1. Hazel

Chapter One

HAZEL

D on’t panic.

Do not panic.

Everything is fine; you can fix this.

This is totally fixable.

Whatever you do, do not panic.

You got this.

Mr. Willis, my seventy-year-old arthritis-riddled client, howls in pain on my table, his body contorted in a way that can only be described as Cirque du Solei meets The Exorcism of Emily Rose.

“Girl, if I was looking to be tortured, I would have hit that nightclub down the block and found me a hot young blond to tie me to his bed for the night instead of coming here!”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Willis.” I can literally feel the color drain from my cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I did ask that you not move while I was working on your sciatic, though.”

“This isn’t my fault!”

“No! No, of course not.” Except it absolutely is.

Mr. Willis is a regular, and knows how things work, but he’s also super impatient and antsy so, between that and his random muscle spasms and rheumatoid arthritis that sometimes makes him lock up, this was a disaster waiting to happen. “Here, maybe if I?—”

“Nope! You ain’t touching me again. Not until I get the sensation back in my ass.”

His ass that is currently pointed toward my ceiling.

All I did was have him roll his hips to the side and ask him to slowly assume downward dog in order to see if his range of motion had improved from last time. I just wanted to see if his sciatic pinched at all when he did it, but Mr. Willis went into the position too fast, then tried to get up on all fours before I had the chance to stop him. His body froze, ass up with his arms out to the sides like he’s being suspended by them. Then Mr. Willis face-planted on my table with a heart-stopping thud and because of the movement, his sciatica did flare, his left leg shot straight out, and now the poor elderly man is balancing on nothing but his face and left knee.

“Mr. Willis, let me go get the hot rocks. Maybe applying them to your lower back will help the muscles and nerves loosen enough to get you into a more comfortable position.”

He grunts and groans, then lets out another wail. “Fine! Hurry up, girl. I’m starting to get dizzy.”

Great .

All I need is one of my regular clients—one of my last remaining clients—to pass out and end up paralyzed or worse during a routine appointment. That’ll be great for my already floundering business.

I rush over to the crock pot and lift the lid, remove the stones with the tongs, then don my gloves since there’s no time for them to cool enough for me to handle them, and hurry back to Mr. Willis.

With all the confidence I can muster, I start working the air-cooled rocks over his spandex-covered lower back, gliding the stones over the area that’s compromised and blow out a breath as his left leg starts to lower, and his ass slowly sinks back toward my table.

“Forget what I said.” He sighs in relief. “Sorry for biting your head off.”

I smile and relax a little myself. “It’s okay. I’m sorry too.”

“Ugh. I take everything back, Hazel. It wasn’t your fault and there isn’t another woman on the planet I want touching me the way you do.”

“Or any other way.” I giggle as I slide the stones toward his shoulders to help his arms loosen.

He chuckles and melts into the massage table. “Darn tootin’. You’re the only woman that’s ever had her hands on me, and that’s the way I like it.”

I finish Mr. Willis’s massage without further issue. I even throw in an adjustment for free, and he tips me big, like always. Then I schedule his next session for a week from today.

And since he was the last and only appointment of the day, I start deep cleaning my clinic.

Massage table.

Counter tops.

I put the linens in the bin, reorganize my oils, sanitize my stones, balls and rollers, the head and neck tinglers, yoga mats and cold laser.

The Flexion table is next, then the rolling table. After that I clean my glass cupping set, rearrange my acupuncture needles, both just for the hell of it because I haven’t used them in two weeks.

From there I do the floors, the windows, restock the mini fridge and lock up the front of my building.

I am the sole and proud owner of my very own tiny building and massage therapy clinic—Happy Body, Happy Soul. I offer a wide variety of massage techniques and treatments, and thanks to spending my college years extremely undecided, I also offer yoga for pain treatment, physical therapy, and chiropractic adjustments.

