Cross Creek: Crossing Hearts Part 2

Reaching for her pile of supplies, she plucked a thickly rolled ACE bandage from the exam table. She freed the end of the stretchy cotton with an efficient tug, her fingers pressing firmly against his as she began to secure the heat pack into place, and every last one of his muscles went on involuntary lockdown at the skin-on-skin contact.

"I'm sorry." Emerson froze, her shock-widened stare lifting to meet his from less than a foot away. "Did I hurt you?"

"No." Hunter's shoulder throbbed, doing its level best to keep time with his hammering pulse. How the h.e.l.l had he forgotten that physical therapy was pretty much synonymous with physical contact, and a whole lot of it?

The question must've broadcast over his face in HD, because a frown commandeered Emerson's features, lickety-split. "You said you were okay with me treating you."

The slight flick of her glance toward the spot where their fingers still touched told Hunter she knew all too well why he'd flinched, and screw this. The past was the past. What he needed now was to patch up his shoulder, period.

"I'm fine," he said, willing his muscles to surrender their death grip and fixing her with a steady stare that backed up the sentiment. "Just let me know when I can let go of this thing."

"Okay," she finally answered, winding the ACE bandage over his chest and shoulder until the heat pack was secured snugly into place. "There. All set for now."

"Wow." Hunter turned from side to side, surprised to find that the bandage didn't budge but also wasn't so tight as to feel uncomfortable or hinder his movement. "You're pretty good at that."

Emerson's laugh caught him completely off guard, the sound unnervingly s.e.xy and sweet all at once. "Considering that's one of the easier job requirements, I'd hope so."

G.o.d. She'd spent five years conditioning multimillion-dollar athletes. Of course she could wrap his shoulder with ease. "Sorry." Hunter dropped his chin in sheepish apology. "It's just that when I'd treat my shoulder in high school, I'd either lose the bag of ice in two seconds flat, or I'd feel like a walking tourniquet."

"Let me guess," Emerson said, and although the smile had left her lips, traces of it still hung in her voice. "Eli did the first bandage job, and Owen did the latter."

For the first time since he'd banana-peeled out of the hayloft, he considered a genuine laugh of his own. "Aw, look. You can take the girl out of the small town, but not the small town out of the girl."

"Oh, come on," she argued, albeit without the heat he knew she was capable of. "Anyone who's ever met your brothers could peg that one from a mile out. Anyway, you'll be doing this a lot in the coming weeks. I can show you the best technique to get an ice pack in place. That way it'll be easier for . . . um." She stopped short, blushing a ridiculously enticing shade of pink before soldiering on. "Whoever's wrapping your shoulder now."

A beat of deafeningly awkward silence followed, then another, before Hunter gave up a silent f.u.c.k it and forked over the truth. "Still Eli or Owen," he said, biting back a grunt as Emerson lifted his arm to the side. Jesus, his shoulder felt like it had been spray starched and set out in the afternoon sun.

"Really?" Her cinnamon-stick lashes fanned upward, betraying her surprise. "You didn't marry some sweet local girl like Jenny Hostetler or Candy Thompson?"

He pulled back far enough to make the exam table issue another ominous creak. "Oh, so now you're interested in talking weddings."

"It was just a question," she said, and the flush on her face told him it was one she hadn't intended to let out.

Don't be a d.i.c.k. Do not be a d.i.c.k. Don't . . . "Are you fishing for information?" he asked, and okay, then. Looked like he'd take Being a d.i.c.k for two hundred.

"I'm making polite conversation," Emerson corrected, releasing his arm back to his side.

"About my marital status."

"We can talk about the weather if you'd prefer."

"No," Hunter said, addressing both her suggestion and her question at once. He'd buried the past a long time ago. Over. Said. Done. If she wanted to go for the group share in the here and now, far be it for him to say no.

"I never got married. Candy and her sister moved to Camden Valley to open a bakery, and Jenny Hostetler married Mike Porter a couple years after we graduated. They have two kids and another one on the way."

Emerson lifted his arm again, and again, his shoulder cranked down on the movement. "Wait . . . Moonpie Porter, who ate all those dessert cakes on a dare in the sixth grade? Are you serious?"

"As a heart attack," he said, working up an expression to match the a.s.sertion. "Although I doubt Jenny calls him Moonpie."

"Everyone calls him Moonpie."

"Not everything around here is the same as it used to be."

Her fingers stuttered over his shoulder, and although the hitch lasted less than a second, Hunter felt it all the same. "Duly noted." A tiny crease appeared between her brows, erasing the ease that had softened her expression not ten seconds earlier. "G.o.d, your shoulder really doesn't want to let go. Let's try this."

