“I’m in a lot of pain,” I said. How could he dare steal some drama from the situation by declaring it not broken! “I hide it well. It’s a parent thing. Mothers are good at hiding pain.”
Josh smiled, a wide grin so unexpectedly tender it disarmed me. “You may want to drop by a hospital and have it checked out, just to be sure.”
Nick moved in again, nudging Josh aside. “I’ll see to it she gets what she needs.”
My gut clenched with anticipation. What exactly did he think I needed? For the first time in a long while, I felt the spark of romantic interest and the thrill that came with instantaneous attraction, and I liked it. A lot.
“I’ll be fine.” I slid forward to get out of the car. “I’ll just drive home and call my sister.”
“You’re not driving anywhere with that ankle,” Josh said.
“He’s right,” Nick said. “I’ll take you.”
I looked up and got lost in the lush green gaze. I didn’t want to protest. “All right.”
“Good.” He eased me back and took a seat beside me.
I leaned forward. “Leslie, I’ll see you Monday. I’ll come back for my car later. Don’t worry.”
“Monday.” Leslie waved. Josh Brandon stood beside her, hands on hips and wearing the usual cross expression. The driver shut the door and walked around to get behind the wheel.
“I’ve got healing in my blood,” Nick said, turning to me. “One of my brothers perfected some medical techniques and I’ve spent plenty of time watching him work.”
Gulp.
“I hate to be a bother.” I tried to adjust myself more comfortably in the seat as the car pulled away from the curb, but my ankle throbbed with the slightest movement. I bit my lip to keep from crying out.
“You’re no bother. Let’s get you home. Where do you live?”
I gave him the address, only a short drive away. He repeated it to his driver. “There now. Sit back. Relax. Swing your feet up into my lap.”
My heart raced. I couldn’t help glancing at his lap, trousers hugging lean-muscled thighs.
“I’m not going to bite.” He laughed. “Don’t look so scared.”
“I’m sorry.” I tried to steady my breathing. “It’s the pain. I think it’s making me light-headed.”
“That’s why I need to get my hands on that ankle. I can stop the pain. Now, come on.” He patted his leg. “Up.”
I shifted back, careful to keep my knees together as I swung my feet into his lap.
“Very good.” He smoothed his hand over my good leg, from foot to knee and down again, before reaching over to tend the bad one. “Pilates?”
“How did you know?” I sat up a little, pleased that he had noticed.
“Long muscles. Your legs are beautifully toned.”
“Thank you.” I couldn’t wait to tell Kate how wrong she was about me “wasting all those hours in the gym.” Looking good was never a waste. Especially when a handsome man appreciated the results.
So easily, I could have given up on my body and wallowed in self-pity over countless pints of ice cream. Not that I didn’t indulge in the occasional Cherry Garcia pity party. I wasn’t that perfect. But I knew I had to work at looking good and I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel and go the Body by Ben and Jerry route.
He rubbed my ankle, working magic to take away the pain. My legs looked so white against the tan of his hands. The bruising seemed less pronounced.
“Oh. That’s good.”
“I’m going to need to wrap it,” he said, stripping off his jacket, tossing it aside, and starting to work at the buttons of his shirt.
“What are you doing?”
“I’ll use my shirt. Not to worry. I have plenty of them.”
“But—no. I’ll have something at home to wrap it. Don’t trouble yourself.”
He shrugged out of the sleeves and ripped. “Too late.”
Speaking of ripped. I drank in the sight of his bare chest. He might have been a god by the looks of him. The man took excellent care of himself. His skin glowed bronze against the creamy leather seats. Every inch of him was taut, his muscles well defined right down to the washboard abs. His biceps worked as he tore the white fabric into strips. My mouth went bone dry.
I watched him, unable to speak as he began to wind the strips around my ankle. Finally, I found my voice. “I can replace your shirt. I’m sure it could have waited, but you’re right. It feels much better.”
“Nonsense.” Shirtless, he shrugged back into his jacket. “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
“Amazing,” I said, wiggling my exposed toes, and so glad I’d kept the pedicure appointment earlier in the week. My pearl-pink toes looked adorable peeking out from the makeshift bandaging. “You really are a miracle worker.”
“My pleasure.” He reached for my hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed the tops of my fingers curled over his.
“Actually, I think it’s mine.” I giggled like an idiot schoolgirl. What was I thinking? Who could think sitting next to an Adonis?
“I never cared much for Adonis,” he said. “Honestly, he’s rather full of himself. No doubt, fueled on by Aphrodite and Persephone fighting over him so often—sickening.”
Had I said that bit about Adonis out loud? I must have. Oh. God.
“I’m fine,” I said, desperate to change the subject. “So, how about that Josh Brandon, huh? Talk about full of himself.”
“Mr. Brandon?” Nick’s lips curled up in a sly half smile. “So you’re not all that fond of him, eh?”
“Not exactly.” I blushed, feeling suddenly guilty for throwing Josh under the bus to save myself. “I mean, he’s okay. He’s a master of his profession. But he gets a little bossy on the job site. On occasion. Nothing I can’t handle.”
“With the shoes, perhaps? I thought I saw you bristle at his comments there. As if a woman doesn’t know for herself what constitutes proper footwear?”
“Exactly. Could you imagine me in Timberlands? With this suit? Ha!”
“I can imagine you in just about anything.” His lip curled as if in some sort of secret sexy invitation. “You could pull off Timberlands. Or anything you choose. But that’s the point, isn’t it? Your feet, your choice.”
“Yeah,” I responded, feeling empowered. I liked it. “My feet, my choice.” Never mind that Josh was probably right and I should invest in a good pair of work boots. But still.
“And such adorable feet they are. Feeling better?”
“Actually, yes. Much better. Your wrap did the trick.”
“Good. I believe we’re on your street.”
“Oh.” So soon? I glanced out the window. My street. “Wow. Your driver’s good.”
“I hope Morrison didn’t hear you. His head’s big enough as it is.”
I glanced toward the front. Was that a smile reflected in the rearview? “Thank you, Morrison,” I said, then turned back to Nick. “Must be nice to have a driver. I hate driving in the city.”
“I