Chapter Three
Ashley
Breathe, Ash. Deep slow breaths.
“I can’t do it,” I cry out dramatically, flinging my arms over the steering wheel and dropping my head over them. How in the sweet loving Christ am I going to be able to walk back into that house, look at the man, and pretend I didn’t see his erection?
I lift my head and peer at the house, questioning the wisdom of coming back here after what happened yesterday. It’s a bad idea, and I contemplate turning this car around and driving till I’m out of state and far, far away from Matt Galloway.
Yet, I don’t.
I saw it. The bulge in his pants. His sharp intake of breath was not in my imagination, but neither was the hardening of my nipples or the delicious heat that settled between my thighs when I first touched the man.
I felt the stickiness between my thighs, and I remember the slight shudder of my body from his closeness.
And that apology—gruff and a little embarrassed, like the words cost him something to say.
That’s the part I keep coming back to. It shouldn’t be the part I find attractive, and yet…
Oh God, this is bad. This is really, really bad.
I know what an erection is supposed to look like—I went through anatomy and physiology like every other PT student.
The body reacts as it chooses to when touched, and the mind can always wander; that’s basic anatomy.
What I’ve never experienced is feeling attraction to a patient. And now…
A low whimper reminds me that I’m not alone in the car. Slowly, I turn around to find large eyes staring curiously back at me. Penny shifts in the passenger seat, her copper coat catching the morning light, and rests her chin on the center console like she’s been waiting for me to remember her.
“You’ll help me deal with the grump, won’t you, Penny?” I say, reaching back to pet her smooth copper fur coat. “You take the heart, and I’ll take the body. Deal?”
She huffs softly, wagging her tail and leaning into my touch. I keep my hand on her coat as I turn back around to look at the house. Stalling isn’t going to help unless I’m planning on driving back the way I came.
“Okay, let’s do this, Penny.”
My knuckles turn white as my fingers clench on the steering wheel. My nerves are frayed, but I force back my fears as I drive toward the house.
The front door opens just as I pull up, and I look up to spot the man leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded over his chest and watching me with those intense brown eyes. So gorgeous that I lose my breath for a second.
I shift the car into park and turn to Penny. “Best behavior, girl. Don’t make me look bad.”
“Good morning, Mr. Galloway,” I call out as I climb out of the car, fighting the urge to tug at my hair—a nervous habit I thought I’d outgrown long before I picked up my PT license.
When he doesn’t speak, I walk to the back of the car and open the door. Penny waits until I clip the lead on her collar before she jumps out, wagging her tail. Greyhounds get one chance at the world without a leash, and they’re off like a rocket; she knows the drill as well as I do.
“She’s a fixture, then,” the grump says, but I hear the warmth in his voice. It’s not quite a question.
“She goes where I go,” I say, the pride leaking into my voice the way it always does when someone notices her. “Penny is a therapy dog. Passed the CGC with flying colors.” I catch myself before I launch into the explanation. He’s a working-dog handler. Of course, he knows what the CGC is.
He does know. I can see it in the way his eyes track her, evaluating, the way mine probably tracked her the first time I met her at the rescue.
“And you think I need a therapy dog?” The hard line of his shoulders eases just a fraction as he asks it.
Yes. Let’s keep talking about the dog and nothing about the erection that sent me flying out of your door. “Everyone could do with a therapy dog,” I point out.
Matt stops and stares at Penny for a long while before stepping back and nodding for us to enter.
Progress. He’s not growling at me and demanding that I leave.
“There are dog treats in the house,” he says, shutting the door behind us.
He must read the surprise in my face because he explains.
“My nephews have a Labrador and a poodle, so I keep treats around for when they visit.”
I don’t mention that I carry Penny’s treats but stand in place as the man disappears down the hall and comes back with a wide jar labeled “treats.” I smile when I realize they’re the same ones I carry for Penny.
Matt opens the jar and lowers himself onto the couch instead of kneeling—careful with his left knee, the motion stiff but practiced—and holds the treat out to Penny at hand-height.
Her nose goes up, and she pads over to take it gently from his palm, a softness in his eyes I haven’t seen before.
“Those are her favorite treats,” I tell him. “She’ll find a spot and stay out of the way. She always does.”
