Page 2 of Pour Decisions (Stryker Family #3)

KATRINA

JD has a lot of nerve to ask me if I’m married right off the bat.

Because no, I’m not anymore. Thank god—it was a short-lived disaster. Not that it’s any of his business.

But seriously. JD and I dated for a (very intense) year and a half, then he dumped me in the worst fucking way ten years ago . And now he’s looking at me like he’s devastated?

I take a deep breath through my nose. I’ve never flown off the handle at anyone in my life, but seeing him is such a jolt that I’m tempted to let loose.

As much as how he ended things still hurts, my body just reacts looking at him— full-on tingles, face getting hot, a general hyperawareness of myself.

I hoped the last ten years wouldn’t have been kind to him because he wasn’t kind to me, but he looks just as hot as he did the day I sat down at the bar at the Copper Moon and saw him for the first time.

His dark hair is cut way better, bringing out its wavy texture.

And he grew a beard. A beard . A great one, too, neatly trimmed and full.

I always loved his eyes too, even though he thought they were boring.

They’re just as dark as his hair, a nice contrast to his fair skin.

The subtleties of the shades of brown come out when the light hits them just right.

Thankfully the part of my brain that has sense grabs the wheel before I go careening off a mental cliff.

“That’s not relevant. I’m your physical therapist,” I say, instead of answering his question. I’ll let him sweat a bit.

“I gathered that.” His eyes go to the logo for the clinic printed over my left breast, then skim over my body.

We stare at each other for several more beats, my heart racing. I forgot how intense he is. The height, the stature, all of him. If I hadn’t noticed how adorably flustered he was to see me for the first time back at the Copper Moon, I wouldn’t have flirted with him at all.

“We should get started,” I say, clearing my throat.

“We should.” Did his voice get deeper? Or has it just been so long that I’d forgotten how much I like it?

“Follow me.” I nod toward the back and start walking.

We reach the back area where I’ll be assessing his movement and history, a large room with a glass wall. I guide him over to the small table in the corner, and he eases into it like sitting down normally hurts. It’s so small that our knees touch. I pull mine away like his knee is a hot iron.

“Okay.” I poke around my tablet to pull up his mostly blank record. “Today’s session will be a bit different. I’ll be assessing you to see where we are so we can figure out where we need to go.”

He just grunts in response, putting his phone facedown on the table. I take a deep breath and let it out of my nose before I proceed.

“So your referral said you’re here to work on some intense back pain. Tell me about life before your injury,” I say. “What was your range of motion like? What kind of movement did you get?”

“It was fine.” He shrugs. “Nothing really hurt. I went on trail runs. I lifted weights at the gym.”

That’s very clear. He’s imposing, thick with muscle. His naturally broad shoulders are even broader. The athletic shirt he’s wearing molds to his body perfectly. Even when I try to look at him as clinically as possible, I can’t—he’s like an anatomically perfect model.

Memories of how it felt to touch him come roaring back too, despite my best efforts.

“Are you still going to the gym now?” I tap my notes out.

“I’ve tried.”

And failed is implied. The JD I knew wouldn’t admit it, so that hasn’t changed.

I study him for a second. “Did you push yourself too far?”

“Define too far.”

I call on every ounce of professionalism I have to not roll my eyes. What a JD response. “Exercising to the point of pain, or to the point where it disrupts your life.”

He shifts in his seat and winces before recovering with a bland look on his face. “Maybe I do.”

“Gotcha.” I write down prone to pushing himself excessively in my notes. “Tell me about the injury. How did it start and how has it affected your life?”

“I got it lifting.” His cheeks flush ever so slightly. “It’s affected my life because it hurts when I move certain ways. I just want it to be fixed, and my doctor said this is faster than just waiting it out.”

I check the records his doctor shared—he’s right. It’s technically not that bad, but it’s better to start treatment now than let it all get worse.

“JD, I can’t treat you if you’re going to be...” I sigh and wave my hand vaguely.

“Going to be what?” His eyebrow pops up.

I blink, my face getting hot as he pins me with a stare. I don’t know even know what I was going to say.

“We can’t let our past affect your treatment,” I tell him, keeping my voice low.

“How is it affecting my treatment?” he asks.

