2. Brielle

“Seriously? He still didn’t like the property? It seemed like it had everything he listed off,” I tell my friend, Calista, over the phone. We usually call each other on our lunch breaks or spend the time sending each other funny memes and TikToks. Today, she needed to vent.

“It was perfect,” she says with an exasperated sigh. ”An old warehouse that had been converted into a dance studio. Obviously, he wants a motorcycle club instead of a dance studio, but with all the wide open spaces, construction would be so easy and cheap! Comparatively, of course. There was a huge lot out back with plenty of parking, and the whole thing was sitting on six acres of land ready to be developed into anything he could want.”

My friend takes a breath after her rant, then crinkles what I assume is a bag of her favorite chips. A second later when I hear her crunching away on the other line, I know I was right. Smiling to myself, I’m reassured that some things never change. Calista may be across the country, all the way down in Texas, but dill pickle-flavored chips and iced tea are still her favorites.

“So, what went wrong?” I ask.

Another dramatic sigh echoes through the other end of the line, making me smile even wider at my friend. She’s always had a bit of a flare for theatrics, which is one of many reasons why I love her. And why I miss her now that she’s officially living in Texas and has her first real estate client.

”He said the gravel lot wasn”t done correctly and the bigger rocks would ruin his motorcycle. I told him he might want to go ahead and put an offer in on this place and then start looking for a new bike.”

I snort out a laugh. “And how did he take that?”

“With the same stoic glare he always has on his stupidly handsome face.”

“Handsome face? That’s a new detail,” I say, perking up a bit. “Why didn’t you mention that before?”

“Because it doesn’t matter. He’s impossible to please. I’d have handed him off to one of the other agents by now, but this is my first client, you know? I don’t want them to think I’m incompetent.”

“You’re not incompetent,” I tell her.

”Well, I know that. I just need everyone else in the whole wide world to also know that.” Calista barely makes it through the sentence before bursting into a giggle.

I join her, but my joy is cut short by an incoming call. I pull the phone away from my ear and look at the screen, my chest tightening when I see my mom’s contact info flash across the top.

”Cali, I”m sorry to cut our lunchtime short, but my mom is calling.”

“Got it. No worries,” she replies. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I deadpan, knowing there aren’t any good reasons my mother would be calling me.

The second I switch over the calls, my mother starts spewing her craziness. “Bri, where the hell is the vodka?” she screeches. “I told you last night that I needed another bottle today.”

“I was going to pick up groceries on the way home from work, so I can grab some–”

“After work? That’s at least…” she trails off, pausing to count in what I’m sure she thinks is a silent whisper. “Four hours from now,” my mother finally finishes.

“It’s actually six,” I correct, though I know I shouldn’t poke the bear. Especially a bear that’s accidentally sober for the first time in at least a year.

“Six?!” she exclaims. “Brielle, that’s unacceptable. What did you think I meant when I said I needed the alcohol today?”

“I suppose I thought supplying you with vodka before you woke up at noon was less important than showing up for my job.”

“Well, I… Brielle, you can’t talk to me that way. You know this is all because of you, right? I wouldn’t need to self-medicate if I was still married to my husband, but oh, no. You just couldn’t let me have any amount of happiness, could you?”

“Mom, that’s not fair. I didn’t–”

“Whatever. Don’t be late.” She mutters something under her breath that sounds like worthless, but I choose to ignore it.

“Bye, love you, too,” I say to a dead line. She already hung up. Great. Can’t wait to go home to that mess.

My computer dings with a reminder that my lunch break is coming to a close. My next client should be here in a few minutes. Let’s see, who is it today?

I look over my schedule, my face heating when I see Elliot Erickson”s name. I”m not sure what to make of him quite yet, but I know he”s in far more pain than he shows. It”s not just the physical soreness and nerve damage that”s ailing him, though. Elliot is scared to let anyone close. I don”t think he”s ever talked about the traumatic incident that landed him here doing physical therapy after several extensive surgeries. My heart hurts for him, for what he”s been through, and for the healing that still needs to happen.

