It’s early morning when I head into the kitchen. Last night’s encounter with my new physical therapist has left me in a strangely good mood. There’s something about her eyes and the stubbornness displayed in them that amuses me.

It’s been so long since a woman’s challenged me the way she does.

I’m not used to women taking charge. At least not outside of the bedroom.

And then there’s also the fact that she’s crazy attractive. It’s been too long since I’ve actually had to chase a woman.

Too long since I felt the buzz, the thrill of the chase, the satisfaction that comes with conquering her. Whatever this is, it’s a nice change from my usual routine.

She didn’t like the memo, but her reaction to it was surprisingly calm. It was supposed to drive her away. That she’s decided to stay and put up with me is baffling.

When the door swings open, I turn around to regard her with a fake scowl on my face.

“Good morning to you, too, Mr. Boyd.” She frowns when I say nothing.

What’s with the Mr. Boyd stuff?

I’m still watching her as she walks past me to get to the sink. She’s dressed in the same boring attire as last night, but in the light of day she looks even more fragile. Usually, I don’t pay attention to such banalities, but her haunted look stops me from appreciating the generous swell of her breasts clearly contoured beneath her matronly top.

“Coffee?” I point to the coffee maker.

“No, thank you. I was just getting a cup of tea,” she mumbles, avoiding my roaming gaze. I notice the box she’s carrying in her hand and raise my brows, waiting for her to explain.

Ignoring me, she goes on to boil water. But her tense shoulders reveal her nervousness around me.

Or maybe she’s still pissed.

“You brought along your own tea?” I ask.

“It’s a special blend.”

“What is it? Tea that promises your clients will walk over water?”

She turns around, and the defiant glint from last night is back in her eyes. “No, it’s just green tea. Organic. From protected forests.” She leans forward, leaning against the counter, and I can’t help but throw a fleeting look at her breasts. “Did you know that harvesting tea often involves child labor and slavery?”

“No, but enlighten me,” I say sarcastically.

“You’re not interested in hearing more?”

I shrug. “You want me to care what happened out there while I was in a wheelchair? While I could still end up in a wheelchair? I’m sorry, but I don’t give a fuck.” Silence fills the air, and I realize that my comment was a bit harsh. Of course, I care what happens in the world, which is why I support several charities. I just don’t need to be reminded that the world’s one fucked-up place in general.

“You want some?” I ask and take a bite of my ham and cheese sandwich, my gaze brushing over her disheveled hair and the flash of nerves flickering in her blue eyes.

“No, thank you.”

“You don’t eat?” Without waiting for her reply I push a sandwich toward her and watch as she gazes at it longingly. Our brief interaction last night had her running for her bedroom, meaning she probably skipped dinner. I feel bad, but on the other hand I can’t be friendly to her or else she’ll want to hang around to ‘help’ me.

I don’t need anyone’s help.

“I’m fine,” she mumbles.

“Come on. Take a bite. I promise it’s not poisoned.” My comment doesn’t garner me the smile or giggle I expected.

I expect her to decline again, when she grabs the sandwich and takes a ginger bite, chewing slowly.

She really wants this to work out.

That has to be the only reasonable explanation why she’s not leaving.

Or she needs the money. Desperately.

Taking a sip of my coffee, I realize I can’t remember whether she told me her name last night. For some reason, it bugs me just as much as the fact that my sexual innuendo didn’t render the response I would have expected. Instead of melting her panties, it just made her turn a few degrees colder in the blink of an eye.

“Care to introduce yourself since you seem keen on living in my house?” I raise a brow and cock a smile. But she doesn’t seem to get my attempt at infusing humor into the situation.

“I’m not keen on living in your house at all.” She puts her sandwich down on the counter and her back goes rigid, pushing her breasts into focus. “It’s my job to be here, with my patient.”

“Why are you doing it? Staying, I mean. There are plenty of other clients to choose from.” I deliberately use the word ‘client’ not ‘patient.’

“The greatest reward for me is to see progress in my patients.” She emphasizes the last word.

“Do I happen to be a challenge for you?”

Her gaze meets mine with a force I never thought I’d find in a woman. “Yes. If you put it that way, absolutely.”

I can’t help staring at them…her breasts. How would they feel in my hands? I might not get much action these days, but I’m a man, after all. And I’m not blind. They look amazing in spite of the baggy shirt she’s wearing.

“How many patients have you helped to walk?” I ask, barely able to pry my gaze off her chest.

“Are you asking me for my progress chart?”

“If you have it laying around, that’d be great. I’d love to have a look at it.” Among other things.

She turns her back to me again as she pours hot water into a cup. “You’d be my twenty-sixth patient.”

“So few?” I raise my brows in mock ridicule.

“Who’ve learned to walk again.” She throws me a cold glance. “Do you have any idea how much time I put into my job, Mr. Boyd? I’m asking because you’re sending out the distinct message that you think I’m not taking this seriously.”

“I’ll pay you good money to leave.”

She cocks her head to the side. “Don’t do that. I’m not going home, not before I’ve seen you walk. And I promise you will one day. Even if I have to force you, I will.” Her tone is resolute. She probably believes her own promise. I wish I could say the same about me.

“I still don’t know your name. I’m not sure I feel comfortable with a stranger living in my house,” I say, eager to change the subject.

“I tried to introduce myself and you brushed me off, Mr. Boyd.” She pushes her hair back.