She sidestepped to his left, angling her body so that her right hip pressed flush against the inside of his left knee. Flattening her palm over his sternum, Emerson splayed her fingers over the center of his chest. "Go ahead and lean forward until your good shoulder rests on mine. Your injured arm should hang over the side of the table, and you can let it gently swing free for a minute like a pendulum."

"You want me to lean on you?" Hunter paused. He had to have a good sixty pounds on her in body weight, not to mention the eight-inch height differential that wasn't helped by his current position on the exam table.

But Emerson didn't hesitate. "We can't let your shoulder lock up any tighter, and this is the best way to allow gravity to loosen you up. The table will support the bulk of your body weight, but I can handle the rest. So to answer your question, yes. I want you to lean on me."

Hunter blew out a breath. He wanted to lean on her about as much as he wanted a tax audit right now-if the brush with her fingers had nearly fried his motherboard, a full-contact body lean was likely to send his idiot brain around the bend. But he'd promised to do what she told him to, and, to be honest, letting his arm swing free for a minute did sound pretty freaking appealing.

Even if he did have to trust Emerson in order to make that happen.

"Okay, fine. No sweat." He scooted to the edge of the exam table, placing his left shoulder against her right. Her right hand stayed firm against his breastbone, and he hinged forward, carefully and cautiously.

Nothing.

He shifted his weight, flattening his right palm on the table beside him for support. Again, he took a breath, inching forward at an awkward angle until the muscles in his back tightened in protest.

Again, nothing.

"Hunter." Emerson's voice vibrated against the thin cotton where his T-shirt met her shoulder. "I know you're out of your comfort zone, and that you're not thrilled about any of this, but I also know your shoulder has to be killing you, so, please. Do me a favor. Stop holding back so I can help you, here."

For a second, he nearly balked. Of course he was out of his G.o.dd.a.m.n comfort zone. He'd been benched for a solid month at Cross Creek, his shoulder was as tangled up and twisted as old Mrs. Ellersby's knitting, and he had to rely on the woman who'd once blown his heart to bits to get himself right again. But then he inhaled, the fresh floral scent of Emerson's hair going all the way into his lungs, and his shoulder shocked the h.e.l.l out of him by beginning to unwind.

For the smallest part of a second, Hunter tried to fight the sensation. His traitorous body won out, though, pure muscle memory destroying the caution pumping down from his brain, and slowly, unwittingly, he released his weight against her body. Emerson held him up, her hand, her shoulder, her torso all warm, solid support. He melted into her, his breaths round and belly deep, pressing closer until his left arm dangled loosely over the side of the exam table.

Holy s.h.i.t, the relief was enough to make him groan.

"There you go. Keep leaning," she murmured, her voice steady and calm, smooth as warm b.u.t.ter on bread. "Good. Now let your arm swing, nice and easy."

Hunter was powerless to do anything other than comply, the muscles on the back of his shoulder relinquishing another layer of their death grip. Letting his lids drift shut, he metered his breathing, releasing more and more tension from his body with every round of inhale/exhale. Finally, Emerson shifted her weight, carefully easing him back upright on the exam table.

"G.o.d, that was . . ." Incredible. Mind-scrambling. Hot as sin. Seriously, what was wrong with him?

Hunter straightened his spine and reset his shoulders, his brain finally kicking back into gear. "Uh, nice. Feels like it worked," he finished lamely. "I don't think I've ever done that stretch before."

"Oh." Emerson blinked once, then once more before turning to scoop up his chart from a nearby ledge. "You probably haven't, since I'm pretty sure I made this version up. It's a variation of leaning against a doorframe with your good shoulder. Same principle of letting gravity loosen the musculature, only this way tends to be more comfortable for the rest of the upper body, so you're better able to relax your arm."

Huh. h.e.l.l if that wasn't a half step from brilliant. "And you just made it up?"

"Sure." One corner of her mouth lifted along with her shoulders. "After working with a handful of all-star quarterbacks, you tend to have a few tricks up your sleeve."

The mention of her job-or former job, he guessed-brought him the rest of the way back to reality. "Speaking of which, what does your star running back boyfriend think of your relocation?"

Emerson tensed, and h.e.l.lllooooo, sore spot. "You know about Lance?"

"Small town," he reminded her. Lance Devlin had been the Las Vegas Lightning's team MVP for the last three years, and as far as Hunter could tell from the press, the guy had been a douche bag for pretty much his entire adult life. While Devlin's relationship with Emerson wasn't too widely publicized in the media-certainly the work of some tireless PR rep, seeing as how they'd worked for the same team and all-it had been prime fodder for the Millhaven gossip mill ever since they'd started seeing each other about a year ago. But now she was here. And Devlin definitely wasn't.

