Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
TANNER
By some miracle, I get the socks on, shuffle my way to the closet, and manage to get into a pair of boots without actually passing out. My reward is a fresh jolt of pain that zaps down my lower spine and makes me yelp like a kicked beagle.
Perfect.
Right on schedule, the doorbell rings with a shrill noise that cuts through my head. Fuck. I’m ready to get this appointment over with.
I open the door to find my little sister standing on the stoop, hands on her hips, blue eyes narrowed, lips pursed in a smirk that says, “I already know you’re about to be a pain in my ass.”
“Look at you,” she says. “Upright and ambulatory. Color me impressed.”
“Barely,” I say, bracing myself against the doorframe. “I’m too old to deal with this shit.”
She’s wearing a white summer dress with cowboy boots, sunglasses perched on her nose, and a look that could bend steel. Her hair is pulled back in a tight braid.
“Stop being dramatic. I brought coffee.” She holds up a giant paper cup from the local place, which smells like heaven and tastes, somehow, even better. I take it from her, trying to mask how much my hands are shaking.
“Milk, no sugar. Just how you like it,” she says, a little too smug.
“Thanks,” I mumble as I shuffle over the threshold. “Don’t suppose you brought whiskey to go with it?”
She rolls her eyes and snatches my house keys from the bowl by the door. “If you’re still in this much pain after the chiropractor, we can talk about bourbon. For now, I’m driving.”
“God help us all,” I mutter.
She ignores me, swinging the keys around her finger as she leads the way down my front walk. My boots scuff over the pavers, and I do my best not to whimper every time my lower back threatens to go on strike.
At the curb sits the birthday present I gave her a few years back. The luxury SUV is crammed with yoga mats, makeup bags, and a pair of designer flip-flops she uses for emergencies.
She pops the passenger door and waits, arms folded, eyebrows raised.
“Need help?” she asks.
“I’m good,” I grunt, even though climbing into the vehicle requires a herculean effort. I grab the handle, swing my left leg up, and instantly regret every decision I’ve ever made.
She watches as I fold myself into the seat like a dislocated action figure. “You want me to buckle you in, too, Grandpa?”
I flip her off, but she’s already climbing in on the driver’s side.
She starts the engine, shifts into drive, and pulls away from my house with zero regard for the speed limit. I grip the armrest and hope my spine doesn’t liquefy.
We roll through the iron gates at the end of my drive and hit the main road. The SUV hums along, air conditioning blasting. I sip my coffee and pretend not to notice the pain screaming down my back.
“You know,” I say, “those octagonal red signs? They’re called stop signs for a reason.”
She gives me a side-eye so sharp it could draw blood. “Says the guy who got pulled over for ‘aggressive rolling’ through three stop signs in a row.”
“That’s called momentum. It’s a physics thing,” I say, trying to get comfortable. The seat is softer than most mattresses, but nothing is soft enough to cushion the dumpster fire that is my lumbar region.
She shakes her head, smirking. “I feel really bad that you hurt your back moving my bed.”
“It isn’t your fault,” I reassure my sister. “It’s your dumbass husband who refused to pay movers,” I grumble under my breath.
“Todd feels bad, too.” Maggie glances over at me.
“I bet.”
We drive past pastures dotted with lazy cattle and white-fenced ranches. My pain fades in and out, but every time I think it’s getting better, we hit a pothole and I have to bite my tongue to keep from swearing.
“By the way,” I say, “that little stick on the left side of your steering wheel? It’s called a turn signal.”
She sniffs. “You want to walk the rest of the way to Dr. Lawson’s office, just say so.”
“I’m good,” I grumble.
The town comes up fast. Silver Spoon Falls is all wide streets and manicured trees, the kind of place that looks staged for a magazine spread.
Main Street is lined with shops and bakeries, each one cuter than the last. People wave at us as we drive by.
The Carringtons have lived here for generations, and we own roughly a third of the property in town.
We turn onto Main, and I see her, walking past the bakery like she owns the goddamn sidewalk.
Blonde hair in wild, sunlit waves, ass poured into teal yoga pants that should be illegal, and a T-shirt so tight it might as well be painted on.
She moves like she’s got zero fucks to give. I nearly choke on my fucking tongue.
