Indiscretion: A Standalone Age Gap Romance

Samantha Elliott

“The physical therapist will be right with you once he’s had a chance to review your x-rays,” the young girl from the radiology center across the street says after she wheeled me over and helped me onto the exam table in the physical therapy office.
“Thanks,” I mutter as the door shuts, swiping away another silly tear from my cheek, not because of the pain in my ankle, but because my season may be shot before it even starts after one stupid, leftover patch of ice on a beautiful, sunny day.
Shoot!
I need a tissue, but after hobbling back to my car and driving myself here, I’m too much of a wimp to jump off the exam table and limp the additional steps to the dispenser across the room. Instead, I just use the sleeves of my bright pink Aero sweatshirt to dry my face.
Looking down the length of my outstretched legs, both of my knees look like shit, all scraped up and bloody, with pieces of gravel still imbedded in them. Damn black ice hiding in the dark shadows on the asphalt! My mom tried to get me to skip my run after school and go to my sister’s middle school Valentine’s dance. Now I wish I would’ve listened to her.
Startling at the knock on the door, I dab at my face again with my sleeve and inhale a shaky breath to try to compose myself.
“Miss Elliott?” the man asks as he steps into the room, his index finger pushing the center of his black-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose.
Whoa! I had no idea Clark Kent was moonlighting as a physical therapist. Crime must be at an all-time low.
“Miss Elliott?” Superman’s doppelganger asks again, but I’m too dumbstruck by his iridescent sapphire eyes behind the glasses to respond. The fluorescent light above us is participating in an incessant dance with the blue orbs in a way that’s completely hypnotizing. “Samantha Elliott?”
“Uh-huh. That…that’s me.” I finally force the highly-intelligent response past my parted lips. Blinking several times to dispel the remaining tears, I try to figure out if this man is actually movie star handsome or if I banged my head on the asphalt and am hallucinating that the graying Dr. Draper pulled a Benjamin Button, aging backward in time to his twenties.
Shutting the door behind him, the man in khakis and a white button up walks toward me and offers me a handshake with a polite smile. “Hi, I’m Grant Matthews.”
“You’re my doctor?” I ask in disbelief as I take his hand.
“Well, I have a doctorate in physical therapy but you certainly don’t have to call me Dr. Matthews.”
“Wh-where’s Dr. Draper?” I stutter, glancing around to make sure the radiology girl brought me to the right office.
“Oh, a letter went out to all of his patients at the end of last year. Dr. Draper retired, and I’ve taken over his practice,” the gorgeous man answers with a grin so stunning I almost swoon right off the edge of the table.
“Good for him, I guess,” I mutter while continuing to stare at the young doctor like he might disappear if I look away. He may not insist on the doctor title but I can’t just call him “Grant.” That’s way too casual for the sophisticated man standing before me.
“So, you had quite a bad fall today?” he asks the obvious while glancing down at my bare and bloody knees.
“Uh-huh.” The ability to speak in complete sentences eludes me.
“Twisted your left ankle?” he asks, and I nod. He reaches for the grapefruit size body part; and as soon as his warm fingertips touch my chilled skin, my body gives an involuntary shiver. Goosebumps ripple up and down my arms and legs and all of my body heat seems to be suddenly gathering in my clenching stomach.
“Cold?” Dr. Matthews asks, raising a dark eyebrow as his curious eyes sweep over the shorts and sweatshirt I’m wearing. I must have hit my head because I swear his gaze lingers a little longer on my breasts. Hopefully, my erect nipples are hidden behind the thick, pink cotton.
“I wasn’t cold when I was running,” I reply to explain my wardrobe. Looking down at my legs, I wonder if my shorts shrunk while I was waiting. I know they were more than three inches from where my thighs meet just a few seconds ago. “Now I kind of wish I was wearing pants,” I blurt out. “I mean, I wish I would’ve been wearing pants when I fell.”
The doctor clears his throat and nods. “Well, the good news is that the x-ray didn’t show any fractures. I believe what you do have is a moderate, grade two sprain.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” I say on an exhale of relief. “So how soon can I run again?”
“We’ll have to see how you do with therapy, but I would guess that you could probably lace up your sneaker’s again in about three or four weeks.”
Our first track meet is in five weeks, so maybe this season won’t be a wash after all. I’ll be rusty, but I can hopefully get back to competition level within a few grueling practices.
“Just tell me what I need to do, and I’ll do it,” I assure him.
“Good to hear,” he replies, flashing me another smile. “I’ll give you some crutches to use for a few days to keep most of your weight off of the ankle. Before you leave today, we’ll do a little electrical stimulation, and I’ll show you how to ice it and wrap it to reduce the swelling faster.”
“Awesome,” I reply.
“First, let me clean your knees for you and work some of the swelling out of your ankle.”
Turning his back to me, Dr. Matthews runs water full blast in the sink to wash his hands. He then grabs a few things from the various counter drawers while I admire his khakis that look painted over his firm ass and muscular thighs the entire time. If ever there was a finer backside, I’ve never seen it. Even the cute little cowlick he has going on doesn’t distract from his sexiness.
“So,” he says when he faces me again and snaps on latex gloves over each hand. Returning to the exam table, he neatly lines up his supplies beside my leg. “I hope you don’t have any plans tonight, because you’re gonna need to keep your foot elevated for the next few hours.”
“Nope, no plans,” I say, wincing at the sting as he uses an alcohol swab to wipe away the dried blood and random debris lodged in my knees.
“No valentine?” he asks as a follow-up, sucking on his bottom lip like he’s concentrating hard on coating the scrapes with a Neosporin-coated cotton swab. His other hand is wrapped around the top of my bare leg to keep it steady. My breath catches at the light pressure of his thumb on my inner thigh, the most intimate touch I’ve ever experienced.
“Ah, no,” I respond when my hazy brain slowly processes his question. “No valentine. Haven’t had any since, like, the third grade.”
How young does he think I am?
And does he have any idea how hot he is? Of course he must know that, but can he tell that I’m getting more aroused than a dog in heat?
“A beautiful girl like you doesn’t have a date on Valentine’s Day? I find that very hard to believe,” he says with a quick peek at me from underneath ridiculously long, black lashes before he places a bandage over my right knee and starts to work cleaning the left.
Shit. I must’ve busted my head too. His compliment just pushed our conversation into the surreal. I reach up to my ponytail and feel around my skull for knots.
“Does your head hurt?” Dr. Matthews asks when he glances up and notices my exploration for brain damage. “Did you hit it when you fell?”
“I must have,” I respond.

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