“We need Dr. Rose freed up,” Smitty was saying. Dylan’s head jerked up from her clipboard. “I want her on Charlie full-time, on call twenty-four seven. Can you shift her case load, or—”

  “That’s not how that works,” said Dylan.

  Smitty didn’t even look at her. His beady little eyes stayed fixed on her boss. “He needs one-on-one care, someone to watch him at home. Now, we’ve been interviewing personal physicians, but he has a rapport with Dr. Rose, and I think with her—”

  “Excuse you.” Dylan was done with men talking over her, especially men who weren’t even doctors. “I’m Dr. Rose,” she said. “And, rapport or no rapport, I’m not a personal physician and I’m not a babysitter. I have other patients relying on me, some of whom I’ve already had to offload to other doctors to accommodate Charlie.”

  “But he needs—”

  “What he needs is a regimen that will restore function to his knee. And that’s what he’s getting from me and my team. I can recommend home care workers if you think that will help, but keeping his knee healthy means lifestyle changes, which…” Dylan broke off, frowning. Smitty had leaned over to confer with his team, one hand held up in a hold on gesture.

  “This is serious,” she said, but Smitty wasn’t listening. She turned to Charlie instead, and found him staring at the table, guilt written all over his handsome face. Even her boss wouldn’t look at her, choosing instead to busy himself with his phone.

  “What’s going on?” she snapped, but she thought she could guess. This was about optics, about crafting a story for the press. Building up Charlie’s recovery, readying the public for his triumphant return. She’d be pushed front and center, given statements to read, gushing about Charlie’s grit and determination, the struggles he’d overcome, the hurdles still to come.

  Shit like this was exactly why Dylan dressed down most of the time. She knew that she was a good-looking woman—the exact make and model that appealed to most of these athletes. She had learned that the hard way the day she entered sports medicine. Dark hair, green eyes, and long athletic legs, coupled with an aloof, disinterested air, was like catnip to a muscle head seeking the thrill of the chase.

  And if the player himself didn’t make a pass at her, someone on his management team inevitably did, inviting her not to their beds, but to the limelight. Dylan had spent half her career ducking their advances.

  “Whatever you’re thinking, I don’t have time,” she said. “Whatever you have planned, whatever game with the press—”

  “It’s not a game,” said Smitty. Dylan fixed him with a withering scowl. So, she’d been right. This was about optics. It always was, with people like him—appearances were everything. And appearances like hers were always in demand.

  “Dr. Rose.” One of Smitty’s colleagues steepled his fingers. His sleeve slipped down, revealing an expensive watch identical to the one Smitty wore. “Mr. Wild has been thriving under your care. All we want is to highlight that, for your sake as well. This’ll be good for your department, and for this hospital.”

  Dylan didn’t dare look at Charlie. She didn’t dare move. Her boss had closed his laptop, and was leaning forward, and she knew she could expect no support from him. She was at the mercy of the lion, surrounded by jackals.

  Just what the hell are you asking of me?

  “As you know, Charlie is an invaluable part of the Teamsters’ organization,” Charlie’s manager droned on. “He’s a tremendous player. He pushes, and often exceeds, his own limits. However, with his spirited temperament comes a tendency to…press a little too hard.”

  “I’ll be the first to admit it,” Charlie volunteered. “Give me a chance, Dr. Rose, and I’ll show you exactly how hard.” He winked at her, as if she could possibly miss his double meaning.

  Dylan cast a desperate look toward her department head, but she appeared preoccupied with whatever she had just scrawled on her legal pad. Dylan’s eyes narrowed. She was in on it too? Had they all gotten together and planned to ambush her?

  “What my colleagues are trying to say is that Charlie is a phenomenal player,” Smitty said. “But he’s got a big personality to go with that talent, and his image needs rehab as much as his knee. What’s happening right here could be just the ticket—cocky hero brought low claws his way back to glory, with the help of a strong woman he really respects.” He turned his frown on Charlie. “He has some publicity events coming up, and it would sure put everyone’s mind at ease if you were there with him.”