His brown eyes shoot to mine, and I suck in a sharp breath as I wait for him to bring up what happened.
He’s thinking it. I can see in his eyes that he’s thinking about it too, but he simply shrugs as he stands again.
The motion is careful—favoring his injured side in a way he can’t quite hide.
“I have a workout room, perhaps that’s the best place to do this. ”
“It’s perfect,” I say, relieved. Most of my patients don’t have spare rooms, so we often make do with what we can.
Penny trots after us as Matt leads me down the hall.
The workout room is painted white with bright overhead lights and mirrors along one wall.
I take in the array of equipment that runs from heavy power rack stands and a treadmill to a collection of dumbbells and barbells, all neatly arranged on a rack.
The room is meticulously clean and organized, each surface gleaming.
I realize it’s not just this room. Much of what I’ve seen of the house has been spotless, not one mote of dust in the air.
“I have a dog bed somewhere, I’ll grab it.”
Matt steps out once more, leaving us alone in his sterile room.
I walk to the large window to prepare, and by the time he’s back, I have stripped off my jacket and have my notebook out.
He carries the dog bed into the corner farthest from the equipment and sets it down with the kind of care that tells me it’s been somewhere it mattered before this room.
He doesn’t comment on it. Penny walks to it, sniffs around, and settles happily.
Matt comes toward me, stripping off his T-shirt before I can stop him—slower than yesterday, careful with his left shoulder—and tosses it aside.
“Umm,” I start, my mind stalling for a second as I stare at those rippling muscles. Christ, I’ve never seen a body like his.
His eyes track me as I take him in. He doesn’t say anything. Just watches—patient, dark, knowing—while I try to remember how to be a professional in my own skin.
“Right,” I manage, looking down at my notebook like it’s going to save me. “Right. Let’s pick up where we left off yesterday.”
“My shoulder?”
His voice snaps me out of my trance and sends heat climbing up my throat. “Yes, right,” I whisper, rubbing my damp hands over the side of my jeans. “Let’s um, get started on that.”
I step in and lay my fingers against the muscle just below his collarbone, the way I did yesterday.
He doesn’t react at first—just watches my face.
I work down toward the surgical scar on his shoulder, palpating, asking him to tell me when something hurts.
His skin is warm under my hands. Warmer than it should be.
“Tender?” I ask, pressing a thumb into the muscle along the joint.
“A little.”
My hands keep moving. His breathing changes—subtle, just a little deeper—but I feel it where my fingers rest against his ribs. And then, on the second pass over his shoulder, I feel him go still under my touch. The kind of stillness a person goes into when they’re holding themselves in check.
It happens then. My eyes move down before I can stop them, and I notice his gray sweatpants, a similar pair to what he wore yesterday, stretch. He’s hard and knowing—seeing it—sends a tremble through my body.
“You’re not going to run off again, are you?”
“No,” I say stubbornly, even as I swallow down the nerves. “It’s a common thing. It’s natural.”
“Is it?”
Why the heck does his voice sound low and raspy? I turn to Penny, hoping for a distraction, but the traitor is sleeping. Really? I brought her to provide a buffer, and she’s lying in a patch of sunlight, dozing off?
Traitor.
My nipples begin to pebble behind my sweater.
“Um, tell me if it hurts when I touch you here,” I choke out, running my hands gingerly over his skin and applying pressure as I feel around for knots and tenderness.
When he doesn’t respond, I force my gaze back to his and stare into those deep brown eyes, losing myself in them. For a moment, neither of us speaks.
“I’m not going to be much use to you while I’m like this,” he says, his voice low and rough. “I can step out. Five minutes. Then we work.”
The blinders fall off my eyes, and the room shifts.
He’s not trying to embarrass me. He’s giving me a way out.
The rough exterior, the apology yesterday, the way he’s offering to leave his own damn workout room rather than make this awkward for me—it’s the same man underneath.
The one who’s spent the last twenty-four hours trying not to make this worse for me.
Except I don’t want him to leave the room.
“Or,” I hear myself say, “I could… help.”
His head turns slightly, those brown eyes pinning mine. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me—letting the offer sit in the air between us, waiting to see if I’ll take it back.