Risk the Burn Page 2

  Chapter Two

  There was absolutely nothing in Hunter’s chart about panic attacks or anxiety.

  She wasn’t an expert on anxiety disorders or panic attacks, at least nothing past the one or two panic attacks she’d had in her own life. Maybe this was a one-and-done thing for him.

  But if he recognized that it was, indeed, a panic attack, it probably wasn’t his first one.

  Even as questions spun in her head, she did nothing. If she were him, in that moment, she wouldn’t want anyone throwing a zillion questions in her face. In her experience, in the worst situations, the ones that she’d wished to just be alone and silent, those were the times when someone or many someones would throw questions at her like darts, expecting her to think, to perform, to stop acting so strange. Except it always seemed that they didn’t care as much about her as they cared about themselves. They wanted to stop feeling worried or uncomfortable. They acted as if it was her job in those moments to take away their concern.

  So she stood quiet, waiting. The only sound was his rapid breathing, so she breathed as slowly and completely as she could. She closed her eyes, hoping he’d latch onto her calm. When it seemed to be working, when his inhale and exhale became more even, she realized she’d been running her hand along his back. In the now-silent room, with both of them breathing normally, awareness crept through her, centered on her fingers, still pressed into the warm muscles along his spine.

  As casually as she could manage, she retrieved her fingers, clasping them with her other hand in front of her and attempting her most professional smile. “Better?”

  He dropped the hand he’d been pressing against his chest, leaned against Leslie’s desk on both fists, and nodded. As his head dropped, she used the moment to step back, trying to find some distance from him in her boss’s minuscule office.

  Well, now what?

  A sideways glance out the window in Leslie’s door revealed that Ms. Rodriguez and her photographer, Spike, were waiting, their heads together, chatting. Unless she claimed that Hunter had been struck by lightning, run over by a rhino, or coincidentally got the same nasty flu that Leslie had, she needed to get out there with him. Looking him over—the sweat on his forehead, the pale cheeks—she might be able to sell a flu.

  She considered approaching the reporter, asking her to withhold her name and photo. But that would mean explaining to Hunter her past issues, potentially open herself up to questions from Leslie about why she’d needed to pull back in the interview. All of that would lead to lots of explanations she preferred not to give.

  It had been years. Surely the danger was over now, right?

  “You okay now?” she asked. The stark terror had left his face, and his color was returning. When he finally straightened, he looked like the Hunter she’d met before. Strong, confident, and capable.

  Sexy as hell.

  He nodded, running his hand over his sandy brown hair. The move should have made it messy, but somehow he made disheveled look good.

  She sighed. She needed to get ahold of herself.

  Awkwardness settled over her. Now that he was more normal-looking and she was more aware of how hot he was again, she didn’t know what to say. But standing together in Leslie’s office could only get weirder the longer they did it without talking, so she gave conversation a shot. “So…I’m going to be your therapist today.”

  One side of his mouth quirked up. “Physical or psychological?”

  She exhaled on a laugh. “Well, one I’m qualified to do, the other not so much.”

  “Right.” He glanced toward the reporter. “Leslie’s not here?”

  “Sick.” She scanned him again. “Are you sick?” The question was tentative and even the smallest bit hopeful. Did it make her a bad person to be wishing that a mystery virus might get her out of this interview situation?

  Probably.

  His smirk said he agreed. “No, I’m fine.”

  “That’s good. Great,” she offered, too fast for either of them to believe her. “Then I guess we should get out there. They’re waiting for us.”

  “I know.” He rubbed his palms on his pant legs.

  “Do you need me to stall for you?” Honestly, she didn’t know what to do. “Or will you be able to go out there in a second?”

  Tugging on his shirt, he squared his shoulders. “I think it’s good.”

  “Are you sure?” When he inhaled, she continued on, quickly. “I mean, do you have those a lot? You seemed to know—”

  “No, no. Not at all.”

  “So that was your first one?”

  “No.” He waved her off, shaking his head. “But they’re going to want to talk, you know, about everything. About the accident, and about the fall. About the injuries and the pain, and how my healing has gone.” He rattled it all off, like the stuff he was talking about was normal conversation for him. “But what bugs me is they ask about my family. About my mom, my sister, about how everyone’s doing, and I need to smile and pretend it’s totally fine that they’re invading my loved ones’ privacy when I really want to tell them to fuck off.”

  She blinked. “Right.” She pressed her lips together, releasing them with a soft popping sound. “Well, I can see how that might make things awkward.”

  He laughed, the sound surprised, bursting out of him. The rumble struck her low in the stomach.

  Sweet baby Jesus.

  As his bright blue eyes met hers, he grinned. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell them that. I have it together now. Thanks.”

  He gathered his things, and she paused before turning the doorknob. “If you hate doing this, why did you agree to it in the first place?” It definitely hadn’t been Leslie’s idea. Leslie didn’t like the spotlight, and she would hate the interruption.

  “It wasn’t my idea. The head of the smokejumper base thought it might be a good way to take some of the pressure off everyone. If I talked about what happened, how I was doing, then it would take some of the mystery out of it.” He shrugged. “You know. Everyone loves a scandal.”

