outside, I look like the town's golden girl preparing to marry the town's golden boy.
It's so wrong, it's almost laughable.
"Let's start those stretches, if you're ok with that."
Peter follows me out to the large open space. "If you're going to insist on running"—I frown to let him know I'm not particularly happy with his choice—"let's at least get you properly stretched so we can reduce your pain, and help you avoid injuries elsewhere."
I take him through basic dynamic stretches to warm up the main muscle groups, doing them alongside him. "I like to run too, and I haven't stretched yet today."
"Do you run with somebody?” There’s a gruffness to his voice.
"I usually run alone, in the early morning. I like getting out before the town is awake."
He looks askance at me, head tipping down slightly. "It's not safe for you to run by yourself."
"You're new in town, so you probably don't realize this, but Olive Township is safe. Low crime."
He follows me into the next position, a full-length stretch that requires Peter to follow me onto all fours. I demonstrate for him how to tuck his toes and lift his knees, coming into a full leg extension. He copies me, and from his almost upside down position, says, "Crime doesn't have a zip code, Daisy." He looks at me meaningfully, like he’s determined to drive home his point.
Annoyance flares, especially because he's right. I feel safe here, but bad things have happened. It's been a long time, but Hugo and Vivi's dad was murdered right here in Olive Township, on a road just off the main part of town.
“Pedal your legs,” I instruct.
Peter listens, but says, "Why doesn't that fiancé of yours run with you?"
Because he's a workaholic, and he's on calls early in the morning, up and working with people on the East Coast.
"He has a home gym he works out in before he starts his calls." I say it flippantly, like it's no bother. It really doesn't bother me, but it obviously makes Peter think poorly of Duke, and for some reason, that's what bothers me.
We straighten, and that’s when I notice Peter working the side of his bottom lip with his teeth.
"What?" I challenge. "You have opinions about fiancés, and me running by myself?"
Peter doesn't say anything, but he looks like he wants to. I decide against prodding him to say whatever it is he's thinking, because I don't want to hear it. Nothing nice could possibly come from an expression like the one he wears.
And that tiny but persistent feeling of appreciation over Peter’s protectiveness? I’ll be ignoring that, as well. I absolutely do not like the way Peter seems irritated by the idea of me running alone. It doesn’t make me feel cared for, AT ALL. Not in the least.
Peter has one shoulder lifted higher than the other, and it negates the point of stretching if he keeps one side locked up. Using a light touch, I reach out to adjust his positioning, but when my fingers touch him, he flinches as if I’ve burned him.
His repentant eyes find my curious, and I'll admit it, hurt gaze. "Sorry about that," he says, brusque.
"It’s fine," I answer, plastering on a smile.
"Don't do that," he says quickly.
I blink, smile wavering. "Do what?"
"I’d rather see you scowl for real than smile for show."
Oh .
I clear my throat, because what else is there to do? This man, this stranger , sees through me as if I'm made of something sheer. It's unnerving and confusing.
We move through the remainder of the appointment, and Peter keeps his eyes cast down as he focuses on his stretching. He says nothing. Absolutely nothing.
He has gone radio silent, but I am full of questions, all of which I will not ask.
Did Penn hire you?
How well do you know him?
Depending on his answers, more questions.
Has Penn ever mentioned me?
I want to know, and I don't want to know in equal measure. The answers will lead to more feelings, very likely not great ones, and I've done such a good job keeping myself numb towards Penn for years. I need to stay that way, even with the unexpected presence of this newcomer to town, to my life, to my job.
I carved Penn out of my heart, banishing that piece of him to the depths, and I made a life for myself. I'm marrying Duke in a little more than a month. Whether or not I love him feels irrelevant at this point.
I cannot look back. The past is where all that, including Penn, should stay.
Feeling reinvigorated by my determination, I continue our session by showing Peter specific stretches that will help warm up the smaller muscles. We finish with rolling out his fascia, which is also a low-key form of torture.
"I've done a lot of tough shit," he grunts, moving the backs of his thighs over the foam roller, "this ranks up there as being almost unbearable." He's grimacing, but almost everybody does. Me included.
"You can do hard things," I tell him, and he tosses me a look that plainly says come the fuck on.
"You should put that on your wall," he quips, thumbing back toward the small room where we had our consult.
"Maybe I will," I say, reaching under him and sliding the roller out from under his bent knees.
I reach out a hand, offering to help him up. His eyebrows tug in determination, and he chooses not to take the help, using momentum to roll up onto the balls of his feet and stand upright.
I look at him knowingly. "How much did that hurt your torso when you used your ab muscles for that maneuver?"
He drops the act, grimacing. "Like Chucky was in my stomach."
"That's what I thought." I work my hair back into the hair tie I had around my wrist. "Next session, I'll be ready for you. I'll know everything you've been working on, and I'll have a game plan. Arrive ready to work."
He gives me a playful and unofficial salute, and offers Isla a short wave on his way out the door.
"I hope you know how lucky you are," Isla says, fanning herself.
"He's an attractive man," I say in a carefree voice. "That's all. The world has plenty of them."
I hurry next-door to use the bathroom we share with the spa before my next client arrives. Peter's face, his hesitance to offer details about himself, and his readiness when it comes to teasing me, it all sits at the forefront of my mind.
Sure, he's an attractive man. But something tells me there is so much more to him.