I take a deep breath and let it out. He’s gotten inside my head already. So much for all that mental prep of mine. But to be honest, he’s being kind of a prick. I’m not going to make anything better by showing how annoyed I am.

“Never mind.” I swallow and look back down at my tablet. “Is it stopping you from working? From doing things with friends or a significant other or family? Or is it just making it difficult?”

He can probably see straight through my nosiness about his dating life, but my nosiness can’t be tamed.

“It’s just making things uncomfortable and somewhat difficult when I move,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “And there’s no significant other, if that question was an attempt to figure that out.”

I press my lips together and resist the urge to react. I’m transparent as glass. But to be honest, a lot of people avoid talking about how their injury affects their sex lives, so I always ask as delicately as possible. It’s important.

“So your goals are just a reduction of pain and a better range of motion,” I say. He nods. “Good. Let me assess your movement now so I can get a baseline.”

I put my tablet down and hop up, gesturing to the floor. He follows me.

Thankfully, having something to do takes my mind off the fact that I’m treating my ex’s back pain. We get through the rest of the session without him following up on his first question or our communication falling apart in some way.

“From what I’m seeing, I think two months of sessions, twice a week, will get you where you’d like to be,” I say once we’re done.

He gives me an inscrutable look. “Fine, if that’s what necessary.”

“Okay, then. See you next time. They’ll help you schedule your sessions at the front desk.”

He grunts in response and goes to change back into his work clothes.

I wrap up my day, a tiny pit of dread unrelated to JD growing in my chest. I moved back to Jepsen a month or two ago, and my new apartment is anything but relaxing. My landlord is always up my ass about even breathing wrong in my own space. But it’s what I have.

My budget when moving here was limited after all the legal fees that came with the divorce, plus my student loans. Jepsen is still a small town, but it’s grown a lot since I lived here with my mom and commuted over to Crescent Hill University in college. The housing supply is surprisingly limited.

The houses are either fancy ones for people who work over at the university and want to live in a smaller, non-college atmosphere, or places most people don’t want to rent anyway. But still, I like the slower pace here. After living in Nashville after I graduated from college, it’s a nice change.

Besides the apartment, of course. I’m trying to stay optimistic, but damn.

The droplet of optimism inside me evaporates when I get home and find almost all of my shit is on the lawn.

“I’m sorry, what are you doing?” I ask the man carrying my sad little basil plant out. “That’s my stuff!”

“I was told to bring it out here, ma’am.” He shrugs and keeps walking, dumping the plant next to my pink ottoman.

I scan the area before I find my landlord, Ms. Hendricks. She’s a tiny, miserable woman who’s owned the house for longer than I’ve been alive, probably. She stands with her hands on her tiny hips, watching strange men touch all my stuff.

“What the hell is going on?” I ask.

“You said you were quiet when you applied for the apartment. Are you, or are you not?” Ms. Hendricks asks, her eyes frantic and wide.

“What? Yes, I am. I live alone. The most I’ve done is exist in my space.”

Right? I think back to when I got home last night.

I walked across the room and put my bag down.

As you do when you get home. And for the third time this week, Ms. Hendricks rushed up from the unit she owns below mine and banged on my door, demanding answers.

How dare I use the space that I’m paying her a little bit too much money for.

How dare I flush the toilet and sneeze !

Apparently I dared too hard because now these men are bringing out my big suitcase that I haven’t even had the chance to unpack. I hit the ground running with my new job and didn’t get the chance to. On the small upside, these strangers aren’t touching the clothes inside.

“No, you’ve clogged across the floor every damn day.” She rests her hands on her hips and sighs. “Katrina, you signed the rules to the building.”

“I did.” I wish I had read them more carefully. She just said they were “common sense” rules, but looking closer, we have very different definitions of common sense.

“And you know about the noise rule.”

“Yes. But —”

“Then why the noise?” She looks down her nose at me.

“I was walking across my apartment in my socks this morning, and every other time I’ve been home. I don’t know what else I could possibly do to be quieter,” I say, keeping my voice as even as I can.

Am I the crazy one? I’m not, right? I’m a little thicker than I was when I lived in Jepsen last, but from the way she’s glaring me down, you’d think I was a literal rhino stomping across the floor.

“Well, it’s three strikes and you’re out.” Ms. Hendricks shrugs. “So, you’re out. In only five weeks. That’s a new record.”