“X-ray?”
“Not yet.”
“Get one. What’s next?”
“Five-year-old stuck a bean up his nose, room four.”
I roll my eyes. “Lovely.”
“Darb.” Steven catches me on my way to bean nose.
“Oh, Steven, about last night—”
“Yeah, I’m sorry, babe. I was in surgery longer than I expected. I’m just now leaving.”
“Oh, well … I went…” Yeah, he doesn’t need to know. “…I mean, no problem. I’ll call you later.”
I glance up, searching for a nod of acknowledgement or something, but his gaze fixes over my shoulder. I turn to Trick planted behind me as if he just appeared rather than arrived. A glacier, he gives away nothing with his indifferent almost steely expression while holding my clutch in his hand. An icy chill sloths up my spine.
“Is that your purse?”
I look back at Steven. “Yes. Long story, I’ll call you later.” There it is again—my long story.
Snatching my clutch, I brush past ice man without a word.
“You’re welcome.”
I whip around with vinegar in my veins. “Tell Gemmie thank you.”
He holds up his hand. “While I’m here, how about you take these stitches out?”
I fish my phone out of my clutch and hand my purse to wide-eyed Jade behind the counter. “It’s been seven days, I said eight to ten.”
“Suit yourself, I’ll rip them out on my own.”
I look at Jade with a desperate plea in my eyes, a silent SOS.
“Room two went to X-ray.” She smiles, throwing me in the lion’s den and swallowing the key.
I squint my eyes in a piercing scowl. “Jade, after you get the X-ray in room two, Mr. Douglas, curtain six, soiled himself and needs your assistance.” My scowl morphs into vengeful smirk as I turn on my heel. “Follow me, Patrick.”
He hops up on the table while I wash my hands. I grab several paper towels, taking a long breath and releasing it slowly. I hate feeling angry. Some people would say I act like a doormat, but if I were to react like I did last night every time a man pissed me off, I’d already be dead of a heart attack or stroke. Certain personalities crave that reaction; they love crawling under other people’s skin like a chronic disease. If that’s Trick, then I gave him exactly what he was looking for last night.
My focus stays on his hand, yet just his proximity does unwelcome things to my body that hasn’t got the I-despise-this-jerk message. Thank God my hands are immune to the rest of my jittery emotions as I remove his sutures.
“I’m really not an asshole.”
I release a cynical laugh. “Um … yes, you really are.”
“I may have misjudged you.”
“May? That’s an understatement. But it doesn’t matter…” I remove the last stitch and glance at him “…after today you won’t have to see this controlling rich-bitch whore again.”
He grimaces like I ripped his wound back open. “I shouldn’t have said that. It was a knee-jerk reaction.”
I pull off my gloves and toss them in the garbage. “No, you shouldn’t have thought it in the first place.” I wash my hands. “Whatever, I don’t need another critic, and you made it perfectly clear that you don’t want or need anything from me so…” I hold open the door “…have a nice life.” Fake smiling. Teeth grinding. Breath holding.
He bites his lips together, dropping his chin into a thoughtful nod as he scoots off the table.
I stare at my feet like they’re the most deserving thing in the room of my attention as he walks toward me. There’s a tightness in my chest and a sinking feeling in my stomach from a toxic mix of anger, pain, and disappointment. Then there’s my irrational side that’s been gagged and thrown in the proverbial closet, all hot and bothered.
“What time are you done working?”
I raise my head, a what-did-you-say frown stealing my face. “Three. Why?”
“I’ll pick you up at seven. Dinner’s on me.” He gives me his signature smirk, that small lip twitch that deceives his best efforts to act unaffected around me.
“Why would I want to go to dinner with you?”
“Because even if you won’t admit it, something inside you needs to know that I’m not the asshole that drove you home last night.”
I’m not sure what irritates me more, that he acts like he knows me or that he’s right. I squint, but he’s unreadable. It’s insane that I’m even considering his offer, a likely round two of throwing my bruised ego into the ring.
I sigh. “I’ll be starving by five and you’re still an asshole.”
He purses his lips to the side. “Grab a snack, I’ll get you at six, and … you’re wrong.” He doesn’t give me a chance for rebuttal before he’s out the door.
I need a what-the-hell-just happened moment, but I don’t have that luxury because there’s a bean up some kid’s nose just calling my name.