Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 35740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 179(@200wpm)___ 143(@250wpm)___ 119(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 179(@200wpm)___ 143(@250wpm)___ 119(@300wpm)
“Right.” I stretch out my fingers in the latex gloves, grabbing the tape, scissors, gauze and bottle of saline. The bullet wound is on his right glute. Bandage peeling at the edges.
The skin around the wound is warm and solid and a little more toward red than I’d like but not bad just a little neglected.
His ass is like flexed steel, and I battle the urge to just take a handful of it and tuck it in my bag for later.
He tenses as I work some saline around the wound. It’s healing, a clean exit, and I wonder what happened.
“When’s the last time this was cleaned?”
Silence.
“Sheriff?”
“Couple days.”
I pause. “Couple? That doesn’t mean two, does it?”
“Hard to reach. You ever try bandaging your own ass?”
My lips twitch, but I focus on the dressing. “Can’t say I have. If you have to take a bullet, the butt is a pretty safe place really. Considering. How’d it happen? Bad guy get you from behind?”
“Not exactly. Not unless I’m the bad guy shot his own ass.”
“Your own ass? You shot yourself?”
“Long story.”
“Well, maybe you can tell me sometime.” When I smooth down the last piece of tape, I sit back. “Done. Keep it clean and dry. Change the dressing every—”
He pushes up until he’s standing there. Towering. Shirtless. Staring at me with heat in his eyes and absolutely no shame about the fact my eyes are exactly at cock level.
And, when I say this Sheriff is packing heat, I mean nuclear fission temperatures.
I start packing up, hands shaking, stupid wetness soaking into my panties. “Just make sure you change the dressing daily. Otherwise, when you end up in the ER, don’t expect sympathy.”
“You done being pissy?” He tugs his jeans back up and my knees fold. His eyes stay laser focused on mine as he reaches into his pants, shamelessly adjusts himself, then works the button and zipper closed on a frustrated grunt.
I snap the kit shut, swallowing hard. “I’m not pissy. I’m professional. I’ll be back in three days.”
I head toward the door, trying not to limp, trying to keep my pride intact, when his voice stops me.
“You’ll be back tomorrow.”
I turn slowly. “Excuse me?”
“Tomorrow. Before dark.”
“I just told you—”
“And I’m telling you different.”
He steps closer. Too close. I have to tilt my chin up to look at him and that just makes me feel small after a lifetime of feeling like my body doesn’t quite fit inside the lines people expect.
“You’re coming back to check the wound. And you’ll call me when you get home.”
He’s giving me whiplash. First, he doesn’t need a nurse, then he’s ordering me to come back to take care of him tomorrow.
“You don’t even know me.”
Something flickers in his face. “I know enough.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You don’t call, I’ll drive down this mountain and come looking.”
He’s not kidding. I consider the possibility he’s potentially psychotic. Because, his eyes are crazy.
Crazy gorgeous.
“Tomorrow,” he repeats, rubbing the back of his neck which only makes his bicep pop out. “Before dark. And you call the minute you get home. What’s the ETA to your place?”
I should tell him to mind his business but what comes out is, “Fine. Tomorrow and yes, I’ll call. ETA is about 20 minutes.”
His lips curve the slightest bit.
“Atta girl.”
I walk out fast, nearly stumble on the steps, and somehow manage to get back into my van without collapsing. He’s standing on his porch and oh God, he does that thing where enormous guys reach up and grab the top of the doorframe and just stretch and…watch you.
I count eight perfectly defined, abdominal squares before I swipe the back of my hand over my slack lips.
What sort of test is this, God? Because, Imma fail, I’ll tell you right now.
My hands are still shaking by the time I reach the main road. I should call Logan. I should tell him his patient is uncooperative and bossy and completely inappropriate and no way am I coming back to treat him.
Instead, I tap my phone screen and stare at the number he made me save. I make my way down the rest of the rugged mountain road, through town, pulling up to my house around eight o’clock, my heart still thumping and that twisting tension down low is begging for some self-care.
Not that I’ve ever had any real success in that department, but that’s an anti-climactic story for another day.
Snort.
I stare at the front door on the restored little cottage I painted Daffodil yellow the day I moved in. The house is quaint, as my grandmama said.
It’s more than enough for Legend and I to feel like it’s a home. The money my grandparents put in a trust for me has me free from a monthly payment, but working is still necessary and a condition of me continuing to receive the quarterly disbursements from their living trust.