After tossing the scraps of my lunch and filling up my water bottle, I comb my fingers through my hair and check my reflection in the compact mirror I keep at my desk. I shouldn’t care about how I look, and normally, I don’t. But when Elliot looks at me… I want him to like what he sees.

“Ugh, stop it,” I whisper to myself, giving my reflection a hard glare. He’s a client. He’s vulnerable. Off-limits. Plus, he’s the most gorgeous, rugged man I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I need to keep myself in check when I’m around him.

I head out to the waiting room, pausing just before turning the corner. I peek my head out, catching a glimpse of Elliot tapping his foot hard enough to make the chairs around him rattle. He rubs his eyes and takes a deep breath, the entire scene breaking my heart. I wish I could tell him he’s safe with me, but I’m not sure how he would react to that.

Elliot is stubborn and growly, and possibly the grumpiest person I’ve ever encountered in real life, but I see something more when I look at him. He’s handsome, of course. No, not just handsome. He’s… freaking drool-worthy is what he is. With dark hair, dark green eyes, a sharp nose, and a full beard I shouldn’t like so much, Elliot towers above me at nearly six and a half feet tall. He was supposed to have been resting these last few months of recovery, but apparently he ignored that advice and hit the gym instead. How else would his muscles be so well-defined?

Focus, I chastise myself. Yes, Elliot is hot. Scorching. Hot and angry and cranky. And also achingly vulnerable and lonely, though I know he”d never admit that.

“Elliot,” I call out, stepping fully into the waiting room. I’m not helping things by gawking at the man.

His eyes snap to mine, sending a rush of sensations scattering through my veins. His gaze is locked on mine as he stands, and although he appears to be standing and moving just fine as he walks toward me, I see a slight twitch in his left eye. I notice the way his nostrils flare slightly with each step like he needs to do something, anything to express the pain, as long as it”s not verbalized.

Elliot nods once he’s standing in front of me, which is about as much of a greeting as I was expecting. He follows me down the hall, close enough that I can hear his breath. It should give me the creeps or make me stop and tell him to back off. If it were anyone else, I would do just that. Instead, I let the idea of Elliot wanting to be near me fill my mind.

Has he been thinking about me the same way I’ve been thinking about him all week? When I close my eyes, all I can see is Elliot’s piercing green stare and the mournful look on his face when he murmured about wanting to be a career military man like his father. There’s so much hurt and shame locked away inside him, and for some reason, I want to be the one to set him free.

I only have four more sessions left with Elliot, so no pressure or anything.

“Your stretches are bullshit,” he says as soon as I close my office door. I’m still facing the wooden door, my back turned to Elliot, as a grin breaks out on my face.

I manage to regain my professionalism after a moment and turn to face my client. He”s much closer than I thought he”d be. My breasts graze his chest, sending a shockwave down my spine, landing between my thighs.

Holy hell… what was that?

Tilting my head back - way back - to look at him in the eyes, I”m caught up momentarily in the swirling green, brown, and golden tones in his irises. Elliot stares back at me, then at my lips. I think he”s going to kiss me for a second, but then he turns his head and takes several steps backward.

I clear my throat and smooth out my blouse, thankful that even though I’m more aroused than I’ve ever been, my hardened nipples are hidden beneath my bra, cami, and loose-fitting blouse.

“My stretches are amazing and based on heavily researched kinesiology studies as well as psychological studies involving combat soldiers and PTSD,” I correct him.

“Well, they still suck,” he grumbles. Is he pouting? It’s hard to tell with the beard, but I’m pretty sure it’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. Who knew it would come from the surly Elliot Erickson?

“Hmm, maybe it was a user error, then?” I suggest as I wheel in the adjustable padded table I use when showing clients how to perform certain movements.

“User error… You mean I did them wrong?”

I love how shocked he sounds every time I give him crap. I think it’s helping to lighten the mood, but honestly, I’m just having fun. Which isn’t the point of these sessions. Get it together!

“How about you sit down here and show me the set of stretches I assigned last week?” I pat the table, and Elliot looks at me like I’m playing some kind of prank on him. “You don’t have to show me your leg, but can you get on the table and at least run through the stretches?” I ask again, trying to put him at ease.