  Dylan didn’t think she could side-eye him any harder. She tried anyway. “I have no problem attending events,” she responded coolly. “Assuming they don’t conflict with my schedule. This will not interfere with patient care. Do I make myself clear?”

  Smitty’s eyes narrowed, but he gave a curt nod. “Crystal,” he said. “So, have we got a deal?”

  Dylan glanced at Charlie, who had the grace to look embarrassed. She guessed this couldn’t be much easier for him than it was for her—his managers discussing him like he wasn’t there at all. Like some wayward kid in need of a nanny.

  “I’ll do your events,” she said, through gritted teeth. But if these suited goons tried to wrestle her into something skimpy, they were in for a fight. She privately vowed that if such an indignity came to pass, she would make them all wish they were dead.

  “We’re all happy to support Charlie in whatever way we can,” said her department head, perhaps sensing Dylan was about to explode. “Have your press team connect with ours, and we’ll make sure Dr. Rose is on board.”

  Dylan gathered her things and excused herself from the meeting, but Charlie caught up to her a few steps down the hall.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I mean, about the ambush. But I think I have an idea, to make this less awkward.” Charlie glanced behind him, as if to make sure his team didn’t overhear. Dylan wasn’t buying it. She kept walking, hoping he’d take the hint and give up.

  “We should get to know each other better before our public events. We’ll keep it informal, just a casual night in. Come on by Wildhorse Ranch sometime after eight, and we’ll watch a movie.”

  “I don’t like movies,” Dylan said. It was a terrible lie and an absurd excuse, but this whole situation was ludicrous.

  Charlie raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t give up. “Our glamping coordinator’s got loads of movies. We’ll find one you like. And while we’re at it, you can check out my digs and help me kid-proof it.”

  Now it was Dylan’s turn to cock an eyebrow. “Are you the kid here?” she asked, all innocence.

  Charlie didn’t rise to the bait. He just grinned in agreement. “Sure. I’m the kid. I’ll give you the tour, and you just tell me where and what to avoid in my delicate state. I’ll show you the kitchen…the shower…the bedroom…”

  His voice dropped to a low purr that almost overwhelmed Dylan. The words he was saying were more silly than sexy, but that voice, that growl…No way in hell he didn’t know how he sounded. For the life of her, she couldn’t decide whether anger or desire was the source of her blush.

  “It’ll be fun,” Charlie promised, with a teasing wink.

  “Fine.” Dylan paused and glanced at him. “I’ll help you crutch-proof your house, and you’ll rest your knee. But I have to warn you, it’ll be some time after eight.”

  “Why not make it eight on the dot?” Charlie suggested.

  “Because I’m busy. Other patients, remember?”

  “Then you bring the popcorn, if you’re going to be late.”

  Dylan made a noncommittal sound, but she guessed she could do that. Even if Charlie would take it as some kind of victory. She’d noticed that about him, how he always needed to have the last word.

  What the hell have I gotten myself into? Dylan wondered as she escaped down the hall to her next appointment. And why do I get the feeling this won’t be the last time I ask myself that question?

  Dylan had often driven by Wildhorse Ranch in the daytime. It was a modest assembly of low, open buildings organized at the end of a red-dirt road. She always rolled her windows down to enjoy the smell of ripening apples, fresh-cut grass, and yes, even horse sweat and manure. It spoke to her of a life so far removed from her own that it almost seemed exotic by comparison. Of course, she had no fantasies about the work that must be involved in running such an operation. Still, subtract Charlie Wild from the equation, and it seemed like a simpler life.

  The closest Dylan had ever come to Wildhorse personally was last week’s drop-off—which had been more of a drive-by. She had barely parked in front of the porch steps before swinging the car toward home. Not exactly the bedside manner she’d learned at med school, but she had spent the whole ride over imagining the moment she parked, the way the lights would dim, how easily Charlie might lean across the armrest and capture her lips with his.

