he wanted to know why she would want to pass for anything other than the amazing beauty that she was.
Her chuckle surprised him.
“It’s only fair since my main exposure to the African-American side of my heritage is the two boxes I check on applications.” She glanced at the exercise list, not meeting his gaze. “But race issues aren’t the only reason I’m not a fan of cops.”
“Then why not?”
“People become police officers for the excitement of shooting suspects or driving fast cars to chase down criminals,” she said and then pulled her sweater tighter over her shoulders.
He lifted a brow. “That’s it. Really? Even after the number of high-profile police shootings involving unarmed young black men, that’s your reason?”
“I said those weren’t the only reasons.”
“Did you know that the majority of police officers work a full career without ever having to discharge their weapons, except in training? And in some cities, they don’t drive fast cars or motorcycles at all. Some are on horseback. Or even riding bicycles in crowded areas.”
She sighed as if she realized he wouldn’t give up the point—she was right about that.
“I just hate...hate when they act like cowboys, racing around like no one else matters.”
For several seconds he could only watch her. What wasn’t she telling him?
“Present company excluded, right?” he asked when she didn’t say more. “Lately, I don’t drive anything fast or get to race around anywhere.”
She shrugged. “Forget it. Let’s get back to work.” She stared pointedly at him. “And you’d better keep up your upper-body regimen, because you’ll need those arms to support you on the bars next week.”
“Guess so.”
He shifted again, as she’d probably guessed he would. She was deflecting, and that told him that she was hiding something. Had something happened between her and a police officer? Had she dated a cop who turned out to be a creep? Just the thought of that had him strangely unsettled. He knew plenty of guys who wore the uniform and were jerks in the dating department. Some women he’d flipped through in his continual rounds of speed dating might include him in that category. But what bothered him more? That some cop might have burned her or that another officer might have dated her?
Too many questions, and he shouldn’t have been wondering about any of them, let alone asking them. He had enough of his own problems right now. Natalie didn’t appear to be in the mood to answer his questions, anyway. She’d suddenly become engrossed in his file, though nothing inside it had changed in the two days since his last appointment.
As Shane waited for her to finally look his way again, his gaze shifted around the room. The same machines and mats and gadgets that had been there during his last appointment had been left idle, waiting for PTs to begin torturing their patients. An open doorway led to another activity room with a miniature set of mats and equipment for children. Shrill laughter filtered from the room as if to clarify the space’s purpose. A couple of glass-walled offices lined the opposite side of the room, their blinds tightly closed, rendering the open layout moot.
Not far from the intimidating parallel bars, a collection of framed certificates and photographs lined one of the walls. He’d noticed it the first time, but he’d been too busy checking out his therapist to take a closer look. Now that he had some free time while she pretended to study his file, Shane rolled closer to the display.
The certification documents were what he’d expected—one for Natalie Ann Keaton and a few for some other physical therapists. The other documents were thank-you letters and such from pleased clients, but the photos were what interested him most. They were of youth sports teams.
He blinked as he paused on the three wheelchair basketball team photos. In all three photos was none other than Natalie Keaton, wearing a bigger smile than she’d ever given him. He suddenly wondered what it would feel like to have her smile at him that way, but he tucked away the thought where it belonged.
“You’ve found out all of my secrets.”
He started at the sound of her voice, surprised that he hadn’t heard her approach. He’d been off the job too long if his senses were that dull. If nothing else, he should have felt this particular woman’s nearness from the electric jolt she usually gave him.
“You mean that you smile really big when you’re not on the job?” He immediately regretted his words. Now she knew that he’d only been looking at her when he should have at least feigned interest in the other subjects of the photo.
At her frown, he grinned. “Oh, you mean that you coach.”
“Guess it shouldn’t come as a surprise.”
He narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher her comment. “Why shouldn’t it surprise me that you coach wheelchair basketball?”
“Oh... I mean...you know...that I played.”
“How would I know that you played?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
She shrugged, but he could have sworn that she scrunched her shoulders more than she had been already. She couldn’t have looked more uncomfortable if she’d been standing there beautifully nude instead of wearing those curve-masking scrubs. Then he would have been the uncomfortable one. At least he hoped his body would respond that way to seeing a sexy woman in the altogether. But he couldn’t worry about that now, not when her discomfort over their conversation was still so obvious.
Was this about her height? Sure, she was tall. Her willowy frame had been one of the first things he’d noticed about her. Well, not the first, but close to it. Would it surprise her that she wouldn’t look so tall if he were standing next to her instead of sitting?
“What position did you play?” He didn’t know why he asked. He might understand the intricacies of the two-point conversion or a hook-and-ladder play, but he had no clue what happened on a basketball court. Still, it was easier than asking why she wasn’t comfortable in her own skin. How could she not know how beautiful she was?
Instead of relaxing over his inane question, she winced.
“Center.”
She watched him as if that admission should mean something.
“Were you good at it?”
She squinted at him as though he’d missed something, but she answered anyway. “High-school good. No D-1 colleges were chasing me, if that’s what you’re asking. Especially when I spent all of my time at practice.”
He lifted a brow. “Why do you say that? Most of my coaches were all about putting in the work.”
“Not that kind of practice. Five hours a day of piano practice.”
“Piano?” He watched her for several seconds, trying to picture her playing. Strange, though—he could just as easily imagine her long and elegant fingers skimming over his skin as floating over ebony and ivory keys.
“But that was a
