Yuletide Redemption. Jill Kemerer
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nerve damage. Headaches.” Those espresso eyes met his, warming him. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
He envied her for only having headaches and scars. She had her legs. She could walk.
“When was the accident?” Sam asked.
“It will be a year on December 18.” Her attention shifted to her hands.
“The first annual Lake Endwell Christmas parade.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry.” Being trapped in this cottage all the time must have gotten to him. His conversation skills needed work. “The date’s stuck in my head. My aunt Sally has mentioned it about fifty times in the last month. December 18. She’s on the planning committee.”
“A parade.” Her chin lifted as she gazed ahead through the windows. He couldn’t tell if she liked or hated the idea of a parade. “A nice distraction. I’ll be honest—I’m dreading the date.”
A twinge of guilt pressed against his chest. Her accident may not have taken her legs, but it obviously had taken a lot from her, too. “I don’t blame you.”
“How did you get through yours?”
“Through clenched teeth. My family stayed with me all day.” Reminding him how much he’d lost. His brothers and sisters went on as usual while his life had been turned upside down. They either spoke in hushed tones, or they faked chipper, everything-is-fine conversations. He ignored their furtive glances and nagging for him to go back to physical therapy. After his fall in June, he’d stopped going, knowing he might never walk unassisted on both legs. The torn ACL and resulting surgery had left his right knee unstable and both legs weak.
A cane, crutches, a wheelchair—all props reminding him he’d suffered permanent damage. He would never carry a bride over the threshold. Even if a woman could see past his disability, what did he have to offer her? Not a whole lot.
“My parents will probably insist on spending the day with me, too.” Celeste rubbed her upper arm. “Your family seems nice.”
“They are nice. They just don’t get the fact I want to be alone.”
“I get it.”
She was the one person who probably did get it, and for some reason, that made him feel better.
“Yeah, well, my family is tired of me.” Sam gave her a tight smile, squaring his shoulders. “You’re the only one brave enough to be here right now.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“Oh, it’s true. Ask any of them.” His family had been taking turns checking on him, cleaning, making meals, doing his laundry and anything else he needed for months. While he appreciated everything they did, he was tired of the strings attached, the incessant hints about physical therapy being at the top of his list.
Maybe they all needed a break from each other.
“Can I get you something to drink?” He wheeled away from the table in the direction of the kitchen, which was part of one wide open area along with the dining and living rooms.
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
He opened the fridge and swiped a bottle of water. Celeste seemed quiet—easy to be around. Not too talkative or demanding. But before he let her into his world, he needed to set some boundaries. After taking a drink, he returned to the table.
“Well, we should discuss the arrangement,” he said. “Regardless of what my family thinks, I don’t need or want a nurse.”
“No one said anything to me about nursing.”
“Good. If you wouldn’t mind picking up a few groceries for me, doing some light cleaning and helping with my laundry, I think everyone will be happy.”
“Oh, no.” Celeste faced him, her brown eyes wide. Once more he was struck by her pretty features. “Claire wouldn’t be happy at all. When I talked to her a few days ago, she was quite specific.”
He squeezed the arms of the wheelchair. “What exactly did she say?”
“Physical therapy at least three times a week. I’m to drive you there and back. And...”
“And what?” He forced himself not to growl. He was going to have a long chat with his sister later.
“I’m not to take no for an answer.”
* * *
“No.”
Celeste expected the negative response, but she didn’t expect to sympathize with him. From the minute she stepped into this grand, lakefront cottage—completely wheelchair-accessible, according to Claire—she’d been fighting a losing battle. She’d agreed to be Sam’s assistant, because it felt like a God-given gift dropped in her lap. Celeste would get a rent-free home away from the whispers and all the darted looks at her disfigured face. The cabin would make it possible for her to expand her business, take on a few more clients. After all, she had other things to consider now.
She needed to convince Sam to go to physical therapy.
Sam had wheeled his chair in front of the patio door. The wall held floor-to-ceiling windows with magnificent views of mature trees, a rambling lawn and the sapphire water of the lake dancing in the sunlight. An incredible room. And the man with dark blond hair and piercing blue eyes wasn’t bad, either. The fact Sam had his own scars to heal made him less intimidating than most of the people she encountered.
Sort of.
But whether he was gorgeous or not wasn’t the issue. If she wanted to live in Claire’s cabin, she had to follow Claire’s rules. “What’s wrong with physical therapy?”
“It didn’t work.” His profile could have been etched in marble.
She thought back to what Claire told her, and something wasn’t adding up. “What do you mean?”
“All my progress was for nothing.”
“But you were making progress?”
“I’ll always need a wheelchair.” His lips drew into a thin line.
Should she continue this obviously touchy subject? If she didn’t, he might refuse physical therapy. Claire’s cabin meant a life of her own. Privacy. A reprieve from what her life had become. She couldn’t depend on her parents forever.
The plastic surgeon would reevaluate her at the follow-up appointment on December 16. Then she’d have another operation to reduce her scars. Who cared that he had already warned her he didn’t recommend further surgery? The appointment would prove him wrong. It had to.
This handsome, hurting man in front of her—the one who’d been given a crummy deal the same way she’d been—only made Celeste want her old face back more. She’d never been a supermodel, but men used to notice her and little kids didn’t ask awkward questions. She couldn’t imagine a romantic relationship in her current skin. It had been hard enough in her old one. More surgery was vital. Living here, away from unwanted attention, was, too.
She squared her shoulders. “You’re not paralyzed, correct?”
“No. Not paralyzed.” He flexed his hands. “I slipped in the shower back in June. Tore ligaments in my right knee. Had to have surgery on it.”
Her heart tightened at all he’d been through. Lord, I’m sorry for all the ways I pity myself. Please help Sam.
“Claire mentioned the possibility of using a cane.” It had been a while since she engaged in conversation this long with a stranger. She clasped her hands in her lap.
“My doctor didn’t make any promises.”
“Doctors can’t really make promises,” she said quietly. Hers certainly hadn’t. “What did yours say?”
“With