Part 2 (1/2)
Reaching for her pile of supplies, she plucked a thickly rolled ACE bandage from the exam table. She freed the end of the stretchy cotton with an efficient tug, her fingers pressing firmly against his as she began to secure the heat pack into place, and every last one of his muscles went on involuntary lockdown at the skin-on-skin contact.
”I'm sorry.” Emerson froze, her shock-widened stare lifting to meet his from less than a foot away. ”Did I hurt you?”
”No.” Hunter's shoulder throbbed, doing its level best to keep time with his hammering pulse. How the h.e.l.l had he forgotten that physical therapy was pretty much synonymous with physical contact, and a whole lot of it?
The question must've broadcast over his face in HD, because a frown commandeered Emerson's features, lickety-split. ”You said you were okay with me treating you.”
The slight flick of her glance toward the spot where their fingers still touched told Hunter she knew all too well why he'd flinched, and screw this. The past was the past. What he needed now was to patch up his shoulder, period.
”I'm fine,” he said, willing his muscles to surrender their death grip and fixing her with a steady stare that backed up the sentiment. ”Just let me know when I can let go of this thing.”
”Okay,” she finally answered, winding the ACE bandage over his chest and shoulder until the heat pack was secured snugly into place. ”There. All set for now.”
”Wow.” Hunter turned from side to side, surprised to find that the bandage didn't budge but also wasn't so tight as to feel uncomfortable or hinder his movement. ”You're pretty good at that.”
Emerson's laugh caught him completely off guard, the sound unnervingly s.e.xy and sweet all at once. ”Considering that's one of the easier job requirements, I'd hope so.”
G.o.d. She'd spent five years conditioning multimillion-dollar athletes. Of course she could wrap his shoulder with ease. ”Sorry.” Hunter dropped his chin in sheepish apology. ”It's just that when I'd treat my shoulder in high school, I'd either lose the bag of ice in two seconds flat, or I'd feel like a walking tourniquet.”
”Let me guess,” Emerson said, and although the smile had left her lips, traces of it still hung in her voice. ”Eli did the first bandage job, and Owen did the latter.”
For the first time since he'd banana-peeled out of the hayloft, he considered a genuine laugh of his own. ”Aw, look. You can take the girl out of the small town, but not the small town out of the girl.”
”Oh, come on,” she argued, albeit without the heat he knew she was capable of. ”Anyone who's ever met your brothers could peg that one from a mile out. Anyway, you'll be doing this a lot in the coming weeks. I can show you the best technique to get an ice pack in place. That way it'll be easier for . . . um.” She stopped short, blus.h.i.+ng a ridiculously enticing shade of pink before soldiering on. ”Whoever's wrapping your shoulder now.”
A beat of deafeningly awkward silence followed, then another, before Hunter gave up a silent f.u.c.k it and forked over the truth. ”Still Eli or Owen,” he said, biting back a grunt as Emerson lifted his arm to the side. Jesus, his shoulder felt like it had been spray starched and set out in the afternoon sun.
”Really?” Her cinnamon-stick lashes fanned upward, betraying her surprise. ”You didn't marry some sweet local girl like Jenny Hostetler or Candy Thompson?”
He pulled back far enough to make the exam table issue another ominous creak. ”Oh, so now you're interested in talking weddings.”
”It was just a question,” she said, and the flush on her face told him it was one she hadn't intended to let out.
Don't be a d.i.c.k. Do not be a d.i.c.k. Don't . . . ”Are you fis.h.i.+ng for information?” he asked, and okay, then. Looked like he'd take Being a d.i.c.k for two hundred.
”I'm making polite conversation,” Emerson corrected, releasing his arm back to his side.
”About my marital status.”
”We can talk about the weather if you'd prefer.”
”No,” Hunter said, addressing both her suggestion and her question at once. He'd buried the past a long time ago. Over. Said. Done. If she wanted to go for the group share in the here and now, far be it for him to say no.
”I never got married. Candy and her sister moved to Camden Valley to open a bakery, and Jenny Hostetler married Mike Porter a couple years after we graduated. They have two kids and another one on the way.”
Emerson lifted his arm again, and again, his shoulder cranked down on the movement. ”Wait . . . Moonpie Porter, who ate all those dessert cakes on a dare in the sixth grade? Are you serious?”
”As a heart attack,” he said, working up an expression to match the a.s.sertion. ”Although I doubt Jenny calls him Moonpie.”
”Everyone calls him Moonpie.”
”Not everything around here is the same as it used to be.”
