Medical Romance July 2016 Books 1-6. Lynne Marshall
luggage from the jet and catch up, and Grace all alone with the Sexiest Man Alive.
“You just turned it on. Does it send a homing signal for people to call you when you turn it on?” she asked. As soon as the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. Her mood had to improve. How many women would kill to be Liam Carter’s red-carpet date? But every time he looked at her she felt like he was going to bring up that night. He hadn’t, thank goodness, and he’d given her no real indication that he wanted to. Every instance when something had been said that might lead into that conversation, he’d changed the subject too.
She should relax.
“I think so.”
He answered the phone and began talking. Reviews. Good reviews. Or what she’d call great, at least the ones she’d seen before they’d got into the air. And she had seen no mentions of his limp. So maybe he was right. Maybe she only noticed because it was her job to notice.
Tonight was the last night that he’d have to be on that ankle, and then tomorrow she’d get to go home, only see him at the clinic for treatment, and soon enough that would be over too. She’d get her quiet life back.
Today it was easier to look at him. Something had transpired between them last night when he’d held her hand to his cheek and made his soft confessions.
The king-sized bed in his hotel suite would have comfortably slept them both, without either of them ever touching one another or even realizing that they’d been sharing a bed probably, but it was a move that Grace hadn’t been able to accept.
Even though he’d offered.
Even though she’d slept on the couch and had got up every two hours for twenty minutes to wake him and ice his ankle.
Staring was bad. She forced herself to look back out the window. It was safer.
Even though she’d undressed him. Actually, the undressing was probably a big part of why she said no. Yes, he had been in his underwear in front of her, and that was similar to the outfit she’d worn at the scene of the Big Rejection. But things had been different. He was confident in his body, because... Damn. They had him shirtless in every movie for a reason, and it wasn’t to display the dramatic black tattoo wrapping around one shoulder and crawling down the arm.
She became aware that the pitch of his voice had changed, and then began actually listening to the conversation. “Yes. I have an injury, but it’s really not that big a deal. I twisted my ankle the other day on a run. It’s...”
He paused and listened. When she made eye contact, his scowl communicated enough: she was wrong. They cared. They cared a lot.
“Is that your agent?” she whispered.
He nodded, mouthed, “Conference call.”
So it was more than his agent. He squirmed in the seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. This car was much smaller than the one they’d used in LA. He could put his leg up, but he’d have to drape it across her lap.
Which might be uncomfortable for her, but it was better than him having it down, undoing all the good work the diuretic was trying to do. She waited to catch his eye and patted her lap, and whispered, “Put it up.”
“I have my physical therapist with me. Actually, she’s making me put my foot up right now, and she has been icing it and giving me the necessary medications since yesterday.” As he spoke, he swiveled and put his leg across her lap. “You don’t need to speak with her. I can answer your questions.”
Why wouldn’t he want her to talk to them?
A small argument ensued and he held the phone out, his expression grave. “Craig wants to talk to you.”
“Is that your agent?”
“Yes.”
“Who else is it?”
He listed several names and their importance, producer, director, blah-blah-blah.
She took the phone and answered questions. Who was she? Where did she work? What were her qualifications? It was like going to an interview for a job you already had, but once they got through the litany of questions they topped it with, “What’s the diagnosis and prognosis for Carter’s recovery?”
“He’s got an inversion sprain. It’s not the worst or the best one I’ve ever seen. It will heal and it’s unlikely that he’ll have much trouble with it in the future. We’ll be starting actual therapy in a couple of days, once we’re back in LA. Right now, I’m taping him and keeping him mobile.”
* * *
Liam didn’t watch her speaking. She sounded confident but, then, she was a pretty together person. She was also the only person, besides him, as bothered by the amount of stress he was putting the injured joint through.
Would it be better if he could hear their questions or worse?
“Yes. We’ll return to The Hollywood Hills Clinic and start his physical therapy in a couple of days in the pool so he can start working on motion and strengthening without the need to bear weight.
“In three months? I doubt there will be lingering effects, but in three months, if he’s having trouble, it would be as simple as taping the ankle before he does anything that might make it roll out. There are some pre-sized tape kits that come with two to three wide, sticky strips, and, when they are placed appropriately, entirely concealable.
“Yes. Colored and those that are a medium tan color, which would blend in with his skin tone. But I expect if you really wanted to conceal them, your effects people could do a light airbrush to... Yes. Yes. He’ll be on the carpet tonight. I’m going with him and he’s using some support in the form of a camouflage cane.” She sighed. “No, it’s not got a camouflage pattern. It’s there to look useless but be useful.”
“A prop,” he whispered.
“A prop,” she dutifully repeated.
There was another break in her answering questions directly related to him, where she listed several athletes she’d worked with and fished her phone out of her bag to thumb through it. “If it will make you feel better, I can provide references. Aside from Dr. Rothsberg, I can put in a call to former clients and have them call you if you need it.”
Another moment and she hung the phone up and handed it to him. “You owe me. They know, they are convinced it’s no big deal, and you can use your crutch at the premiere.”
“Cane.” He took the phone back, correcting her lest she get more ideas. She’d just told them cane, and if he showed up on crutches now, they’d need more reassurance. “Why didn’t you tell them I’m the worst patient you’ve ever had?”
“Because you’re not. You’re just the worst one that I cared enough about to yell at.”
* * *
Two minutes, that’s what she’d said five minutes ago.
Liam leaned against the wall beside the elevator, all his weight shifted to his good leg.
This was the other thing that happened whenever he took a date to a premiere: waiting.
Just when he was about to send Miles after her, the door to the room adjoining his opened and Grace stepped out.
Or backed out.
There was some jostling of material and some muttering, which dispelled any doubts about who was in the gown, if he’d had any.
Pink? Flesh? Sparkly...silvery beige? What color was that thing?
When the gowns had shown up two hours ago, Liam hadn’t even looked at them, just sent Tom to Grace with the garment bags and boxes of shoes.
“Are you going to come with me, Gracie?” he called. “Or are you going to stand there muttering at your skirt for the evening?”
She moved, shifting from the low