  “Were people bothering you?”

  His eyes widened. “After the accident? Of course.”

  It made sense. Hunter’s brother had caused his accident while trying to frighten another smokejumper on their team. Then, his uncle had killed himself because of his own guilt about his part in the death of his brother—Hunter’s father. The world, at least their little slice of the world, would find that scandalous and need to know every detail.

  “Did they bother Meg?” Had her friend been dealing with nagging reporters and said nothing?

  “You mean Meg my sister, the one dating the man my brother was trying to hurt?” He blew a raspberry. “Funny.”

  Charlie pressed her palm to her forehead. “Why didn’t she tell me?” They were friends. Good friends. Good enough for Meg to have said something, vented, whatever.

  More important, she should have checked on her friend. She should have guessed what was going on.

  Meg had been busy with Lance, her new boyfriend, and Charlie hadn’t wanted to intrude. They looked so cozy together. She’d felt like a third wheel. But that didn’t excuse her from making sure she was okay. “I should have checked on her.”

  Hunter tilted his head. “She knew you were thinking of her, I’m sure of it. Besides, you know Meg. She would hate people fussing over her.”

  “Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have done it.”

  He grinned. “You’re a good friend.”

  “I just told you I had no idea that people were swarming on your sister, a woman I consider a close friend. You aren’t listening.”

  “Maybe. But I think I’ve got it right.” He nudged his head to the door. “So, I guess I have to do this.”

  She wrinkled her nose in the direction of the intruders in her office. “Are you going to be okay with them?”
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  The smile slipped from his face. A hint of his earlier panic flashed in his eyes, and every hope that she’d be able to slink into the background died.

  Leslie had left Hunter’s discharge papers with her. Hunter was done with his physical therapy. By all benchmarks and milestones, he was physically healed. After today, he’d walk out of this office, off to do whatever he planned next with his amazingly toned and gorgeous body.

  But that meant the reporter out there was going to ask him if he really was healed. That would lead to prying questions. She could imagine all the ways they’d try to get him to admit how affected he still was by the accident. The interview was voyeurism at its worst, all the reasons people watched reality shows. Sure, the public loved a happy ending. But for whatever reason, no one seemed to be able to look away from a car accident. There were many who would feed on any indication that he was still hurting.

  She couldn’t let him face that alone. More, she wouldn’t. Not only because she was Meg’s friend, though that was part of it. But also because everything about Hunter suggested he was a private person. And she was all too aware of what it felt like to have people staring at her, wondering if she was about to fall apart.

  Memories of her direct experience with that surfaced, accompanied by the usual wash of terror.

  She’d kept a low profile since moving to Bend a few years ago. She didn’t have social media, and she avoided having her picture taken, afraid it would end up on the internet. Maybe she was paranoid, but there were ghosts she’d prefer to not find her.

  It had been three years, though, and nothing had ever come up. Maybe she was making too much of it. Maybe she could truly put her past with Joshua behind her.

  Either way, faced with Hunter’s panic, she refused to let anything keep her from helping him. “I’ll be there. In case you need me.”

  Outside, the reporter was waiting and, if they didn’t hurry, she would be joined by a slew of other clients she needed to see today. They had to get this show on the road.

  He masked whatever had been going through his mind. “No sweat. I’ve got this.”

  “Right.” She chuckled. “Well, either way. I’ll be there.” She squeezed his forearm.

  It had seemed like the natural thing to do. They were having a moment or something. Except as soon as she touched him, whatever friendly, us-against-the-world and we-got-this delusions she’d believed they were sharing slipped away, replaced by a whole lot of heat. At least on her part.

  He wasn’t wearing long sleeves, so as her grip loosened, her fingertips trailed against very warm, very toned muscle. The pads of her fingers tingled, and her breathing hitched. Her eyes met his, and connection zinged between them, lighting up a part of her brain she’d tried to pretend wasn’t completely starved.

  She was a physical therapist, so she had an appreciation of superior physiques. But that wasn’t this.

  No, this? This was the result of the neglected sexual libido of a twenty-six-year-old who hadn’t slept with anyone in three long years.

  She noticed hot guys all the time. At the gym, at the bars. It wasn’t that Hunter was good-looking. This was something more than attraction. It was why she steered clear of him.

  She dropped her hand, glancing away.

  If being on the internet was scary, attraction to someone like Hunter was terrifying.

  “We should get out there.” Shifting back and away, she jerked her thumb toward the door.

  “Yeah.” Tilting his head, his brow crinkled, as if he was worried there was something wrong with her. “Let’s go.”

  He opened the door first, ushering her through before striding out. Gone was any hint that he’d suffered from a panic attack only minutes earlier. He moved with the complete confidence and easy grace of a born athlete, someone in tip-top physical shape. Someone who believed the world was at their fingertips.

  Either she’d imagined everything that had happened in the office or Hunter was more complicated than she’d given him credit for.

  Which, of course, made him way more appealing.

