“I’m legal if that’s what you’re worried about.” He gives me a half-cocked grin. “How about you, angel?”
Personal information. Still not a good idea. So I finally answer his question.
“We took so many weapons off of you, one of the guys was worried you might have one hidden up your….”
I swoop a finger in the air instead of saying the rest.
“Up the ass. Should’ve thought of that.” He expels a weak chuckle.
But then he sobers to ask, “Angel?”
“Yes?” I answer, even though that’s not my name.
He lays his hand out on the bed between us, the callused palm facing up and his long fingers splayed out.
“Hold my hand until I fall back to sleep.”
My stomach drops at his unexpected request. I’m not sure why.
But I chuff nervously before answering. “Oh, I think you can fall asleep without me holding your hand.”
“Yeah, I know I can.” He raises his gaze to mine, pinning me with his blue stare. “But I want your hand in mine when I do. Remember what I told you earlier?”
When I give an order, it gets obeyed. Or else.
I understand his claim on another level now.
I place my hand in his before I can think not to do what I shouldn’t do. With a patient. For reasons I can’t explain.
He expels a breath like he’s been holding it all this time. And his breathing evens out in just a few more breaths, signaling his imminent departure into sleepy town.
But then he mumbles, “Angel?”
“Yes?” I answer carefully.
“Be here when I wake up.”
A command. Not a request.
And this time, I know exactly how to answer. But he’s snoozing before I can open my mouth.
Leaving me to wonder if he’s always like that. Maybe he’s the kind of guy who gives a command then walks out before you can answer it like some of the older staff at the hospital. But you know—not a doctor.
The opposite, in fact. Those weapons, the hard blue stare, the callused hand wrapped around mine…this isn’t a guy in the habit of helping people.
That reminder finally restores some sense to the situation.
I take my hand back and blink as if awakening from a dream. I’ve got to go home. Get as much sleep as I can before my overnight shift.
As if to co-sign that realization, my phone goes off with a buzz.
It’s a text message from Jonathan.
DOCTOR BAE: I’m sorry about the book. In hindsight, that was presumptuous of me. Breakfast tomorrow?
I blink down at the message, wondering about all the things I’m not feeling.
Normally, I’m thrilled when Jonathan texts. And, it always feels like getting chosen by the prom king whenever he invites me on a date—trust, that’s a pretty special feeling for someone who lived in a group home her senior year. I didn’t have enough money to buy pretty dresses for high school dances anyway, and even if I did, I never ever would have been chosen by the prom king.
But this morning, I hesitate before typing out: Sure
And guilt explodes inside my stomach as soon as I hit the send arrow.
Ugh! That’s what I get for holding some scuzzy MC’s hand when I’m dating a perfect Dr. America.
“Is it Jonathan you’re feeling guilty about? Or is it the other way around?” a little voice comes out of nowhere to ask.
What? No? I shove the voice away. Just because he asked—no commanded for me to be there when he woke up doesn’t mean I owe him anything more.
I grab my medical duffel and head toward the door, refusing to look back at the patient who asked me to be there when he woke up.
Or else.
CHAPTER 5
ME: Hey, Ant. Just got off my shift. Meeting Jonathan for breakfast. Then I’ll come check on your friend.
I’m not expecting Ant to be up this early in the morning, but his response to my somewhat coded message comes back pretty immediately: k
I wish I could go do a quick check over and redress for the MC right now, then go back to my place and collapse, but I told Jonathan I’d meet him for breakfast after my shift. And after the way I ran out of his birthday dinner, I can’t just cancel on him at the last minute.
So, I toss the phone back in my tote, rub at my tired eyes as best I can with contacts in, and pinch some life into my face. Then I drag my exhausted butt over to Gillie’s, the diner where the medical staff at Wilmington St. Joseph can grab breakfast, lunch, or dinner before and after their shifts.
In this case, breakfast is already waiting for me when I drag into the restaurant.
A few slices of tomato, egg whites, and a side of cottage cheese. Not a carb in sight.
Jonathan stands like a gentleman to kiss me on the cheek. “I ordered for you. I knew you’d be hungry after your shift.”