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I smile to myself, thinking about how she looked when she got up on that horse. If you put Taylor in a room with complete strangers, it would take them half a second to notice her beauty and only a handful more to realize how confident she is. I was almost certain there wasn’t anything that she would hesitate over. When she got up on that saddle, she breathed a sigh of relief, and my chest swelled with pride. Pride is one of the most powerful emotions we can have, yet Taylor accomplishes things and feels relief instead.

“Can I have you roll your sleeve up?”

“Hmm?” I look at the doctor, sliding on her gloves.

“Your sleeve?” she asks, pointing to my shoulder.

“Oh, sorry.” I roll up the fabric, showing off my thick scar and for the next twenty minutes, try to put some of my focus back on this recovery.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I exhale a deep breath through gritted teeth while Dr. Amy pulls my arm back like some kind of circ-de-Soleil act.

“Breathe.”

Easy for her to say. She isn’t having her muscles stretched for the first time in weeks.

“Alright, how does that feel?” she asks, setting my arm back down at my side.

“Like shit.” I rub my shoulder, which hurts worse now than it did when I got hit.

She smiles, her fingers massaging and prodding all the way from the clavicle to my scapula. I know my face is pinched, but I can’t help but laugh when I remember that this is the woman Liam has been hitting on. She’s fifty percent legs, fifty percent fiery red hair, and I’m one hundred percent certain she’s going to give him hell.

“Unfortunately, it will feel like that for some time.” She takes her gloves off and tosses them in the trash. “We’ll get a schedule worked out for you, but as always, the more consistent you are, the quicker your recovery will be.”

“Makes sense.” I absently rub at my arm.

“What’s the end goal?”

“Excuse me?”

She’s oblivious to the hollowness of my voice as she continues writing her notes.

“What are you working towards? It’s helpful to have a goal in mind. Are you planning on coaching?”

For the second time in an hour, my mind races with thoughts of Taylor before anything else. When I don’t answer, Dr. Amy looks up from her notepad, her brow raised.

I clear my throat. “Something like that.”

Taylor

“Dinner is served!”Isla announces as Ryder and I carry out platters of shepherd’s pie potato skins. The aroma of the cooked vegetables and seasoned meat has had my mouth watering all afternoon.

I was on my way to a castle museum tour this morning when a loud crash sounded from the kitchen. I poked my head in to find an embarrassed Isla had dropped and shattered her coffee mug. After some light coercion, she agreed to let me help her prepare dinner with her this afternoon. In all honesty, I think I needed this afternoon more than she did. Being in the kitchen does something for me that I can’t explain. It’s like my own personal therapy session. It fills something in me, that I’ve never been able to feel anywhere else. That feeling started when I was younger and would spend time in the kitchen with Camila’s mom, Elena. Being in the kitchen with Isla today brought me right back there.

“You’ve outdone yourself, honey. This smells incredible.”

“Ay, thank you. But it was Taylor here who did all the work.” Her hand rests against my arm and she leans her headtowards me. Her soft lavender scent fills my lungs and my chest feels heavy.

“Ahhh, you ladies are the dream team then.” James lifts his wine glass, nodding to me, and I fight through the odd sensation and smile.

“Sorry, I’m late.” A young woman enters the room, out of breath. “I got held up at the shop.”

“You’re just in time, sit.” Isla motions for her to take the empty seat to my left. She smiles at me, her short, sleek black bob swaying as she sits, waving and saying hello to everyone.

“Hi, I’m Sophie.”

“Taylor,” I say, extending my hand to her.