At least there was no love lost for Hunter on that second part.

"So no wedding bells for you, either? Is that why you came home?"

A flash of vulnerability appeared in her bright-blue gaze, there and then gone. "I already told you, I came back to Millhaven to work. I'd prefer not to discuss my personal life during our sessions."

Hunter's heart kicked a hot burst of you've-got-to-be-kidding-me against his ribs. "But my personal life is fair play?"

"Actually, it's not," she said. "We've got a lot of ground to cover in the next four weeks to get you well again, and I am your physical therapist. All things considered, we should just concentrate on your shoulder."

Hunter opened his mouth, an argument locked and loaded on his tongue. But his boat had already been rocked enough this week, and truly, healing up as fast as possible was his number one goal. Once he did that, he'd be able to get back to the farm-h.e.l.l, get back to normal. Without Emerson Montgomery or his busted shoulder messing up his status quo.

"You know what? That sounds perfect," Hunter said.

If Emerson wanted just business, that's exactly what he'd give her.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Emerson lowered herself to the creaky, fake-leather office chair behind the particleboard table masquerading as the physical therapy center's front desk, trying to decide which part of her body ached the most. Her knees had been the blue-ribbon winner for the last handful of days, although now that she'd finally made it the eight hours to quitting time, her lower back was throwing down the gauntlet from beneath her black dress pants.

Don't forget your heart. Because it's kind of a contender, too.

Emerson sat up straight, stilling her urge to fidget and tamping down on the unease that had set up shop behind her breastbone. Okay, so running into Hunter here at the PT center this morning had done a number on her in the surprise department, and yes, maybe the solid, unexpected warmth of his body as he'd leaned on her to release his shoulder strain had brought back heated memories she'd thought were long gone. But he was her patient-her only patient-and Emerson hadn't come back to Millhaven to get sappy or reminisce. She couldn't let herself think of how steady Hunter had felt, or how he'd been the only person she'd ever been tempted to confide in. And she definitely couldn't dwell on how close his mouth had been to hers when he'd given her that same smoldering stare that had always stolen the breath directly from her lungs.

No. She had a practice to build. People to take care of. Things to forget.

Starting with Hunter Cross's firm, s.e.xy mouth.

Finding her feet, she snuffed out the emotions sparking through her chest-and fine, maybe a few of her other parts-once and for all. Hunter might've been the only person she'd treated, but today still felt like it had lasted for weeks. She was more than ready to put her crazy emotions behind her and escape to the four walls of her tiny apartment to snuggle up with a gla.s.s full of merlot and a really good book.

Except she didn't even have furniture in her apartment, let alone any real food or wine. If anything other than a granola bar or leftover Chinese takeout from Camden Valley was going to pa.s.s Emerson's lips tonight, she was going to have to stop and buy it on the way back to her place.

She shouldered her purse and closed up shop, making a beeline for her BMW. Regaining the lay of the land hadn't been too tough, partly because she'd grown up in Millhaven, but mostly because the small town hadn't changed a lick in her absence. The two-lane road acting as the main artery through downtown-aptly named Town Street-still connected all the essential points in Millhaven. The clapboard building housing Doc Sanders's office, the fire station, the Hair Lair (aka Gossip Central), Clementine's Diner, the Corner Market grocery store . . . G.o.d, everything was exactly as it had been when Emerson had driven down Town Street twelve years ago, swearing she would never, ever set foot in Millhaven again.

On second thought, there might not be enough wine for this.

Emerson pulled into a parking s.p.a.ce in front of the Corner Market, closing her eyes against the sunlight slanting in past her windshield. Returning to Millhaven wasn't ideal. h.e.l.l, she'd exhausted every other alternative, to the point of exhausting herself. But there were no other options, and Emerson needed to face the facts.

Millhaven was what she had. Time to make the best of it and move on.

Head up. Eyes forward.

Her ballet flats shushed over the brick-paved sidewalk as she walked the dozen or so steps toward the Corner Market's gla.s.s double doors. Both side windows were emblazoned with red-and-white posters advertising this weekend's Watermelon Festival, prompting a tiny, unexpected smile over her lips. She hadn't thought of the annual start-of-summer celebration in ages. Still, she wasn't surprised the tradition was going strong. Not much seemed to change around here.

And h.e.l.l if that wasn't way more curse than blessing.

Grabbing a cart from the row by the doors, Emerson kicked her creaky legs into motion, giving herself a crash course on the Corner Market's layout with one long glance. Although the grocery store was maybe an eighth of the size of the gourmet mega center she had frequented in Las Vegas, she couldn't deny the charm in the wood-plank floors and cute little chalkboards posted over various items spilling from repurposed baskets and barrels. Add to it the fact that she had to travel ten aisles rather than a hundred and ten in order to grab everything she needed to fill her fridge for an entire week? Yeah, today was finally looking up.