  If Dylan was being honest with herself, it wasn’t Charlie she was worried about. He might outweigh her, but he was injured. She could fend off any flirtation he decided to take too far.

  She had been more worried about leaning across the armrest and killing the tension herself…But she wasn’t so stupid as to think one kiss would end it. Spending time alone with the cocksure quarterback was becoming borderline unbearable. What the hell was she going to do now that she would be seeing him on her own time? Attending glittering galas, hanging on his arm?

  Dylan pulled up to the main house and put her car in park. She recognized Trevor Wild’s lean silhouette on the porch. The cowboy sipped from a mug of coffee, gazing out across the lawn toward one of the distant cabins.

  “Nice to see you again, Dr. Rose.” He tipped his hat to her as she joined him on the porch. “Hope my half brother isn’t giving you too much trouble.”

  “Oh, he definitely is.” Dylan shifted her bag up one shoulder. “How is the patient?

  “Resting.” Trevor seemed amused by her disbelieving look. “I’m guessing he won’t show it to anyone but family, but all this traveling back and forth to the hospital takes a lot out of him.”

  “Thanks for telling me,” Dylan said. She leaned around Trevor to peek through the screen door. Charlie waved to her from the couch. He was far enough inside that she assumed he couldn’t hear them. “I’m sure the drinking doesn’t help matters.”

  “Thank you for bringing him home the other night,” Trevor added.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure you don’t have time in your schedule to babysit.” Fortunately, I’m here for that, Dylan thought darkly.

  “No ma’am,” Trevor agreed. His serious mouth tugged slightly, in the suggestion of a smile. “We’re lucky to have you.”

  Dylan noticed for the first time that there were two mugs of coffee steaming on the porch railing. Trevor plucked them up and started down the steps past her. “I’ll be out on the property for the rest of the evening. You need anything, Charlie knows how to holler for me. No, I don’t mean actually holler,” Trevor said when he noticed Dylan’s incredulous look. “Either of you feel free to call me on my cell.”

  “Right. Got it.” She grinned. “Thanks, Trevor.” Rest of the evening, huh? She watched the cowboy’s lanky figure stroll off toward the distant cabin. What sort of midnight chores does Wildhorse Ranch require?

  “Trevor’s off to knock boots with Sabrina,” Charlie supplied as soon as the screen door banged shut behind her. He reclined upright on the couch, his leg partly covered by a bag of ice and elevated on the coffee table. “Guess it’s just you and me, Doc.”

  “Who’s Sabrina?” Dylan asked, ignoring his comment. She was all too aware of how much their one-on-one session was already living up to its name.

  “Wildhorse’s glamping coordinator. Trevor’s girlfriend. She’s fun. Loves to bend the rules and drive my brother crazy. You wouldn’t like her.”

  “I think it might surprise you who I like.”

  Yikes. She shouldn’t have said that. Charlie’s bright blue eyes fixed on her like a kid who had just been offered a fat piece of cake. He struggled to rise as she passed him on the couch.

  “You brought the popcorn? Need me to show you around the kitchen?” he volunteered.

  “I think I’ve got it.” Dylan laid a hand on his shoulder, signaling him to stay in place. “You sit tight. Let me know if there’s anything I can get for you while I’m up.”

  “How about a beer?” Charlie called after her hopefully.

  Dylan chuckled and shook her head. A beer was out of the question, but Charlie was resting, following orders. Rewarding good behavior might not go amiss. She checked the contents of his fridge and frowned to herself. “Got any club soda?”

  “There’s some in the cupboard over the sink.”

  “Then I’ll make you a margarita, virgin of course. It won’t get you buzzed, but it’ll be pretty tasty.”

  Charlie groaned. “Virgin, huh? Then I’m choosing the movie. I hope you like westerns.” He wagged the DVD case at her, but Dylan just laughed. She mixed up their drinks while their popcorn popped, then arranged it all on a tray and brought it through to Charlie.

  “Festive,” he commented, as she settled on the couch beside him. “You salted the glasses and everything.”

