Love Is Beautiful (Chelsea & Max) Read Free Page A

gym-scented breath. Standing right there, looking just as big and scary (and sexy!) in a black t-shirt and low-slung sweatpants as he did with a gun on his hip and the brim of his hat hiding those weapons for eyes is the cop from this morning.
    And his mood doesn’t seem even a little bit improved.

2
    T he last place I want to be right now is this giant ant hill of a room filled with gym equipment and strange machines that look more like torture devices than anything remotely therapeutic. If I had any choice in the matter, any at all, I would be out on patrol, giving my knee the time it needs to heal while I sit in my squad car doing my damn job. Some ice at night, some ibuprofen during the day, and bam. Good to go. But no. I spend one day limping through the office and wouldn’t you know it, I have orders to get my ass to physical therapy or I’ll be riding a desk until Bossman thinks I’m all better.
    To make matters worse, not only is my therapist late, but she’s also the nincompoop I pulled over for driving like an idiot this morning. The one who was blatantly speeding and swerving recklessly through traffic and didn’t even act surprised or sorry when I pulled her over. She’s probably one of those women who think that just because she’s blonde and beautiful, the world owes her everything. That she gets a pass with a bat of an eyelash and a cute little smile. I get the feeling she’s spoiled rotten. Daddy’s Little Girl and Mommy’s Perfect Angel and the pampered life that comes along with dumb ass nicknames like that. I bet she’s never had to work for anything in her whole life. I glare at her as she walks my way, chin up, eyes bright, hips swaying.
    “Well, hello again, Mr. Santoro.” She extends a hand and flashes a smile that doesn’t mix well with the tension in her eyes. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
    “Feeling’s not exactly mutual.” I don’t do fake. You get what you get with me and, judging by the surprised O of her mouth, this little therapist wasn’t prepared for that.
    “Okay, then,” she says with that silly smile still plastered on her face. “We’ll skip the pleasantries and get right to the point. I’m Chelsea London, your physical therapist, and you can trust that I’ll get you back to normal in no time.”
    “I’m fine. There’s no normal to get back to. I’m already there.”
    She doesn’t respond—which I actually appreciate—and sends me through a series of exercises that test the range of motion of my knee. I can tell by the tension in her jaw and the slight flare in her nostrils that I’m getting under her skin. And that’s more than fine with me. I’ll just consider it payback for the way she got under mine this morning.
    “How did you injure yourself?” she asks, thumbing through a thick stack of papers in a manila folder.
    “I’m not injured.”
    Chelsea is crouching at my feet to get a better look at my knee and she sighs, looking up at me. “Okay. How did you hurt yourself?”
    “I’m not hurt.”
    She stands and purses her lips. Hands on her hips. Eyebrows lifted. She looks so frustrated I can’t help but smile. “Why are you here, Mr. Santoro?”
    “Because my boss told me he’d pull me off the streets if I didn’t come.”
    “And why did he send you?”
    “Hell if I know.”
    London glares at me. “Maybe I should call him, then. Let him know that you seem to think you’re fine and are being less than cooperative.” There’s an edge to her voice that takes me off guard. She sounds less like the spoiled brat I pegged her for and more like an honest to goodness professional. She’s not whining or petulant. Rather, she’s detached, clinical, and in control.
    In a rare moment of weakness, I concede. “Basketball.”
    Her brows meet. “You hurt yourself playing basketball?”
    I nod and bite the inside of my cheek. I’m really not hurt, but I don’t correct her again. Just twisted my knee a little funny when I was playing