Healing A Hero (The Camerons of Tide’s Way #4) by Skye Taylor

grabbed the shirt behind his head and pulled it off.
    “Oh, Philip!” She couldn’t keep the surge of dismay out of her voice. She touched the ugly scar running diagonally across the tattoo on his right shoulder blade. It slashed through the center of the globe and obliterated the word Semper. How many times had she outlined this tattoo with her fingers, admiring not so much the tattoo artist’s work but the smooth warm skin beneath it? Unable to stop the impulse, she did so now.
    “Kind of ugly, huh?”
    “It must have been painful. Is it still?”
    He shook his head. “Not really.”
    Elena pointed to the smiley face chart on the wall. “On a scale of one to ten.”
    “It’s just a little achy now and then. Honest. A one maybe.”
    She inhaled deeply, then exhaled. “Sorry to say, that’s about to change. We’re going to work with the shoulder today. But when we’re done, I’ll massage it and hopefully it won’t ache too much tonight.” Not as much as her heart was aching, anyway.
    By the end of the hour, Philip’s complexion had turned pasty and sweat trickled down his face. He’d done everything she’d asked in spite of his obvious discomfort. She was the one who had to firm up her resolve and not pull her punches. She never liked inflicting pain on her patients, but doing so to Philip gutted her insides.
    “Roll over on your stomach,” she ordered as she reached for a bottle of lotion. She began the promised massage, starting low on his back and working her way up. Taut, hard ridges of muscle stood out under the scarred skin, and she worked them over until they began to relax.
    She ran her finger over a tattoo on his left bicep. A rifle stood barrel-down in a pair of boots with a helmet perched on the butt end. In honor of a lost comrade, of course. Someone he’d been close to. She had noticed it the first day, but hadn’t asked. She hadn’t wanted to care or think about any of his losses. But today she wanted to know.
    “When did you get this one?”
    “After my spotter got hit.”
    “I’m sorry for your loss.” Familiar words. Easy to say and so inadequate.
    He grunted but didn’t reply.
    She went back to the massage. When the muscles were as relaxed as they were likely to get, she dropped the lotion back into the drawer, then slid her hands over his shoulders one last time to work the remaining lotion into his flesh.
    “We’re done for today.” She backed away from the table so he could right himself.
    “Thanks.” He hopped off the table and reached for his shirt.
    With his back to her, he began putting it on, but the process of getting it on was not as swift and easy as getting it off. She reached out to tug the hem of the shirt down. Before she could offer to help him button the dress shirt, he moved out of reach.
    “I got this.” He began the tedious task of working the buttons through the holes with his left hand.
    Unable to watch the frustrating process, Elena turned away and straightened things on the table that did not need straightening.
    “It’s only maybe a three,” he offered without being asked. “Thanks to your magic hands.” He gripped her shoulder briefly then let go.
    She whipped around to see him loop the tie over his head and work the knot back up with his left hand.
    “Who tied your tie for you?” The question popped out before she could stop it.
    “A cute little LT in my office.” He grimaced. Then he grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.
    “See you on Friday,” he called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the hall.
    Elena looked down at her hands, her magic hands, suddenly overwhelmed by the whole tug of emotions the last hour had visited on her. The smooth feel of his skin beneath her fingers. The tautly corded muscle. The sense of power and strength. The lure of his masculinity. The extent of his injuries and all the pain and loss they represented.
    The last time she’d massaged those muscles, she’d been young and in love. He’d