“Fine,” he says with a scowl.

I watch as he gets on the table and lies down with his legs stretched out. He slowly lifts his left leg, only able to raise it a few inches before he curses and drops it back down on the table. I’m about to give him pointers on his form, but before I can, Elliot grips the side of the table in his hands and grits his teeth, trying for a second time to lift his leg.

He’s nothing if not persistent, but he’s a stubborn ass as well. I just need to figure out how to direct that energy into motivating him to get better.

Elliot tries a third time, but I gently rest my hand on his foot, stopping the motion. He freezes at my touch, much like he did last week. I pull my hand away and look down at Elliot, who looks absolutely miserable.

“I know it’s tempting to try and overcompensate by using our other muscles to do the heavy lifting, like how you’re gripping the table to try and get leverage.” I nod at the hand closest to me, and he loosens his hold. “But the point of the stretches is for those weaker muscles. Instead of using your upper body strength, try readjusting your position to make it easier to use just your leg.”

Elliot is looking straight up at the ceiling, no doubt praying for a bolt of lightning to strike me down or for aliens to stop by and beam me up so I’ll leave him alone. The longer I study his features and body language, however, the more I realize he’s embarrassed. He’s not truly mad at me or the stretches I assigned him. He’s mad at himself for not being able to do them.

“Here,” I say softly, walking around to the other side of the padded table. I gently wrap my hand around his right ankle - the good leg - and urge him to bend his knee and place the sole of his foot flat down on the table while keeping his bad leg stretched out. “This time, try not to use your arms or torso or upper body strength at all, okay? Instead, push into your right foot while keeping your hips straight.”

His nostrils flare and his gaze never leaves the ceiling as he starts the stretch again. Elliot does better this time, and I can tell he”s trying to refocus the energy and strength on his legs instead of his sculpted arms and the hard slats of muscles I know he”s hiding under that shirt.

Reel it in, woman!

“Fuck!” Elliot shouts, letting his leg drop back down onto the table.

“That’s good,” I encourage. “You did a lot better that time. Let’s go again.”

He grits his teeth, no doubt holding back a few choice words for me. I worry for a moment he might not do it, but then Elliot inhales sharply and lifts his left leg. I hold his heel in my hand, keeping the leg up and letting the new position stretch out his weakened muscles.

“Jesus, fuck,” he growls under his breath. “You’re torturing me, you monster.” When I don’t let go of his heel, Elliot tilts his head down to look at me, his face red with strain and undoubtedly more than a little frustration with me. “Sadist!” he accuses. “That’s why you got into this business. To harm people for your own sick, twisted… goddamn,” he finishes, letting out a ragged breath when I finally set his leg down.

“You can go ahead and call me every awful name you can think of,” I inform Elliot, wanting him to know his words won’t scare me away. “I assure you, I’ve been called worse.”

Why did I say that last part?

Elliot swings his legs to one side and stands from the table, leaning over it and looking at me with more intensity than I know how to handle.

“Who is being mean to you?” he snarls, the look in his eyes nearly feral. Is he… mad? But not at me, at whoever calls me names? I’m so confused.

”Nobody I can”t handle,” I tell him, dismissing his concern. Elliot doesn”t buy it, but I”m counting on him not wanting to prolong an awkward conversation or any conversation for that matter.

He opens and closes his mouth before frowning. His dark eyebrows furrow together as he picks me apart, piece by piece. Finally, he gives me a single nod, which apparently means we don’t have to talk about it anymore.

We get through the rest of the session without another incident, though I notice Elliot making an effort to verbalize his agreement in words instead of grunts or sarcastic remarks. That’s progress, right?

“See you next week,” I tell Elliot when our time is up. “If you’re still in the same amount of pain next week, I’ll know you didn’t follow my orders,” I warn him.

Elliot turns around and gives me a salute before disappearing down the hallway. I stare after him, blinking a few times, still not believing he made a joke. A silent joke, of course, but it’s more life than I saw in him last week. That has to be a good sign.