Harlow: A Military Bad Boy Romance: The Bradford Brothers (8 page)

After work, I’m making dinner while Tony is out. He shows up when it’s nearly done. He reeks of alcohol.

“How was your day?” I ask him.

“Fine.”

“Any luck finding a job?”

“Geez, Whitney. Is that all you care about? Whether or not I find a job?”

I blink, taken aback by his aggressiveness. But then I feel defensive.

“Actually, it’s a big concern right now. You keep
saying
you’re going to get a job, but nothing happens, and it’s difficult for both of us to live just off of my student loan money.”

“I can’t help it that you hang out with your boss Lance all day for free, when really they should be paying you.”

“It’s called an
internship
, Tony. And it’s for our future. In a few months I’ll have graduated and will likely get a good job as a result of this internship.”

If I don’t blow it by causing problems with Harlow
, I think.

I was planning a nice, casual dinner at home, where I could tell Tony about my dilemma at work. On the one hand, I think I could validly assess Harlow and help him improve. On the other, someone higher up than me will likely want me to say that he’s further along than he really is. And I’d have ethical problems with that. Not to mention his haughty attitude. He probably thinks he doesn’t even need my help.

I’ve been thinking a lot about asking for someone else to replace me as Harlow’s physical therapist. It seems like the wisest and most ethical course of action. And yet, I worry that it will look bad for me at work.

As Lance has pointed out, this is my opportunity to prove myself, and I’m not sure I should quit before I even try. Not to mention, I wouldn’t mind the chance to get up close and personal with Harlow…

“What’s for dinner?” Tony asks, as if reading my thoughts and wanting to draw them back to himself.

“Just tomato soup and grilled cheese,” I say. “I had a long day at work and school, so I decided to keep it simple.”

Tony opens the fridge and pops open a Heineken.

“Fine by me.”

Another one?
I want to say.

Instead, I ask, “What’d you do today?”

“Just hung out with Nate and some other guys,” he says. “Shot some pool.”

So basically he was in a bar all day while I worked, and now he’s drinking more beer while I cook
.

“Do you want to make a salad?” I ask him. “The veggies are in the fridge.”

“No, I’m going to relax and play a game of Madden ‘till dinner’s ready,” he says, heading over to the living room, beer in hand.

I can’t take it anymore. I just explode.

“Tony, I don’t think I can do this.”

“This? What?”

He plops down on the couch, not even seeming very upset.

“Us. I just feel so disconnected from you, and you don’t even seem to make an effort anymore. It’s not just a matter of finances, although that’s an important issue. It’s just that emotionally, I feel lonely, as if I’m not even in a relationship at all…”

“Geez, Whitney. We’ve both had long days. Can’t this just wait until later? I don’t have the energy for a long- winded relationship assessment conversation right now.”

I know in my heart that I’ve reached an impasse, but Tony’s right that at least
I
had a long day. I guess I don’t have in it me to take action about our relationship
and
my internship right now.

I spoon myself out a small bowl of soup and eat it while Tony obliviously plays his video game. I have lost my appetite.

“Dinner’s ready, serve yourself,” I tell him, on my way to the bathroom. “I’m going to take a bubble bath.

I sink down deep into the water and try to clear my head. I can’t run away from two challenges at once.

As I hear the sounds of Tony’s video game continue in the living room, I decide to break up with him, and to work with Harlow. It’s time I stopped taking the easy way out for once.

“Thank you all for coming today,” Dr. Davis says, as he passes out sheets of printed paper to those of us seated around the conference table.

Harlow’s physical therapy training officially begins today, with this meeting of his training team, for the purpose of going over his treatment plan. I find it rather odd that Dr. Davis is not only present for this meeting, which is usually only held among the physical therapists, but also that he’s in charge of the meeting.

Once again, the question burns a hole in my mind:
What does a facial reconstructive surgeon know about physical therapy?
But then again, Dr. Davis is clearly the type who likes to think he’s in charge of everything. And I suppose our department lets him get away with a lot, since he will tout our services during his award- winning presentations and since he promises to send a lot of new patients our way.

“The list I’m handing out includes an overview of the type of services I think that Harlow needs, and the specific tasks he must be able to complete before he can be certified as fit for active duty. This is, of course, our over- riding goal.”

I sneak a glance at Harlow and can’t help but notice the hopeful yet proud look on his face. He turns to me and the look changes to one of interest yet reservation, as if to say “back off unless you’re in line with this goal.”

Lance taps his leg against mine under the table and I realize the exchange of looks between Harlow and I might be more noticeable than I realized. Lance writes a note on the back of his piece of paper:

Meow! Are you and Military Hunk going to have a cat fight for the whole room to see?

I shake my head at him and turn back to Dr. Davis.

“I expect Harlow’s team to report to me frequently so that we can take an integrative approach and more quickly work together to assess and refine any areas that still need improvement.”

I glance down at the list of tasks that Dr. Davis expects Harlow to do and some of them seem difficult if not impossible for
anyone
to perform, let alone someone recovering from a traumatic injury.

Do 100 squats with kettle bells.

Run 2 miles in under 10 minutes.

“Dr. Davis?” I ask, clearing my throat, nervously.

“Yes?” he asks, his eyes narrowing in on me. “Oh yes, of course. I remember you from the awards ceremony. The one who likes to challenge everything and ask a lot of questions. Ms. Reid, am I correct?”

I’m momentarily taken aback, surprised that if he remembers me and views me as a challenge that he would dare allow me to work with his prized patient. And the fact that he knows my name is off- putting, although I suppose not all that strange.

