Chapter 11
Noah
It’s been a week since I had Chiara Giardino in my bed.
Seven bloody days.
And for the last seven days I’ve done what any healthy man who’s been thoroughly rejected by the woman he wants does.
I’ve moped.
I’ve brooded.
I’ve pined.
I’ve replayed every second of that night like a highlight reel that refuses to turn off.
Chiara won’t return my calls.
She ignores me at the facility.
And every time I walk into the training room she suddenly remembers somewhere else she needs to be.
It’s impressive, really.
The level of avoidance she’s operating at could qualify for Olympic sport.
Meanwhile, I’m losing my mind.
Because that night?
It wasn’t just sex.
Not to me.
And not to her, if she’d be bloody honest about it.
I remember the way she looked when I carried her into my house—wide-eyed and breathless like she couldn’t believe it was finally happening.
I felt like that too. Hardly comprehending she’d actually said yes.
The way her body fit against mine.
The way she came undone beneath me like she’d been holding herself back for months.
The way she fell asleep in my arms after, curled against my chest like she belonged there.
Then morning came.
And she bolted like I’d lit the bloody bed on fire.
And now, here we are.
Which is about the point fate—or maybe the rugby gods—decide to step in.
Because, of course, the injury happens.
Second half against the Atlanta Kings.
Scrum goes sideways after a bad feed, and the whole pack collapses into a mess of elbows and shoulders.
Someone catches me wrong while we’re untangling.
Sharp pain shoots through my shoulder and up my neck.
I finish the match.
Because that’s what you do.
But by the time we’re back in the locker room, I can barely lift my arm.
Great Dane takes one look at me and snorts.
“Well, that’s convenient.”
“Convenient?” I mutter.
“You’re about to spend a lot of time with the physio,” he says dryly. “Maybe you can fix whatever you broke between you two and get your bloody head out of your arse while you’re at it, Walker.”
The lads laugh.
But my heart does something stupid in my chest.
Because Chiara is more than a physio to me.
And I haven’t stopped thinking about her.
Not once.
Not for a single bloody minute.
So the next morning I find myself standing outside the physio room at eight in the morning.
Half an hour before my scheduled rehab.
I knock once and I don’t wait. I just push the door open.
Chiara looks up from her desk.
Her brown curls are piled into a messy bun today, and she’s wearing those glasses that make her look even more serious than usual.
Her eyes widen slightly when she sees me.
“Um, good morning.”
“Morning, Love.”
“It’s Chiara.”
“Whatever you say, Chiara,” I reply, grinning despite myself.
She immediately folds her arms.
“You’re early, Mr. Walker.”
Oh, she did not just pull the formal card on me.
“I’ve always been an overachiever.”
She sighs like she already knows I’m going to be trouble.
“So, what is it?” she asks. “Your shoulder, right?”
“Yep. Took an elbow while going down. Messed me up good.”
She gestures toward the treatment table.
“Sit.”
Professional.
Calm.
Cool as ice.
Which somehow makes her even hotter.
And it makes me want her even more.
She moves closer, pressing along my shoulder joint with careful fingers.
“Does that hurt?”
“A little.”
“That’s inflammation,” she says. “You’ll need rehab work for a couple weeks.”
“Lucky me.”
She ignores that completely.
Typical.
And I try—really try—to behave myself.
But the thing is, I’ve never met anyone like her.
Chiara Giardino doesn’t flirt.
Doesn’t swoon.
Doesn’t melt when I turn the charm on.
She just focuses on the job like I’m any other patient.
And somehow that only makes me more certain of one thing.
She’s my person.
I love her stubborn streak.
I love the way she refuses to be impressed by me.
I love the way she looks when she’s concentrating on her work.
And Christ knows I love the way she felt beneath me that night.
I love her. Period.
Which means pretending that night didn’t happen?
Not even an option.
“Chiara,” I say, watching her closely. “We need to talk.”
“No,” she replies instantly.
She hands me a printed sheet.
“What you need to do is start working on these stretches today.”
I glance down at the exercises.
Then back up at her.
Because one thing she clearly hasn’t figured out yet is that I’m not going anywhere.
And if she thinks this is over?
She’s got another thing coming.