My cock is instantly at full alert, like it senses actual hope for once in its tragic, lonely existence.
I’m still staring when Maggie waves out the window, grinning like a lunatic. The woman flashes a smile back, bright enough to melt steel. That’s when it hits me. My sister actually knows her.
Fucking hell. Once I get my back fixed and can actually walk without wincing, I plan to find out who this stunning woman is.
Maggie turns onto Main, slinging the Land Rover into a parallel spot in front of the chiropractor’s office with all the grace of a demolition derby driver. I hiss at the g-force, then pretend I didn’t.
She kills the engine and looks over at me. For a second, her expression softens. “You gonna make it?”
“Not if you keep hitting every pothole in the state,” I say, but my heart isn’t in it. My mind is too preoccupied with the goddess we just passed on the road.
My sister unbuckles her seatbelt and climbs out. Before I can protest, she comes around and opens my door.
“Ready, old man?” she teases.
I groan, swing my legs out, and nearly pass out. She offers a hand, which I ignore for about two seconds before caving and letting her help keep me upright.
“You’re enjoying this,” I accuse.
She pats my shoulder. “You have no idea.”
We limp toward the entrance together, me hobbling, her practically bouncing. The afternoon air is sharp, the sunlight too bright, and I feel every bit my age and then some.
At the door, she pauses, her hand on the small of my back—delicate, supportive, just for a second. “We’ll get you patched up,” she says. “Promise.”
I grunt, then glance sideways at her. “God, I hope so.”
She laughs, and for a moment, it doesn’t hurt to stand up straight.
The waiting room is cool and smells like lavender and antiseptic. Maggie checks me in with the receptionist, then parks me in a plush armchair that is both incredibly soft and somehow also makes my back feel worse.
I try not to fidget. She sits across from me, scrolling on her phone, her face a mix of concern and amusement.
The receptionist calls my name, and I grunt to my feet, bracing for whatever fresh hell awaits in the exam room.
As I shuffle away, I hear her say, soft and sincere, “Good luck.”
The exam room is designed to soothe, but it only amplifies my dread.
There’s spa music piped through invisible speakers, a fake waterfall in the corner that’s way too loud, and a wall-sized poster of a grinning skeleton having the time of its life.
I sit on the edge of the exam table, paper crinkling under me, and do my best to look like a guy who isn’t already plotting his escape.
Dr. Lawson enters exactly on time. He’s one of those guys who could be any age between thirty and sixty; everything about him is generically “doctorish.” He’s wearing a perfectly pressed button-down tucked into jeans, and his handshake is just a smidge too enthusiastic.
He glances at his tablet, then at me. “Tanner Carrington. How’s the pain today?”
“Eleven out of ten. Would not recommend to a friend,” I deadpan.
He grins, like he’s heard it all before. “Well, let’s see what we’re working with.”
He motions for me to lie face-down on the table. The act of moving from vertical to horizontal nearly rips my spine in half, but I swallow my pride and a whimper and do as instructed.
Dr. Lawson prods, pokes, and presses his way up and down my back, pausing every so often to make a “hmm” sound like a mechanic discovering fresh horrors under the hood of a totaled car.
“You’re locked up pretty tight,” he says, more to himself than to me. “Some inflammation in the sacrum. Feels like you’ve been carrying a lot of stress lately.”
I snort into the paper. “You have no idea.”
He keeps working, making small talk that I ignore, then tells me to roll onto my side and curl up. The motion is humiliating and instantly aggravates every muscle in my body.
He explains, “We’ll do a quick adjustment. You might feel some pressure and hear a few pops.” He pauses. “It’s all perfectly normal.”
Sounds like pure fucking torture to me, but I just lie back and pray I don’t leave here paralyzed.
Dr. Lawson plants one hand on my hip, the other on my shoulder, and tells me to exhale all the way. I do, and then—CRACK. The sound is explosive, like someone snapping celery right next to my ear. The pain is sharp, then suddenly dull, and I find myself gasping for breath.
“Jesus Christ,” I hiss.
Dr. Lawson chuckles. “Most patients say they feel immediate relief.”
He has me flip to the other side, and the process repeats. Another monstrous crack, this time so deep it’s agony and bliss, all rolled into one.
When he’s done, he has me sit up, slowly.
