Page 33 of Bad Decisions

“He was stabbed.” Cara’s face mirrors the same horror I feel at hearing it put so brutally. My gut churns with thoughts of what could have happened if it had been one inch over, and I swallow down the bile rising in my throat.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

A sharp nod is all I’m capable of before I pick up my bottle of water from my desk and take a few long gulps.

Her gaze narrows, not convinced. “Has he booked another appointment?”

“I know what you’re going to say. I shouldn’t be treating him.”

“Yes, that’s my boss response, but now as your friend … how do you feel about seeing him again?”

“Shocked. Confused. Worried. And not sure of what to do next.” Even more so now that it’s fully sunk in how serious his injury could have been.

“That’s a lot to unpack.”

“And he wants to meet me for a drink to talk. I said no.”

Cara’s brows rise. “That’s a wise move until you’ve had time to process seeing him again.” She jumps down off the table. “Come on, this conversation needs alcohol.”

“And chocolate?”

“Of course. See you in reception in five minutes.”

She rushes from the room before I’ve even had a chance to reply, and I drag myself out of the chair and begin to pack up. Hopefully, a cocktail and chocolate will give me the boost I need to put some steel back in my spine because all Will’s visit has highlighted is the emptiness that his leaving left behind.

Will came into my life when I was at my most vulnerable. At a time when I needed someone to lean on, and he became that person. I let him see my soul, and I thought he’d shown me his. But I was wrong, even though none of that matters now.

My grip tightens around the handles of my bag. I don’t know what Will was expecting today, but it can’t be the same lonely woman he first met in Southampton.

“Will?” It’s no less shocking seeing him today than it was three days ago.

My heart thumps erratically in my chest cavity as he stands and limps toward me. The crutch is still taking most of the weight from his injured leg. The lines of pain are etched around his mouth.

“You’re still in a lot of pain?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. His stubborn, alpha-male streak is not allowing him to admit any form of weakness.

Will is unique among my clients. Not only because I’ve never slept with one of them before. Or that his injury is unusual—we don’t get a lot of stab wounds. But Will has a way of shutting himself off like he’s on his own island. He’s tough, both physically and mentally, and anything that challenges that mindset, he refuses to acknowledge.

Pain obviously sits in the “ignore” column, probably like I did for six long months. The thought coils in my chest, making it tighter. It’s hard to move on when the reason I need to stands right in front of me.

When we’re in the privacy of the treatment room, I turn my mind back to the topic of pain. He can pretend he’s handling it, but my job is to help him whether he likes it or not. And my personal feelings, both good and bad, have to be put aside.

“It’s not a weakness to accept pain relief.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Stubborn man,” I mumble under my breath, but loud enough for him to hear. “Now hop on the bed and remove your sweatpants.” At least he was willing to listen to that piece of advice, even if Will in gray sweatpants is almost as devastatingly sexy as him in his compression running joggers.

Over the next thirty minutes, we don’t speak much as I treat Will’s thigh with dry needling, a proven technique in relieving pain and improving mobility. The few words that do pass between us are only for me to explain what I’m doing as I insert the tiny needles into the myofascial trigger points to alleviate tension within the muscle. The tiny needles stay in for fifteen minutes and are then removed.

“All done,” I announce, stepping back from the table after removing the final needle.

“Thanks.” He sits up, swinging his legs to the floor. The movement is smoother, and satisfaction blooms in my chest.

I return to my desk to update my notes, not wanting a repeat of our last session when I helped him dress. But it’s hard not to listen to his movements behind me, and what I’m typing probably doesn’t even make sense. It’s all part of the professional facade I’m clinging to like a protective shield—one I’m using to defend myself against a threat.

“Have you read any good books lately?” he asks.