  “Try a sip,” she said.

  Charlie pulled a face, but he took his drink. He raised it to his lips and tried a careful sip. “Not bad,” he said. “For OJ and soda.”

  Dylan resisted the impulse to whack him on the arm. “I met your brother,” she said instead. “You two seem to get on pretty well. It gives me peace of mind, knowing he’s around to help you.”

  “I don’t need help,” Charlie grumbled.

  “Then why am I here?”

  “Because I invited you.”

  Dylan rolled her eyes. “To you-proof your house.” She nodded at his crutches as she passed him the popcorn. “I trust these aren’t just out here for show? They’ll really help you heal, but only if you’re consistent. You can’t just use them sometimes and expect good results.”

  “I’m using them,” said Charlie. “Ask Trevor. I am.”

  Dylan bit back the question on the tip of her tongue—was he just using them when Trevor was watching? Was he making an effort, or putting on a show? But the way they were talking now, that was progress. Charlie hadn’t hit on her since she sat down. He was relaxed, listening and answering her questions, and taking digs at his honesty would undermine that.

  “Good work,” she said. “Now, I’m seeing a lot of stairs in this house. The ones out front are okay, small enough you won’t risk injuring yourself. They’ll actually be a good workout for your ACL. But I want you sleeping down here, not up in your room. And use the wheelchair ramps and the elevators when you come to the hospital. How are you showering?”

  “Want to find out?”

  And there it was. Dylan rolled her eyes. “Charlie. I’m serious! The bathroom presents the biggest risk of reinjuring that knee. If this is a joke to you—”

  “It’s not.” His arm slipped down off the couch and around her shoulders. Dylan clamped her mouth shut and stiffened where she sat. “Relax,” he murmured. “Enjoy the movie. At the very least, enjoy your popcorn.”

  He grabbed the remote and started the movie. After a moment, Dylan sank back into the couch. She’d had a long day, and this…this felt nice. When was the last time she had shut her brain off and thought about something other than work? Kicked back with margaritas and a mindless movie?

  It would’ve been just what she needed, if not for Charlie, if not for his arm draped across her shoulders. She could have sat forward or shrugged him off, or told him no, but she hadn’t. She’d leaned into his arm, and now it was there, warm and heavy, stealing all her focus. Two cowboys were squaring off on the big screen, but Dylan couldn’t remember how they got there or who they were. All she could think about was Charlie’s body, the weight of his arm, the rise and fall of his chest. The way his muscles rippled when he sipped his drink.

  She could still move. She could still break the tension. She could get up, even, and sit somewhere else. Refresh their drinks, maybe, then choose another seat. But she’d already let Charlie drape his damn self all over her. She knew it, he knew it, and that was that.

  Dylan peeked up at him, a furtive glance. As far as she could see, he was watching the movie. Absorbed in it, even, eyes fixed on the screen. Then he sighed and stretched and shifted closer, so close his loose hair tickled her ear. This didn’t feel like his usual crude flirting, the blunt innuendo he wielded like a cudgel. But Charlie was an athlete. His body was his game. It made sense he’d be better at physical seduction. Dylan bit her lip. Was his desire real, or was this the only way he knew how to conduct himself around women?

  Dylan hated that she found him charming, even when she knew she should’ve been offended. She was enabling him, just like everyone else. And yet, she couldn’t deny that a part of her enjoyed his company. Charlie was funny and interesting and unpredictable. As much as he kept her constantly on her toes at work, Dylan couldn’t deny that she enjoyed the challenge—as well as the challenge their warring personalities brought to every interaction.

  Sex with Charlie would be mind-blowing. She could feel it in her guts, a taut coil of lust that had her shifting where she sat.

  Dylan shook her head so violently that her hair hit Charlie in the face. He chuckled and reached down to brush it aside. “Hate the movie that much?”

  “No, actually, I love Westerns. I just…Charley horse.” Her cheek burned where he’d touched her. She felt her pulse race. She massaged her leg unconvincingly, but Charlie seemed to buy it.