ran his hand across his head in frustration.
“And I’m asking you, if I put in the work needed, is it a possibility? I need to know that it’s a possibility.”
He hated the pleading sound in his voice, but holding on to the hope his life could go back to normal was the only thing keeping him going, keeping him positive. His family’s quest to get him to see other options was starting to punch holes in his resolve.
“Honestly, when you came into the hospital with the injuries you had, I didn’t think you would ever walk again. Luckily the damage didn’t lead to paralysis, and you are walking on your own two feet today. So, I don’t want to say with certainty you wouldn’t be able to do what you needed to do to make your back stronger, strong enough to go back to firefighting, but I don’t want to make any promises.”
“That’s okay. Just knowing there’s a chance is good enough for me.”
For now, until I can make it a reality and end up doing the job I love again.
The feeling he got from being able to rush into a blazing building head on—tackle and tame the burning flames until they were wiped out—was unlike anything he had ever felt. He remembered the first time he ever saw an out-of-control fire. It had been awe-inspiring. When he saw those firemen carry a little girl and her grandmother from the fire, he knew without a doubt that was what he wanted to do. While most little boys growing up at that time wanted to be Superman or Batman, he already knew what kind of superhero he wanted to be. He wanted to be a fireman. He still wanted to be a fireman.
“Oh, and, Doc, uh, I was wondering about…sex…with my back…” This had to be the most awkward conversation ever.
“You will certainly be able to have sex. You’ll just have to be a little careful and not stress your back. Your physical therapist will be able to give you some advice on the best positions—”
“Aah…no.” He tried to imagine having a conversation about back-friendly sex with Little Miss Spitfire, especially when he’d had some interesting dreams about the curvy, sexy and opinionated woman last night.
“I mean, she’s a woman, and it would be awkward. Can you recommend some books or something?”
“I certainly can.”
“Good.” He hadn’t become concerned with the topic of sex until now. He had a hint it might have something to do with the spark of desire he felt for Samantha Dash.
Chapter 3
After two-and-a half months of intense therapy, Joel had come to hate his sessions.
He didn’t hate the sessions so much as what they represented: the ever-growing possibility he might never fight fires again.
Sure, they could make the pain manageable and most times nonexistent. He could even get on with a perfectly normal and boring regular life, but no matter how hard he worked, he couldn’t seem to bring things back to the way they were before the accident. His back still wasn’t strong enough to support the heavy equipment.
And then there was his physical therapist: Little Miss Spitfire. It seemed as if she lived to disagree with everything he said.
One would think two black urban professionals would have more in common, especially when he felt an intense attraction to the woman unlike anything he’d ever felt before, and his attraction led him to the irony of ironies. The woman knew all about his injuries and therefore his limitations, and no man wanted to step to a woman when she already knew he wasn’t bringing it the way he wanted to.
Forget that.
So for the past couple of months he’d been resisting. Resisting the urge to plant a kiss on those lips of fire. Resisting pulling the curvaceous body that could put Jennifer Hudson out of business into his arms. Resisting putting down his best lines and his tightest game to pull the most beautiful dark-chocolate goddess into his life.
And all the resisting kept a brother in a state of constant grumpiness.
When she finally came into the room, all bubbly and carrying those electric stimulation pads, he felt like smiling back at her, but all he could do was nod and grunt hello.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favorite curmudgeon.” She laughed and it sounded like music—music he wanted to bottle up and keep.
He glanced at her. She was wearing her white lab coat over a light summer outfit. Her cream slacks were topped by a pastel pink-and-cream blouse. The twists she normally wore in her hair had been loosened and gave her jet-black hair a crinkly, curly effect.
He liked how she looked way too much.
Trying not to smile or laugh or otherwise let her know how much her simple presence brightened his day, he coolly asked, “Do you make a habit of insulting all your patients?”
“Nope, only the overly pleasant ones like you,” she offered sarcastically.
He had to laugh at that.
“See, there’s that million-dollar smile. You really ought to show it more often, Mr. Surly.” She grinned and he noticed the soft gloss on her lips. It was a neutral shade with more shine than color, but with the flash of her perfect teeth she didn’t need any color to highlight her smile.
Samantha Dash had the kind of smile that could make a man clean out his bank account and give her everything he owned just to see it.
“I would if you were always so pleasant and agreeable, Little Miss Spitfire.”
She’d finally placed the electric stimulation patches on his back and started the treatments.
He grimaced as the small shocks did their job. “Sometimes I think you get too much of a kick out of this.”
“Who me? Never.” She laughed her sweet bell-like laugh again.
He didn’t know what worked better for his pain, the treatment or seeing her.
Seeing her.
After the treatment, they sat in her office, going over her plans for the rest of his treatments and discussing his progress.
He realized he had come a long way from where he was when he was injured during the big warehouse fire, but he still wasn’t back on the job.
The people around him, from his doctors to his family, kept pushing him to consider what he would do if it never happened, if he could no longer fight fires. He didn’t even want to think about those possibilities. Instead, he pushed them out of his mind and focused on his surroundings.
He had come to like her cozy little office. The only thing that didn’t seem to fit her was the fake greenery in the room. She seemed like a real-plant kind of a girl.
There was nothing fake about her. From the tips of her natural hair, to each and every curve on her body, to the unapologetically real retorts that came out of her mouth, she proved time and time again she kept it real.
“So how is the pain? You have less than a month left of therapy. We’ve been at this for over two months, are you noticing any difference? It definitely looks like your range of motion
