Emma had to laugh at those dreams or she’d get anxious again, the kind of anxiousness she’d suffered during her coma, where she’d felt like she was drowning but couldn’t wake up and get out of the deep water.

She’d never been a fan of swimming, especially in the often rough and choppy water off the coast, but being stuck in her own mind in the ocean had been hell.

Later she’d found out that after a postsurgery infection and a dangerously high fever, and then a subsequent seizure, they’d put ice packs all around her. Which demystified the horrifying dreams about trying to swim in the ocean but feeling too weighed down to move.

It’d demystified everything, because postcoma, she’d realized that everything she’d overheard had some level of truth to it.

The worst part of all of it had been the insidious pain.

Not surprisingly, it’d been Simon, during those first PT sessions, who told her something that had stuck with her.

They’d been in Emma’s hospital room, her still hooked up to all sorts of things, weeks before she’d been released to the rehab facility. The lights had been on low because she’d had a migraine, probably brought on by the pain and her inability to manage it effectively.

The anticipation of pain is worse than the pain itself, he’d told her, a lean hip perched on the edge of her bed as he worked the muscles in her left leg. Close your eyes.

She’d spent way too much time with her eyes closed, but there’d been something so compelling in the gentle steel of his demand that she had done what he said.

Now go to another place. A happy place.

She had strained to remember one. But she was practically humming with anxiety. No job, no prospects. Her left arm had seceded from the United States of Emma. And yet none of that was first in line. She didn’t need a shrink to tell her what was first in line, what her constant low level of anxiety really came from. She’d always known the root of it.

Survivor’s guilt.

Go to your happy place, Emma. She smiled now because she could still hear Simon speak to her as he had that day, clear as a bell, like he was right there with her.

Where’s your happy place today? Dream Simon asked.

Same as always. Avila Beach. Where the bright sand and the pretty ocean melded together like heaven on earth. It took her a minute, but finally she could hear the water lapping against the beach. Birds squawking at each other. The salty scent of the ocean air all around them, a warm breeze on her face. She was on the warm sand with the heated, hard body of a man lying with her, spreading sunscreen over every inch of her body . . .

Wow. Okay, so this really was a happy place today, and she smiled, liking Dream Simon a whole lot. She hadn’t dreamed of or yearned for physical intimacy in . . . a long time. She’d actually thought that part of her womanhood might be lost to her forever—

“Turn onto your belly,” came Dream Simon’s low, gruff command.

Mmm. She liked his sex-on-a-stick voice.

“Emma.”

Her eyes flew open. Not Dream Simon.

Real Simon.

She wasn’t at the beach. She was at physical therapy, and she’d dozed off.

“Turn over,” Not Dream Simon said.

“’K, but I usually get dinner first . . .”

“Funny.” He nudged her over with his big, strong, warm hands and she had to swallow her moan.

“Am I hurting you?”

“No.” She squeezed her eyes shut and buried her head in the crook of her right arm, wondering if her ears were on fire.

Or if he could read minds.

No. If he could, he’d be running for the hills. The man was hot, but he’d never, not once, given her a hint of having any lust for her bod.

Just as well. Her mind might be suddenly ready for a physical relationship, but her body didn’t exactly seem ready for prime time. A mental inventory proved that to be true: aching limbs, aching ribs and back. Aching everything. Which made it official. Still not ready.

Well, except for maybe her traitorous nipples . . .

“Lift up.”

She snorted a little to herself because now everything in this session was going to sound dirty to her. But she knew what he wanted, and unfortunately it wasn’t dirty at all.

“Emma.”

“Right.” She took a deep and shaky breath because damn, he was particularly evil today. She held her arms straight out in front of her and her legs behind her and arched her back. Theoretically, every part of her should lift off the table, except her belly and hips. It was a good stretch for an able-bodied person, which she wasn’t. Her left arm raised about an inch, before dropping heavily back to the table.

“Again.”

She could feel a fine sheen of perspiration on her skin and her every muscle trembled with effort—

“Hey.” Simon bent and put his face level with hers. “You with me?”

Yep. Yep, she’d just been with him. On a beach. Naked . . . Which was incredibly eye-opening for her as her lady bits twitched for the first time in a year. Not trusting her voice, she nodded up into those hazel eyes. Green and light brown swirled, surrounded by a ring of milk chocolate brown. Mesmerizing.

“Where did you go?” He’d taken his hands off her. “You okay?”

“Nowhere,” she said quickly. “I’m good.”

“So you can do it again then.”

Damn. And note to self: never tell Hard-Ass PT you’re good.

“Or,” she said, “we could go have one of the juices you guys sell out front.”

“After. This first.”

Damn. “So where’s your happy place?”

Simon arched his brows.

“Come on,” Emma said coaxingly. “I know you must have one.”

“Oh, I do.” He smiled. “It’s just under lock and key.”

She put her hand on her left calf, rubbing it before it could cramp. “Seriously? You’re not going to share?”

“Not right now. Right now we’re concentrating on your recovery.”

“I’m recovered enough.”

He nudged her hand away from her calf and began to knead it for her. “‘Enough’ isn’t the same as your long-term goal of working your way back up to a 5K.”

“That was BC.”

“Stretch your legs like I showed you.” He waited for her to start doing that before speaking. “So your standards have changed then?”