My clients are mostly in the 55 and over range; people who suffer from chronic disorders, old injuries or simply the many effects of aging. My specialties—the reasons I started doing all of this—were sports injuries and accident victims, but over time, I sort of evolved, and now I mostly cater to the senior population. Which isn’t surprising since my business is in Florida.

Jupiter is home, though, so while I could have opened my rather eclectic business in a bigger city or state with a greater need and appreciation for my skills, I couldn’t bring myself to leave.

Especially after my grandma passed.

She was all I had left and while I know my nona wanted me to “get the hell out of dodge,” as she put it, I just couldn’t leave the place where she raised me.

So, I opened my business a few miles from where I grew up and planted my roots deeper than they were before.

Unfortunately, business hasn’t been booming lately, and aside from Mr. Willis, I only have a few loyal clients who are barely keeping me afloat.

With a sigh, I kill the lights and push through the back door into my attached studio apartment.

Thankfully, the building I own used to be a rather successful chiropractic practice. It had several adjustment rooms as well as multiple bathrooms, and with what Nona left me when she passed, I was able to convert my one-story brick clinic into a home as well.

Out front, there is a small waiting area separate from the clinic; one window, a tiny desk with my appointment calendar, a phone, and a couple of chairs. The clinic itself is the biggest space, but my studio apartment isn’t exactly a shoebox.

More like two refrigerator boxes duct-taped together.

I have a small kitchen and dining space, the biggest bathroom got a remodel to include a shower stall and cabinets, and my living room-slash-bedroom is just the right size for me and Boris, my Russian blue.

My Russian blue, who is waiting with a look that could kill as I lock up the door to our home behind me.

“What?” I frown as I kick off my Crocs. “Mr. Willis got all tangled up again. I had to untie him or else you’d be eating store brand mush out of a tin can while we lived out of Nona’s boat of a car.”

Boris basically rolls his eyes and lets out a disbelieving meow.

“Fine, you’re right. I’d be eating out of the tin can while you continued to have your pallet tantalized with gourmet kitty food.” I bend down and scratch his head, then rub his cheek. “Come on, Bo, let’s get you fed so we can hit the sack.”

He follows me into the kitchenette and waits patiently while I warm his food.

Yes, I microwave my cat's expensive-as-hell indoor formula because I mix in a little organic chicken stock, and he deserves nothing but the best.

Ask him; he’ll tell you.

I get Boris situated, then look for my own dinner, realizing I desperately need to go shopping, so I just opt for a beer and pretzels before I get ready for bed. And just when I turn out the light and cue up the next episode of Murder, She Wrote , all ready to slide under the covers, my phone vibrates on my nightstand.

Most people would be super annoyed over their phone going off at bedtime, but there are two very good reasons I’m not.

One, since I don’t have any friends or family, my phone going off means it can only be the one person I talk to outside of my clients—Fight4It82.

Fight4It82 and I met in an anonymous online grief and loss support group about five years ago, just after I lost my nona. He had just lost his father, and for some reason, we were drawn to each other. He wound up private messaging me when I stopped participating in the group, worried if I was okay—I wasn’t. Since then, we talk once every couple of days with occasional big chunks of nothing in between. He says it’s work that causes the radio silence, the schedule of an athlete his only clue to what work means, but I haven’t pried because Fight4It82 is my only friend. And I don’t want to jeopardize that for my nosy curiosity.

Plus, he’s very guarded.

Our conversations consist of mostly well-checks and surface stuff, or the occasional and super random philosophical discussion. And while I know all of his favorites—color is green, band is Pearl Jam, movie is The Big Lebowski, book is The Catcher in the Rye and his favorite junk food is cheeseburgers—I don’t know his name, birthday, where he’s from or what his job is.

Our friendship is bizarre by most standards, but it works for us and for as much as I’d love for it to be Fight4It82 to be the one calling me right now, I know it’s not because we don’t do that.

The other reason I’m not super annoyed by the bedtime call?

It’s only 7:45pm.

I am the epitome of the crazy spinster cat lady.