Her fingers stuttered over his shoulder, and although the hitch lasted less than a second, Hunter felt it all the same. ”Duly noted.” A tiny crease appeared between her brows, erasing the ease that had softened her expression not ten seconds earlier. ”G.o.d, your shoulder really doesn't want to let go. Let's try this.”
She sidestepped to his left, angling her body so that her right hip pressed flush against the inside of his left knee. Flattening her palm over his sternum, Emerson splayed her fingers over the center of his chest. ”Go ahead and lean forward until your good shoulder rests on mine. Your injured arm should hang over the side of the table, and you can let it gently swing free for a minute like a pendulum.”
”You want me to lean on you?” Hunter paused. He had to have a good sixty pounds on her in body weight, not to mention the eight-inch height differential that wasn't helped by his current position on the exam table.
But Emerson didn't hesitate. ”We can't let your shoulder lock up any tighter, and this is the best way to allow gravity to loosen you up. The table will support the bulk of your body weight, but I can handle the rest. So to answer your question, yes. I want you to lean on me.”
Hunter blew out a breath. He wanted to lean on her about as much as he wanted a tax audit right now-if the brush with her fingers had nearly fried his motherboard, a full-contact body lean was likely to send his idiot brain around the bend. But he'd promised to do what she told him to, and, to be honest, letting his arm swing free for a minute did sound pretty freaking appealing.
Even if he did have to trust Emerson in order to make that happen.
”Okay, fine. No sweat.” He scooted to the edge of the exam table, placing his left shoulder against her right. Her right hand stayed firm against his breastbone, and he hinged forward, carefully and cautiously.
Nothing.
He s.h.i.+fted his weight, flattening his right palm on the table beside him for support. Again, he took a breath, inching forward at an awkward angle until the muscles in his back tightened in protest.
Again, nothing.
”Hunter.” Emerson's voice vibrated against the thin cotton where his T-s.h.i.+rt met her shoulder. ”I know you're out of your comfort zone, and that you're not thrilled about any of this, but I also know your shoulder has to be killing you, so, please. Do me a favor. Stop holding back so I can help you, here.”
For a second, he nearly balked. Of course he was out of his G.o.dd.a.m.n comfort zone. He'd been benched for a solid month at Cross Creek, his shoulder was as tangled up and twisted as old Mrs. Ellersby's knitting, and he had to rely on the woman who'd once blown his heart to bits to get himself right again. But then he inhaled, the fresh floral scent of Emerson's hair going all the way into his lungs, and his shoulder shocked the h.e.l.l out of him by beginning to unwind.
For the smallest part of a second, Hunter tried to fight the sensation. His traitorous body won out, though, pure muscle memory destroying the caution pumping down from his brain, and slowly, unwittingly, he released his weight against her body. Emerson held him up, her hand, her shoulder, her torso all warm, solid support. He melted into her, his breaths round and belly deep, pressing closer until his left arm dangled loosely over the side of the exam table.
Holy s.h.i.+t, the relief was enough to make him groan.
”There you go. Keep leaning,” she murmured, her voice steady and calm, smooth as warm b.u.t.ter on bread. ”Good. Now let your arm swing, nice and easy.”
Hunter was powerless to do anything other than comply, the muscles on the back of his shoulder relinquis.h.i.+ng another layer of their death grip. Letting his lids drift shut, he metered his breathing, releasing more and more tension from his body with every round of inhale/exhale. Finally, Emerson s.h.i.+fted her weight, carefully easing him back upright on the exam table.
”G.o.d, that was . . .” Incredible. Mind-scrambling. Hot as sin. Seriously, what was wrong with him?
Hunter straightened his spine and reset his shoulders, his brain finally kicking back into gear. ”Uh, nice. Feels like it worked,” he finished lamely. ”I don't think I've ever done that stretch before.”
”Oh.” Emerson blinked once, then once more before turning to scoop up his chart from a nearby ledge. ”You probably haven't, since I'm pretty sure I made this version up. It's a variation of leaning against a doorframe with your good shoulder. Same principle of letting gravity loosen the musculature, only this way tends to be more comfortable for the rest of the upper body, so you're better able to relax your arm.”
Huh. h.e.l.l if that wasn't a half step from brilliant. ”And you just made it up?”
”Sure.” One corner of her mouth lifted along with her shoulders. ”After working with a handful of all-star quarterbacks, you tend to have a few tricks up your sleeve.”
The mention of her job-or former job, he guessed-brought him the rest of the way back to reality. ”Speaking of which, what does your star running back boyfriend think of your relocation?”