I smirk.

Little Miss Prissy thinks she can talk back.

Fat chance.

When I ask a question, I demand an answer;

I always get an answer.

It’s as simple as that.

“Okay.” I shrug. “Then let’s call you ‘sunshine.’”

“I’m not your sunshine.”

“Thunder, perhaps?”

“Absolutely not.” Her eyes narrow and a glint of anger flashes in them. “It’s Erin.”

“You don’t look like an Erin.”

“No? What do I look like?”

She has a short fuse. I can’t help but wonder whether she’s as fiery in bed as she is outside of it.

The thought sends a rush of blood to my dick. My jeans tighten visibly. But even if I wanted to hide the bulge, the cast around my leg makes it impossible to shift position.

“Birdy.” I press my mouth into a tight line to suppress a grin.

“Don’t call me that.” Her voice is sharp, on edge. Flashes of anger flicker in her eyes. She looks as though she’s about to snap my head off, which turns me on even more.

“Why not? Don’t you like the word, the implication of it, or is it reserved for someone else?”

“I—” Her gaze darts around the kitchen as she struggles for words. Her expression is cagey, but her emotions are written all over her face. “Because it used to be my nickname.”

“Birdy?”

“Yeah, I don’t want you to call me that. Ever. It’s Erin. Please.”

Her blue eyes fill with moisture. She turns her head away, but not in time to hide the pain that pours from her.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to start our first session. I’ll prepare the guestroom,” she mumbles.

“I like the sound of that. You’ll find fresh linens in the cupboard in the hall.”

“You may call that flirting; I call it sexual harassment. Now, drink up your coffee. We’re beginning in ten.”

“Ten what?”

“Minutes, Mr. Boyd.” She exhales a long, exasperated breath that makes her chest heave. I smile, unable to help myself.

“What if I’m not ready by then?”

“Then we’ll be having a problem,” Erin says. “Your father—”

“—is paying you. Got it the first couple of times you mentioned it. He’s paying you to put up with my shit.”

“Good. Now that that’s sorted out, let’s begin.” She’s not even trying to pretend otherwise. Turning sharply on her heels, she heads for the door, calling over her shoulder, “We’ll do it in the living room, then.”

“You realize the words ‘We’ll do it’ are sending mixed messages, right? You may think I’m flirting, but I call it working with what you’re giving me. I would be careful how you talk to your patients. Or else—”

She spins back to me, her eyes two fiery pits. “Or else?”

I open my mouth to proclaim that I don’t mind the living room because I have a very comfortable sofa that’s suitable for any position she might desire. But something stops me. Clearly, she’s not the flirty kind. Or she’s not over the breakup of her last relationship. Whatever it is, there’s something about her that suddenly kills my mood to further wind her up.

“Or nothing.” I push the remnants of my sandwich into my mouth and chew slowly, wondering why the fuck I even care about her feelings.

What the hell?

She might not be the type I usually go for, but no woman is ever off-limits… considering the circumstances. The circumstances being the three, five-hour surgeries I had to endure, followed by the steel implant in my bone, then the cast on my foot rendering me glued to this house for months.

Her glance remains fixed on me for a second too long. Without another word, she turns around and leaves.

But I caught the fleeting glance.

I know that sparkle in her eyes.

The longing. The passion. The hunger.

She’s actually attracted to me.

She knows the impact my accident had on my sex life, and she’s still attracted.

It’s not like I haven’t been horny. My right hand hasn’t seen so much action since high school. But I can’t call any of the numbers stored in my phone. Madison Creek is my home—my private retreat from my hectic lifestyle back in Chicago.

None of my conquests have ever seen the inside of this house, and that’s exactly the way I’d like to keep it. I don’t need anyone invading my private space—neither a woman, nor the media.

I won’t let the paparazzi enter my real life to get to know the real me.

And there’s also the fact that I’m not comfortable with the world knowing how hard the accident really hit me. It looked bad enough on screen. But the reality is much worse.

There are days when only prescribed painkillers could make the pain bearable, but I refuse to take them. I never did in the past, and I’m not about to start now. It’s a matter of regaining some of the control I used to have over my life.

The bottle of pills on my nightstand used to remind me of what I’d lost every hour of every day—before I tossed them in the bin. Erin’s presence has a similar effect on me, which is why she has to leave.

Only if she weren’t…

“So damn hot,” I mumble. She’s literally a few doors down, and the tightness in my pants just won’t let me forget it.

Not that I’m planning to invite her into my bed. As things stand, it’s all pretty much a diversion to waste my days…until I can get back on that bull again.

In spite of the banter we’ve been having I’m not going to deviate from my plan to make her stay unbearable for her.

The plan is to push her buttons as much as I can. Making her leave shouldn’t be too hard. We’ve barely spent ten minutes together and I already have her fuming. It’s only a matter of time before she snaps.

This is going to be easy.

My property’s big enough to avoid her for a week. Ignoring the pain, I enter my office through the glass sliding door overlooking a spot of the backyard that is hidden from view from the living room. Even if Erin comes looking for me, I’m pretty sure she won’t be taking a stroll outside through the bushes. They all think I’m useless on crutches, which is why my father and annoying brother, Kellan, keep sending people to look after me. She might be a professional, but she’s just like the rest who think I can’t regain the movement in my leg on my own.