Even have my eye on a Persian longhair at the local shelter.

I roll to the side, grab my iPhone and swipe the screen when I see that it’s Linda Riley, one of my loyal and most favorite clients.

“Hi, Linda.”

“Hey, girl!” she chirps into the phone. “I didn’t catch you at a bad time, did I? Not taking your attention away from some hulking hottie or anything?”

I roll my eyes and sink down into my bed. “Not unless you count Boris.”

Linda lets out a long sigh. “Honey, you need to get out more.”

“What can I do for you, Linda?” This is me choosing to ignore how right she is . “Did you need to reschedule your appointment for Friday?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.” I can practically see the pity-filled look on her face. “I was actually hoping you might have an opening for a new client.”

Now, this piques my interest.

I scoot around in bed, reaching for my sticky notes and a pen. “I do.” Don’t need to tell her I have all the openings. “Is it someone from your book club?”

Linda has referred several clients my way over the last few years, most of whom are from her Sexy Sixties Steamy Romance Book-a-holics book club. A few of them have even continued to see me on a regular basis; Mr. Willis included, even though he’s seventy.

“Not this time, honey.”

“Oh?” That’s a first. Either this new referral is going to be even older than Mr. Willis because Linda volunteers at the senior center, or it’s going to be a stranger from the library where she works a few hours a week. “Can I get their name and contact info?”

Linda clears her throat, then sighs again. “His name is Knox Riley.”

“Okay, and his number?” Riley? That’s Linda’s last name.

Weird coincidence.

Then it hits like a sledgehammer. “Wait, Knox Riley ?”

“Yes dear. Knox Riley, my oldest boy.”

“Oh...” I know Linda has two sons and a daughter, sons and a daughter she gushes about every time she’s here for an appointment, but she’s never given me specifics other than how wonderful, beautiful, thoughtful, and successful they are. And how she wishes they would settle down and make her a grandma before she’s too old to enjoy it. “Well, can I get his number or?—”

“Here’s the thing, honey.” Another sigh, and that makes me nervous. “Knox doesn’t know I’m calling you.”

Great .

Judging by her tone, her oldest boy not only is in the dark over her call, but he’ll probably not be a fan of his mother making an appointment for him. Especially at a place like mine.

“He’s a stubborn ox,” Linda huffs. “I’ve been telling him for months to schedule with you, but he won’t do it.”

“Then why are you scheduling for him? Won’t he just cancel?”

“Probably, but he’s running out of options.” The obviously concerned mama sighs again . And I’m not taking that as a good thing. I’m also a little concerned Linda might hyperventilate by the end of our phone call if she keeps that up. “Knox is a fighter, a heavyweight in the MMA scene. His retirement fight was about, oh, maybe a year ago now and he planned to go out as champ. He wanted to keep his record close to perfect and leave the sport a title holder.”

Damn my nosy ways . “But that didn’t happen?”

“No. During the third round, Knox dislocated his shoulder but didn’t let on—he even finished the fight with the injury. Because it was so bad due to sustaining the same injury several times before, there was a complete tear of the rotator cuff and Knox had to tap out of an arm bar.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about, arm bars and tapping out, but a sports injury definitely has me curious. “So, he had surgery.”

“Smart girl.” Linda smiles through the phone. “I love my son, I’m so damn proud of him, but the idiot rescheduled a title fight against the jerk who is currently reigning champ in order to win the belt back and go out on top. Problem is that his recovery is taking longer than expected because he won’t listen to anyone about what he needs to do to get back to 100% before the fight.”

“Pushing himself too hard? Training before he was ready?” I saw that all the time in the football players and wrestlers I treated when I was doing clinicals. Talk about stubbornness. Sounds like her son would fit right in.

“You know it. And though my boy is whip smart, Knox has been a dumbass about the whole thing. He’s fired every single physical therapist that the CFA has assigned to him, refuses to do the exercises because he’s convinced training is the way to go, and now he’s looking at the possibility of a forced retirement because Knox won’t allow himself to heal.”