Of course he knows the people who will be working with Harlow. I’m just rather shocked that he would allow me to be one of them.

“Yes. I’m the intern who will be…”

“…primarily working with Harlow.” Dr. Davis fills in the rest of my sentence for me, as if to point out that he’s not an idiot. “I know. Go ahead and ask one of your many questions.”

Nearly everyone in the room snickers, except for Lance, who bumps my leg again as if to tell me to cool it.

“I was just wondering what criteria you used in creating this list of tasks?” I ask, suddenly wishing I had never spoken up. “And whether you consulted a physical therapist in doing so, because…”

“Of course I did,” Dr. Davis answers, with a smile that contradicts his rather angry tone. “Dr. Warren and I work very closely on Harlow’s case, as we will be doing with all the patients who I send here for treatment.”

This seems like a subtle threat, designed to point out the obvious: Dr. Davis is in charge here, and intends to be for the foreseeable future.

“These tasks are designed for a member of an elite Special Forces group, to which Harlow belongs,” Dr. Davis continues, as if speaking to a kindergartner. “These men are not just any ordinary patients. They were able to do extraordinary things, and need to be back at those levels before they can be cleared for service. At least, that’s what the military informs me.”

It makes sense, but I still think the tasks are extremely challenging for
anyone
, even a member of the Special Forces. But I clearly need to learn my place. I say nothing further.

Dr. Warren goes over some practical logistics, such as the dates and times of sessions, and meetings amongst staff members afterwards to go over the training plan. We are certainly paying a lot more attention to Harlow than our other patients, but I suppose that makes sense.

Once the meeting wraps up, Dr. Warren informs us that Harlow’s training will start today, with a session to immediately follow the meeting. I look at Harlow and he is already looking back at me. We lock eyes and my entire body tingles as I realize that for the next hour, it will just be him and me.

“Guess that means that Whitney and Harlow get some alone time,” Dr. Davis says, as if echoing my thoughts. His voice is childish and taunting. “You kids play nice in the therapy room.”

It’s beginning to seem that Dr. Davis heard my challenge, and accepted it. He has something to prove to me, and I wonder if he chose me for a reason. I can’t help but wonder what that reason is.

But as Harlow and I get up to start heading to our session, I have bigger things on my mind. The fact that he and I will be up close and personal is at the forefront.

“I know that Dr. Warren already went through your medical history and patient questionnaire,” Whitney says, looking studiously through my file. “I have reviewed them, and I’m going to start by running you through some basic agility tests.”

Once we’re in the therapy room, she’s all business. So professional.

It’s sexy. But I’m wondering what happened to the electricity I know I felt between us. She’s obviously doing her best to hide it.

“Sure thing,” I tell her, with a wink.

“I’m going to need to assess your posture and balance,” she says, maintaining her official demeanor. “First, I’ll need you to lay down, in a prone position.”

I obey, slinking down to the hard floor with my stomach and head down and my arms stretched out to the side.

“Perfect,” she says. “Now lift up your left leg, please.”

I do so, and she appears to pause, as if studying me. She puts a hand on my left calf, which I can’t say I don’t enjoy.

“How far forward can you stretch this leg?” she asks me, and I immediately oblige her request, bringing my heel down to where it almost touches my shoulder.

“And the other leg?”

She keeps a hand on both legs as I stretch my right leg in the same way that I stretched my left.

“You have regained much of your flexibility,” she announces, as if surprised, and I know without looking up that she is checking a box off of some form on her chart. “Now please stand up from that position.”

I do, and she puts a hand on my back as if expecting me to wobble. She anticipates having to steady me, but I’m just fine. She traces my spine with her fingers, and it’s all I can do to breathe normally.

“Now please bend over and touch your toes.”

I do so, without issue.

“Are you sure you’re not looking at some physical fitness test for elementary schoolers?” I tease her, in an effort to break the tension. It works, sort of. She lets out half a laugh.

“All right, a challenge, then,” she says, and I’m definitely up for it. “Stretch your arms forward and hold onto the barre with one hand,” she tells me.

“Like this?” I grab the barre awkwardly while walking my arms out only slightly.

“I want you to stretch your entire body,” she says, demonstrating for me herself on the barre, which was my goal all along.

She flattens her back in front of me and holds onto the barre with one hand while reaching downwards to the floor. In this position I can stare at her curvy ass to my heart’s delight.

“Got it?” she asks, and turns around to check.

I quickly align myself in the correct position, and she nods.

“Very good,” she says, coming around alongside me to place her hands on the small of my back.

“Do you feel any pain here?”

“Nope.”

Her hand feels dainty and small on my back. I wish it could linger there just a bit longer.

“Okay, slowly pull yourself up until you’re standing,” she says, keeping a hand on my back while I do so.

She traces her fingers slowly down my vertebra.

“There’s no pain here?”

“Nope. Feels fine.”

“Your report says that you suffered significant spinal injury when the helicopter crashed,” she says, nearly massaging my back now. “And yet now you feel nothing?”

“Right. I mean, it just feels normal.”

See?
I want to say.
I’m fine. Return me to service. I need to get back to doing what I’m supposed to be doing.

But I’m distracted, because she’s facing me now, with one hand still wrapped around my back, and if I’m not mistaken she’s breathing more heavily. How I wish I could take her in my arms and kiss her. But I don’t want to ruin what is finally looking as if it could turn out to be a good thing in more ways than one.