  “Ms. Rodriguez.” He smiled, offering his hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Buchanan.” The reporter pushed her glasses up her nose, removing a recorder from her pocket. “It’s good to see you as well. I’d hoped that we could talk for maybe a few minutes, and then you can run through your exercises while Spike grabs a few photos. After that, we should be able to wrap this all up.” Her smile was overly bright, and she ran her gaze over Hunter. “You certainly look as if you’re all healed up.”

  The comment struck Charlie wrong. Did she imagine the sexual innuendo? The reporter, her face smooth as she fiddled with her recorder, seemed innocent.

  That it might be Charlie’s own attraction to him assigning innuendo bothered her.

  “I’ll wait over here,” Charlie said, motioning to her desk. “Is that okay, Mr. Buchanan?” She used the formal name because it matched the fake smile she’d pasted on her face.

  He nodded to her but didn’t bother to answer, his attention entirely on the pretty reporter. As if she hadn’t just helped him through a panic attack and she wasn’t putting herself at risk of being exposed on the internet for him.

  That wasn’t nice. It was her decision to help. It was the right thing to do, considering her friendship with his sister. It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t understand how dangerous this interview might be for her.

  She retreated to her desk, doing her best to appear as if she wasn’t hiding and praying that the next half an hour or so went as fast as possible.

  Chapter Three

  Fifteen minutes into the physical therapy checks, Charlie was ready to call it quits.

  Not for herself. Once she’d fallen into her professional habits, she could hide more easily. She was comfortable with “physical therapist Charlie.” Besides, Hunter’s recovery appeared to have gone wonderfully. He had all the ranges of movement that were required for discharge. In fact, he was much further advanced than most of the patients she stopped seeing regularly. Some of that could be accounted for by insurance policies. Certain companies only paid for a limited number of treatments. But even some clients who completed the full stint recommended by their doctors didn’t have the superior results Hunter exhibited.

  He must have worked incredibly hard.

  She could see it on his face. He wore determination like a uniform. His drive to get better, to be at peak performance, was in every efficient move he made. Some of the stretches had to hurt, even if residually. But he never grimaced, hiding the effort it must take him to complete each movement flawlessly.

  Or he was hiding any strain from the reporter and her photographer.

  Charlie gritted her teeth. Her initial assessment of Reporter Rodriguez had been dead-on. The woman was simultaneously watching Hunter for any indication that he was in pain and looking like she wanted to lick every square, sweaty inch of him. Both aspects of her personality were grating on Charlie’s nerves.

  She didn’t have a whole lot of time to dwell on the reporter, though. She was busy trying to keep her face tilted and obscured when the photographer got close. But damn Spike seemed to be trying to get his shots from every angle. Because she didn’t know exactly what direction he was shooting from, she tried to keep her face down. Maybe if she didn’t look directly at the camera, her features would remain obscured.

  At least that’s what she hoped.

  “How are you doing?” she whispered to Hunter, low enough that no one else would hear. Or they’d assume she was instructing. Probably helped that she wasn’t looking at him.

  “Peachy,” he offered as quietly, through clenched teeth.

  “I’m cutting this short.” She managed the words while barely moving her lips, like a ventriloquist.

  “Absolutely not,” he gritted back. “We do it all.” />
  What she wanted was to ignore him. Having an audience was not conducive to inspecting and walking through a discharge process. She’d prefer to do this later, after everyone left. But she understood why they couldn’t. He’d already told them what he would be doing, so if they were paying close attention, they’d notice that the workout was shorter than expected.

  She managed to walk him through the rest of the activities as quickly as possible. By the end, his shirt was drenched, sticking to his body, but his face was peaceful. As if he hadn’t been working his ass off. When they finished, he wiped his forehead with the hem of his T-shirt, revealing a strip of tanned and chiseled abs. Not that she noticed. Even though Reporter Rodriguez definitely wasn’t averting her eyes.

  “All done,” he told her, his smile so charming it hurt to look at it.

  “How do you feel, Mr. Buchanan?” She might have asked him the question, but her eyes were on that six-pack.

  “Back in fighting shape.” He propped his hands on his hips, and if Charlie didn’t know exactly how hard isolating those muscles must have been and how hard he pushed himself, she might have believed that the workout was no sweat.

  “So you think you’re ready to start smokejumper training in a few weeks?” Rodriguez held the recorder toward him, her face expectant.

  “Absolutely.”

  Reporter Rodriguez twisted, turning the recorder toward her. Her too-astute gaze bored through her. “Ms. Jones. What is your prognosis?”

  “I think that Mr. Buchanan is ready to be discharged.” That was the professional opinion. But she couldn’t help adding, “I also think that he can do whatever he puts his mind to.”

  “Do you believe that he’s ready to try smokejumping again?”

  Charlie wanted to smack her mild, prying, inquisitive face. “As far as we at Myers and Long are concerned, he’s prepared to begin whatever activities he chooses.”

  “Even if it could find him back here again in your trusted care?”

  Her outrage on his behalf ratcheted up. “I think that’s assuming—”