Page 41 of Boyfriend of the Hour

“It’s not the same. Up there, it’s just club dancing. We only have to look hot and twist around on the platform. I ended up like this because I tried something I shouldn’t have.” I pinked, not wanting to admit I’d been doing that partially to impresshim.

“But before you could do it…whatever it was?”

I nodded. “I used to be a professional dancer. The kind people work their whole lives to become. I was supposed to debut inChicagoa few months ago, but my knee blew out right before my first night. Some luck, huh?”

Nathan’s eyes brightened with sudden understanding. “You sustained an injury. This same one?”

I shoved his shoulder. “You don’t have to look so excited.”

That dimple appeared again. “I like it when things make sense. Even better when the problems is potentially one I can solve.”

“Don’t get your hopes up. Other doctors have tried and failed. I’m just trying to accept the fact that I’m washed up at twenty-four.”

Nathan seemed to ruminate as he looked me over. His gaze, however, didn’t burn like it did before. For the first time, he was actually looking at me with that evaluating expression I’d seen on other doctors’ faces before. One that likes a challenge.

“And you thought I was shaming you for dancing however you could,” he muttered. Then to me: “What happened?”

I shrugged. I always felt like an idiot trying to explain it. “I was in rehearsal and tried this move I had no business doing. I wanted to impress the director. Tore my ACL instead. That was last August.”

I was embarrassed to tell him I had only understood half of what the doctors had told me. That when they gave me the papers following my surgery, I couldn’t understand most of that either. But then, again, what normal people could?

“I was supposed to mostly recover in two months, plus a while for extra physical therapy,” I said. “And it did get better. Enough that I can walk, obviously. And stand. And even do some easy stuff, like I did tonight. But real performance is out. I can’t jump or run. I can’t do any complex turns. I ruined it and lost everything.”

“Who was your doctor?”

“Um…some guy at Mt. Sinai West.” I shrugged.

“My practice uses their OR. What’s his name? Maybe I know him.”

I shrugged again, feeling uncomfortable. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know who cut into your body?” Nathan sounded utterly dumbfounded. A lot like my sisters, actually.

I buttoned my lips shut. “I was in a lot of pain, okay? And it was late, and I’m already bad with names. They just gave me someone there, then scheduled a surgery with someonedifferent. Maybe his name was Carver? Clinger? I don’t know. I haven’t been back since.”

Nathan’s big brown eyes somehow grew even bigger, magnified through his lenses. “What do you mean, you haven’t been back since? What about follow-up? Post-op, physical therapy, future prognosis?”

I resisted the urge to turn away. “I missed an appointment, and they never rescheduled. I did see the PT for a while, but my insurance lapsed after I had to leave the show. Maybe you can afford a hundred and fifty bucks an hour for some massage and exercises, but I can’t. Not with my income of three hundred bucks a week. Four if I’m lucky.”

Nathan studied my knee under his broad hands for a long time. I took the time to study those hands. Surgeon’s hands. Strong, yet dexterous. Steady and capable, just like the rest of him.

I bet he didn’t struggle even a little to finish high school, much less college and medical school and whatever else he had to do to become a doctor. I bet reading books was as easy as breathing to him and that he could listen to his professors and remember everything they said. I bet he’d never had to beg anyone for work and live abovehissister’s auto shop just to survive.

Right now, Nathan seemed to be taking several deep breaths, clearly oblivious to the roller coaster of shame my brain was riding. Finally, he released my knee and sat back on his haunches.

“Well, your knee didn’t heal correctly. ACL repair can take up to a year to recover, but I wouldn’t expect a little turn like that to flatten you. You shouldn’t be in this kind of pain after so long.”

“No, I shouldn’t,” I said, pushing myself up on the couch. “Which is why I’m taking up another profession.”

He surveyed me critically. “You mean taking off your clothes? Do I have to point out that exotic dancers probably do the same thing you just did to hurt yourself?”

The fact that he said “probably” didn’t escape me. Probably. As in, he was guessing. As this beautiful, wholesome man had never set foot in a place like Diamonds or its owner’s dirty gambling rings and probably never would.

I didn’t hate it.

“I am aware of that,” I said. “Which is why I would just be serving drinks.IfI take the job. But it’s still an industry built on tips, you know, so looking hot is going to earn me something more.”

Something like realization dawned on his face. “Ergo, a breast augmentation.”