Medical Romance July 2016 Books 1-6. Lynne Marshall

reasons. Way more professional than her reaction had been.

      She should just say yes, let him stop convincing her...

      She opened her mouth to agree, but he was already saying something else.

      “The Watson family has always been my safe place. There’s no one I trust more than Nick and you. Even when the whole world felt barbed-wired and booby-trapped, I always knew I could come to your house and—”

      “Okay, I’ll come.” She blurted the words out before he tried other guilt tactics. Guilt worked every time, especially since all of this awkwardness was her fault. He was the victim here. Heck, if the situation had been reversed and he’d come to her house in a trench coat and scanty underwear, it would’ve probably been considered a sex crime. And it definitely would’ve made all his other relationships with her family tense and awkward, maybe even worse than this.

      It had been all on her and her childish fantasies that Liam Carter could’ve ever thought of her the way she thought of him. No. The way she had thought of him. The only thing she felt now was horrified at her own behavior. And desperate to never have to acknowledge or explain, to never experience that level of vulnerability again.

      Holding the loose end of the bandage with her wrist, she fished fabric tape from her pocket and pulled off a strip to tack the bandage down before taping it more thoroughly.

      “But, for the record, I was going to say yes before you added that little bit about trust and our childhood.”

      There’d been no way for him to win that situation, just like there was no way for her to win this one. No polite, professional, or kind way at least, and he deserved her kindness. She’d spent years trying to figure out what he could have said that would’ve made the rejection better at all.

      Should he have just slept with her so she hadn’t felt stupid about the hours of vigorous waxing and grooming to make herself irresistible? Wasted hours and needlessly tender post-waxing flesh...

      “You mean I’m wasting my best lines?”

      His question jerked her back from pondering the futility of her tender bits after that tragic home wax/shaving experiment. The smile she found when she looked at him softened the memories of bad razor burn and gut-churning humiliation.

      “Was that a line in one of your movies?”

      “Don’t you watch my movies?” The words rang with obviously faked horror and he laid a hand over his heart as if the mere thought would do him in.

      Silly.

      Cute.

      He was trying to make her feel better.

      Before she could stop it, she smiled back. He certainly hadn’t lost that natural charm.

      But that kind of dangerous thinking had to stay as far from her scrambled gray matter as possible. The only way to get through this was to just focus on the injury, not the man. Not the way her insides expanded when he smiled at her, which they shouldn’t even do anyway. Playful banter might as well be a sledgehammer, he could knock all sense out of her with one strategic swing.

      She took a breath and eased the smile off her face.

      Playful banter fit nowhere, it had to go for the next couple weeks.

      Playful banter could make her forget.

      Playful banter could make her stupid.

      No playing with Liam Carter.

      “When do we go?” Grace asked instead, bringing the conversation back on track.

      “How fast can you pack?”

      Grace strapped him into the splint, which at least was of excellent quality and slender enough that it could probably be hidden beneath his dress pants. “Driving home will take—”

      “No. I mean whatever medical supplies you need. We’ll pick up whatever personal items you need for tonight and the morning. When we get to New York, we’ll get any restocking of supplies we need too.”

      “Your people will get whatever else we need, you mean?” She reached up to grasp the cuff of his pants leg and eased it back down over the splint.

      “Yes.” He smiled again, that lopsided, little-boy grin that always made her heart speed up.

      She wouldn’t smile. No smiling. Business didn’t need so much smiling. Taking care of him didn’t mean she had to have a sweet bedside manner, just a professional one.

      “I’d rather deal with my own clothes, but for now I’m going to get some ice for your ankle, talk to James about whether a diuretic would be acceptable in this situation, and pack a quick bag of supplies. You sit here until I’m ready. The ice might do some good before you get back on your feet.” Grace stood, heading to the freezer to get things started.

      This day had certainly taken a turn for the bizarre and uncomfortable. And as stupid as it sounded to her to try and push through this, it wasn’t her job to make celebrities behave rationally. It was her job to try and keep the damage to a minimum, and also the whole rehabilitation thing. She could keep him going for a couple of days if he could ride it out.

      That was her job.

      And swimming together, in or out of therapy, was right out. At least for the immediate future. The only way she was going to retain some semblance of her sanity around Liam was to keep The Trench Coat Incident as far from her thoughts as possible.

      * * *

      Grace settled into the forward-facing black leather backseat of the limo, dropping her bag onto the floor at her feet as she settled.

      In the quiet interior of the car, the speed of her heart registered. She’d felt it before, hovering in the fringes of her awareness, but here she could hear the speed and analyze the force of the beast tangoing in her chest. It hadn’t really ever come back down since the second she’d seen him standing beside the pool. He probably could hear it now, even sitting three feet away.

      She fixed her gaze out the window.

      It was still hard to look at Liam too long, even if she knew she was going to have to get used to it. The door shut behind him, and the darkened interior of the limo kept him from reflecting in the glass.

      Finally, something going her way. Any brighter in there and the only place to keep from seeing him would’ve been the insides of her eyelids. And that never worked out, she was too good at seeing him there.

      “So, about your clothes. You need to let me handle that.”

      If she had to look at him, it would be in bright, open places. And if she had to talk to him, it would be about strictly professional subjects, which clothing was not.

      “I know I didn’t have time to pack anything but medical supplies, but what I am wearing right now will serve for this afternoon. While you’re at the premiere, I’ll go home, grab some clothes and come back to the hotel.”

      “I have a personal shopper.”

      Out of the corner of her eye she saw him fish his phone from his pocket and flip it on. Two clicks later, he had it to his ear. Not listening to her at all.

      “I don’t need a personal shopper. I can get my own clothes.” She tried again.

      “They will be your own clothes afterward.”

      “Liam.” She said his name, forcing herself to become reacquainted with the way it felt on her lips again.

      Ten years ago, simply saying his name had made her happy. She would’ve sworn it even had a taste—a slick, plump fullness, luxurious and sensual, like her tongue sliding across her lips to suddenly find cinnamon chocolate fudge...

      Now, instead of sweets, his name felt like rocks and sand in her mouth. Sharp. Awkward. Gritty.

      “It’s really not a big deal.”

      He listened well