I’m still seeing stars, but I can move without wanting to murder someone.
Memories of the goddess walking down the road tease the edge of my mind, but I push them away and concentrate on listening to the doctor as he goes into his post-game wrap-up.
“You’ve got textbook overuse and tension, Mr. Carrington.
I’m prescribing muscle relaxers, some high-dose ibuprofen, and a week of reduced physical activity.
Avoid lifting, sitting at your desk for more than an hour at a time, and definitely no more furniture moving. ”
He gives me a stern look. “Ignoring your body’s signals is just going to make it worse. You have to listen to the pain.”
I nod, but inside I’m already rewriting my to-do list for the next week. There’s no universe in which I “rest” for seven days. The ranch will catch on fire if I’m gone that long. Plus, I have a goddess to find.
He wraps up with a brochure for stretches and a business card in case I want a follow-up. “Make an appointment for a follow-up next week. And you might want to try something for stress relief. Like maybe yoga or Pilates.”
Over my dead fucking body.
Maggie follows me out of the office, and we head back to the Land Rover. I manage to settle myself as she starts it up, the air blasting cold and artificial. I close my eyes for a second, letting the engine vibrations thrum through my bones.
“Ready to go home, Grandpa?” she teases.
I snort. “Just don’t hit any speed bumps, Evil Knievel.”
She laughs, pulls away from the curb, and for the first time all day, I can breathe deeply without pain lancing straight through my body.
The drive home is different. No snark, no pointed commentary about Maggie’s inability to maintain a consistent speed or the fact that she merges onto county roads like she’s in a Fast and Furious reboot.
I just watch out the window, taking in the wide sweep of pastures and the blurred green edge of the river where it cuts through the valley while the blonde goddess fills my thoughts.
The A/C is cranked up, making the hairs on my arm stand at attention, and Maggie’s got both hands on the wheel, knuckles pale with concentration. I’m tempted to ask her about the mystery woman, but I know that will open up a whole new can of worms.
Every time Maggie approaches a speed bump, she slows to a crawl, shooting me a glance like she’s afraid I’ll shatter on impact.
I want to roll my eyes or make a joke about her sudden conversion to “defensive driving,” but the truth is I’m grateful.
My whole body is one long raw nerve, and even the smallest jolt makes it zing.
We hit my driveway, and the Land Rover glides up to the house, smooth as velvet. She puts it in park and just sits there, engine ticking, as if letting the moment settle.
“You good?” she asks, like the last hour didn’t just happen.
I nod. “I’m alive.”
She snorts and climbs out, then hustles around to my side before I can even get the door open.
It’s not that I don’t need the help—I do, but I hate that I do.
I force myself to swing my legs out, planting my boots on the gravel.
She reaches for my elbow, and I almost push her away, but I catch the look in her eyes and let her do it.
“You know,” she says as we shuffle to the porch, “you can take a few days off. We will survive.”
“Tell that to Hudson,” I grumble.
“I have,” she says. “He’s worried, too, you know.”
“I bet,” I mutter, but I file it away for later.
Inside, my house is blindingly bright. The afternoon sun slants through the windows, burning white stripes across the floor.
Maggie heads straight for the freezer and comes back with two ice packs wrapped in kitchen towels. She tosses them onto the recliner in the living room and gestures for me to sit.
“Bossy,” I say.
She shrugs, folding her arms. “Stop bitching and let me help you.”
The recliner is perfectly positioned for TV viewing.
She helps me ease into it, wedges the first ice pack behind my lower back, and then sets up the other one for when the first inevitably melts.
She pulls my laptop and phone from the kitchen counter, setting them within reach on the end table, and grabs a huge water bottle from the fridge.
When she brings it over, she unscrews the lid and hands it to me like I’m a toddler.
“Don’t make that face,” she says. “You need to stay hydrated.”
I take it, but I don’t say thank you. The words get stuck somewhere behind my teeth.
She surveys her handiwork with a critical eye. “I’m going to pick up your prescriptions from the pharmacy, and I’ll grab you a burger from the 5th Avenue Diner on my way back.”
“I take back all the bad things I said about you,” I say, grinning at her.
“I’m going to remind you that you said that the next time I piss you off.” She laughs and heads out.