Oh boy . “How far into his recovery is he?”

“Almost nine months.”

“Wow.” Should have only been six at most to get up to par. Apparently, Knox really isn’t taking anyone’s advice.

“I know,” Linda grumbles. “His shoulder is better, but not good enough to get back in the octagon. Range of motion is compromised, reflexes are slow. His strength is maybe 70% and if he goes back in like that, not only will Knox lose the fight, but he’ll probably create permanent damage and be forced to retire anyway. And with his overall sour mood, my son will most likely get pissed enough to cause a scene and accrue fines on top of the loss and retirement.”

“Jeez, that sounds horrible.”

“It is. And that’s exactly why I’m calling you.”

I drop my head to the headboard and sigh. “I appreciate that, Linda, but if Knox is resistant to treatment?—”

“You specialized in sports medicine, though, right?”

“Yeah, but?—”

“And your combination of various techniques and treatments should work for something like this, right?”

“Yes, but?—”

“And you could get him up to snuff by the time he’s scheduled to face that jerk next month?”

My eyes widen. “ Next month ? Look, Linda, I appreciate your faith in my skills, but I’d have to assess the damage, figure out if Knox has hurt himself by training while injured, and devise a treatment plan based on that. Those things alone could take a couple of weeks, even with sessions almost every day. Then you throw in the training he’ll probably need to do, the conditioning or whatever, I’m just not sure I could have him up to fighting standards in a month’s time.”

“Training and conditioning you leave for Knox. Like I said, he’s at about 70% and since he hasn’t stopped either of those things, my son is in pique physical condition save for the bum shoulder. That will be your sole focus, and the rest is up to him.”

“But Linda?—”

“Please, Hazel? This means so much to my boy, and he’s going to do it one way or another. If he starts working with you, then at least he has a better shot of fighting at 100% and taking his title back; a better chance at preventing a permanent, irreversible injury that would crush him.” She sniffles and damnit, I’m gonna do this. “This has been Knox’s dream his whole life. Something he got into with his dad. The plan was always to retire on top, to go out with a bang, so to speak. And now that my Charlie isn’t around to see it, this means that much more to Knox. He isn’t going to give up, he isn’t going to go down without a fight, and if he works with you until that fight, at least I’ll know he’s in the best shape he can be for it.”

With a totally defeated smile, I nod. “I have an opening tomorrow at eleven. I can start the assessment, see where he’s at, but if there’s too much damage or Knox is unwilling...”

“He won’t be.” Her smile is obvious through the phone. “The CFA has him essentially benched until he proves he’s working on his recovery. No affiliate gyms or sparring time. His team has pretty much exiled him over the fines they’re threatening to slap them all with, so if Knox wants to get back to all that outside of his home gym, then he has to work with you. You’re his only option, Hazel, and since he really is a smart boy, Knox will be a willing participant.”

Somehow, I don’t buy that.

If he’s fired everyone assigned to him prior to me, I doubt Knox Riley is going to be over the moon about his mom scheduling him at my clinic without any knowledge of it.

Something Linda all but confirms when she says, “Fair warning, my son is rather grumpy these days. He’s a sweetheart most of the time, but this whole thing has Knox stressed out and grouchy. Don’t take it personally if he’s a bear the first time you meet him.”

Wonderful .

But I’m a sucker for a good overcoming the odds story. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Just have him come to the clinic tomorrow at eleven, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“You are wonderful, Hazel! A real lifesaver!”

Hardly . “No problem, Linda. Thanks for the referral. I’ll see you Friday.”

“See you, dear!” She hangs up.

“Well, Boris, it looks like I got exactly what I asked for.”

My cat looks at me with half-closed eyes, then burrows down into my lap.

I wish I was as uninterested and relaxed as Bo right now, but this new client, Knox Riley , has me all kinds of anxious.

Tomorrow is going to be a three cups of coffee kind of day, that’s for sure.