“That’s basically a scam,” I cut in. “Cracking joints and charging hundreds.”
Riley’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture becomes more rigid. “Not if they know what they’re doing.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a business card. “Make an appointment with my assistant. She’ll prioritize you.You don’t pay me anything until I figure out what’s wrong and fix it.”
I don’t take the card. “I hate hospitals.”
Riley looks at me for a long moment, then retrieves a pen from his pocket. He flips the card over and writes something on the back. When he holds it out again, I take it automatically.
“That’s my home address,” he says. “If you change your mind, come there instead. I have what I need to work with you.”
I stare at the card, at the address written on the back. “You do this for all your patients?”
“No.” He doesn’t elaborate. Instead, he walks over to the bench, picks up his coat, and slides it on in one fluid motion. “Think about it, Jacob. This doesn’t have to end your career.”
Before I can respond, he’s walking away, his steps measured and unhurried. The door swings closed behind him, letting in another brief rush of night air before sealing me back in the hot, humid gym.
I look down at the card in my hand, turning it over to read his credentials on the front, then flipping it to see the address again. I should throw it away. I should forget this conversation happened. I should get back to training, push through the pain like I always do, prove to myself that I don’t need his help or his penetrating green eyes or his calm, unshakeable confidence.
Instead, I slide the card into my pocket, telling myself it’s only because I don’t see a trash can and I’m not littering. That’s all. Basic courtesy.
I’m not going to call him. I’m never going to that address. There’s no scenario where I let Riley put his hands on me again,mapping out every place that hurts, every weakness I’ve kept buried.
The card presses against my thigh as I gather my things, but I barely notice it. By tomorrow, I’ll have forgotten it’s even there.
4
Riley
For once, I’m home before midnight. The sensation is so foreign I almost don’t know what to do with myself in my own living room. My couch cushions still hold their shape, unused to supporting anything but my briefcase, and my wine glass feels strange in my hand—an indulgence instead of a sleep aid. I sink deeper into the cushions, socked feet propped on the coffee table, letting the Cabernet warm my chest. Three sips in and my phone hasn’t buzzed once. Maybe the universe finally got the memo that Dr. Riley Shepard deserves one goddamn night off.
I’ve changed into worn joggers and a faded Penn State t-shirt. My hair’s still damp from the shower, droplets occasionally sliding down my neck. It’s the most relaxed I’ve been in weeks.
The intercom buzzes, shattering my peaceful bubble.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, setting down my glass. I trudge to the door, jabbing the intercom button. “Yes?”
No response, just the sound of someone shifting their weight. I hit the video button, and the small screen flickers to life.
Holy shit.
Jacob Mancini stands outside my building, head bowed, hood pulled up despite the mild evening. Even with his face partiallyshadowed, there’s no mistaking that build. He glances up at the camera, and the intensity in his eyes hits me straight in the chest.
I hesitate for exactly two seconds before pressing the button to buzz him in.
What the hell is he doing here? It’s been over three weeks since our midnight encounter at the gym. Three weeks of checking my appointment schedule, telling myself I wasn’t disappointed each time his name failed to appear. Three weeks of wondering if he’d thrown my card away after all.
I unlock my door and wait, listening to the elevator’s mechanical hum as it ascends. When it dings and the doors slide open, Jacob steps out like a storm front, exuding dark energy. He moves down the hallway with purpose, shoulders hunched, hands jammed into the pockets of a black hoodie that stretches tight across his chest.
“You found the place,” I say, because my brain apparently can’t produce anything more intelligent.
Jacob doesn’t respond. He brushes past me into my apartment, not waiting for an invitation. I close the door behind him, watching as he surveys my living space with sharp, darting glances. His restless energy fills the room, making my spacious condo feel suddenly cramped.
“Nice place,” he finally says, taking in the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sleek furniture, the art I paid an interior designer to select because I couldn’t be bothered. “Doctors must make bank.”
“It pays the bills.” I follow him as he drifts toward my living room. “Plus, I got a good deal. The building was still under construction when I bought in.”
Jacob nods absently, clearly not giving a shit about real estate. He looks like he’s vibrating out of his skin, fingers flexing and unflexing at his sides.
“You want something to drink?” I ask, gesturing to my abandoned wine glass. “I’ve got beer, water, or—”