Dark, that’s the word. Dark hair strategically styled in at least a dozen conflicting directions. Dark brows and lashes, dark stubble, and hazel eyes pinning me with a piercing dark look.
“Uh … huh.”
The most kissable lips twitch, not a smile—more of an amused acknowledgment of me … Yes, me staring and using sounds like “uh … huh” instead of real words that an educated medical professional should use. Then I notice a pearly faded scar above his eye, one of those perfect imperfections that give character and story to a person.
“Darby?” Jade holds up a pair of blue nitrile gloves, ticktocking in front of my face.
Her voice muffles like an echo from underwater, the eerie world of submersion when you feel like you can hear blood running through your veins against the cadence of your heart. I suck in a breath, more like a gasp. Scrubbing my hands at the sink with thorough intensity, I try to find my stride again—my voice. If there is a God, I pray he will grant me a small shred of dignity to go with it. “Tell me what happened.” I dry my hands.
He holds up his hand wrapped in a blood-soiled towel. “Cut my hand … tightening a bolt.” Yep, his voice is just as dark as the rest of his suffocating sexiness. It’s deep with a slight raspy edge that allows me to actually feel it, not just hear it. He might as well have said, “I just dropped by to suck on your nipples.” Either way, I’m Frosty on a warm day—a guaranteed puddle on the floor by the time he leaves.
Fuck the threat of measles … I’ll take spots over this nasty case of stammering poppycock. Give me a vaccine for that!
I unwrap his hand then glance up to see his reaction to the deep cut. He cannot pass out. I’ve already reserved that right and it has nothing to do with his hand, just self-preservation. But he’s not looking at his hand; he’s looking at me.
Shit! Breathe, Darby, breathe.
He smells good. Is it his soap or cologne? Or is it just sexy? I didn’t think sexy had a smell—until now.
Shit! Don’t breathe, Darby, don’t breathe.
Patrick is not my first squirrel, but my professionalism has never wavered. Patients are puzzles waiting to be pieced back together, nothing more. But dear God, all I want to do is nuzzle my nose into his neck and inhale like I’m taking my first breath.
“I’m going to clean the wound then you’ll need a few stitches.”
“You’re the doctor.”
Jeez! That voice …
I look down and get to work putting him back together. “I’m not actually a doctor. I’m a PA—a physician assistant.” Voilà! With those words, my hands takeover what my brain has struggled to remember. I’m a physician assistant. I’m a professional and this man is nothing more than my patient.
His hand becomes just that—a hand. It no longer matters that it’s attached to a body that … that … God, there are no words, not even in my head. I convince myself it might as well be a cadaver hand. I’m not sure what my glitch was a few moments ago. Maybe Jade’s ridiculous squirrel comment messed with my head. But I’m back.
Good mental pep talk, Darby!
“Change the bandage every twenty-four hours and try to keep the wound dry for forty-eight hours. You can set up an appointment to have the stitches removed in eight to ten days. I noticed on your chart that you can’t remember the last time you had a tetanus shot; I recommend one before you leave. Jade can get that for you.” I peel off my gloves and wash my hands. “Do you have any questions?”
He shakes his head, I hope in response to my question and not my cringe-worthy behavior. My dignity sure is shaking her head as she frees herself from my smothering libido. It took years to get my degree and only minutes for my brain to melt into a pile of mush. I restrict my gaze to the sink, the floor, then his chart—anything to keep from looking at him. “Okay then, it was nice to meet you, Mr. Roth.”
I risk a glance with a nervous smile. Those eyes flick to mine then fade along my body like a sheet being snapped over a bed, floating through the air until landing in its place. I wipe my brow with the back of my hand. Shit! Now I’m sweating.
I leave the room in desperate search of my missing confidence and professionalism. It was with me before I entered room three, so it has to be around here somewhere. From the computer at the nurses’ station, I take a quick look up as Mr. Roth saunters out, leaving a wake of self-combusting females along his path. Sure enough he’s staring at me, no smile. Ducking my head, I swipe my tongue along my teeth. Do I have something in my teeth? Why the look?