"Jesus, Mary, and all the saints! Emerson Montgomery, is that you?"

Or not.

She looked up, her heart dropping to a spot somewhere around her aching kneecaps as she connected the platinum blonde in front of her with the cheerleading captain in her memory. While Emerson had known her return to Millhaven would light up the small-town grapevine like bonfire kindling in the summertime, running into Amber Ca.s.sidy right out of the gate was one h.e.l.l of a way to spark those flames. If gossiping were an Olympic event, the woman's face would be on Wheaties boxes nationwide.

"Hi, Amber. It's been a long time," Emerson said, working up a polite smile. Maybe the last twelve years had mellowed her out.

Amber's smile in return was caught somewhere between the Cheshire cat and a toothpaste commercial, and c.r.a.p, there went Emerson's hopes for mellowness of any kind.

"Look at you, still so modest," Amber drawled, her inch-long hot-pink nails flashing in an aren't-you-cute gesture. "Girl, it's been twelve years, and you're keepin' company with the hottest football player in the en-tire NFL! And here you are, finally visiting home. How exciting."

Emerson's palms went slick over the cart handle in her grasp, but she might as well rip off the Band-Aid and get right to the sting. "Actually, I'm back in town for good. I moved from Las Vegas over the weekend."

Amber's mouth formed a frosted purple O. "You're back in Millhaven permanently? Is Lance here with you?" She smoothed a hand over her sequin-edged halter top and second-skin jeans, swiveling her gaze over the Corner Market as if Lance might materialize from behind the doughnut display and start offering autographs.

"No." Stick to the facts, girl. Head up, eyes forward. "Lance is still in Las Vegas. We're spending some time apart."

"Oh." Amber's eyes flickered with disappointment before suddenly going as round as a pair of pennies. "Oh my gravy, does Hunter know you're back?"

"Yes," Emerson said, trying not to wince at how loud and fast she'd answered. But it was bad enough that her name was about to land on the lips of every gossip in town. Adding Hunter to the mix would only make the whispers and stares harder to field, and truly, all she wanted to do was blend in and move on. "I ran into Hunter this morning."

"Did you." No less than a thousand pounds of implication hung in Amber's non-question, and, okay, yeah, Emerson had reached her limit.

"It was great to see you again, Amber, but I'm so sorry, I've got to run." She might've reached her little white lie quotient for the month between both parts of the sentence, but sweet G.o.d, cutting the conversation short was worth whatever penance she'd have to endure from Amber and the gossip mill.

"Oh, right. I bet you're super busy getting settled." The corners of Amber's flawlessly lipsticked mouth lifted in another shot of innuendo. "Well, you be sure to come on in to the Hair Lair real soon, Emerson. Mollie Mae and I can tame those curls for you, no problem, and I'm dyin' to hear all about Las Vegas. And Lance."

Not wanting to set a personal record for the sheer number of lies told in less than a minute, Emerson simply nodded and waved as she hightailed her way through the produce section. She made quick work of the handful of aisles in her path, grabbing the bare bones of what she needed before making a hasty retreat from the Corner Market. Her back, which had already been fairly indignant with the amount of time she'd spent upright today, creaked out a protest as she loaded her groceries into the back of her car, then again as she climbed into the front of her trusty BMW. G.o.d, between Hunter Cross's s.e.xy scowls and Amber's full-on inquisition, this day couldn't possibly get any worse.

At least until she got to her apartment and saw her mother standing on the threshold.

"Mom?" Emerson jerked to an inelegant halt on the sidewalk, but not before two apples escaped from the grocery bag in her hand and a muttered curse followed suit past her lips.

One perfectly slender auburn brow raised, and just like that, the last twelve years of her life evaporated. "I understand you're used to working for a football team, Emerson, but must you swear? It's so unladylike."

Emerson let loose a string of mental f-bombs before slapping a too-tight smile over her face. Arguing with Elizabeth "Bitsy" Wellington Montgomery just wasn't worth the energy. Not that she had any to spare.

She bent to reclaim the renegade apples from the three-by-three square of concrete serving as her threshold before flipping her keys into her suddenly damp palm. Stupid involuntary physiological response. "Sorry. I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"Yes, well. I have some time before I have to go to Camden Valley for this evening's board meeting at the hospital, and there's something I'd like to discuss with you."

Emerson's heartbeat picked up the pace. Her chest twisted and squeezed with an old, hauntingly familiar sensation, but she sc.r.a.ped in a breath to temper it. She hadn't had a panic attack in years, dammit. Backsliding now-in front of her mother, no less-was simply not on her menu of options.