Medicine Man

I whirl around to find an amused Renn looking back at me. “What are you doing?” I screech at her.

“What are you doing?” In contrast to me, her voice is relaxed and so is her posture.

“You scared the c-crap out of me.” I press a hand to my chest, trying to control my out-of-control heartbeats.

“Were you eavesdropping?”

“No,” I lie. “And what happened to the no-touching rule?”

There’s a rule here prohibiting touching between patients because some of them freak out when touched.

“As if. No rules can bind me.”

“Maybe they should because –”

I stop talking when the door to Beth’s room opens up and she stands in front of us. “Hey, guys. What’s happening? Is everything okay?”

“Hey, Beth,” Renn chirps. “It’s nothing. I just touched Willow and she freaked out.”

“Renn.” Beth shakes her head. “You know there’s a no-touching rule.”

“Willow doesn’t mind. She’s my BFF.” She turns to me. “Aren’t you?”

Despite myself, I flush with pleasure at being called a BFF. I’ve never had any BFFs before. In fact, I never had any friends period.

Though I won’t let Renn off the hook so easily. “Yes. But she scared the crap out of me, Beth.” I press a hand to my chest, dramatically, before smirking at Renn. “Rules are rules for a reason.”

“Traitor,” Renn mutters, just as Beth launches into the importance of rules.

Chuckling, I bend down to pick up my fallen book. It’s an old copy, with a questionable spine, and the fall has caused some of the yellow pages to come loose. They are scattered on the hardwood floor, black lettering flowing like a river. I grab hold of them and begin arranging them in the right order.

Over me, Beth and Renn continue to argue about rules and how Renn should be more conscious of them. But all conversation is lost when he steps out of the room.

Simon Blackwood.

I’m still bent down on my knees, putting my book back together, page by page, but I feel him standing over me. My fingers slip, causing a few collected pages to spill on the floor again.

Taking a deep breath, I tell myself to chill out. He’s the enemy. I can’t show him fear.

But him towering over me bothers me more than I’d like. Maybe it’s because the air has moved around me, to make space for him. I feel his body casting its own shadow, creating its own awareness.

Discreetly and still arranging the papers, I look at the lower half of him. He’s wearing black dress pants and brown wingtip shoes. Moisture and droplets of water cling to the fabric, and to his pointy and put-together footwear.

Outside.

He has come from the Outside.

Well, where else would he have come from? But God, he’s brought rain with him, crisp and so pretty. I wish I could feel it on my skin.

And then, as if he can hear my thoughts, he makes it rain. He comes down on his knees by my side and I feel the cool, fresh droplets that shake down from his body, falling on mine. One plops on my scalp, another on my forehead and cheek, and a couple on my bare arms.

I move away from him fractionally.

I don’t want him close. And neither do I want to notice how his dress pants are stretching across the expanse of his thighs. I’ve never seen cloth do that to a body before, mold around the bulging muscles like it were clay.

He should wear looser pants; I should tell him.

“You missed a few,” he says, and I forget about his thighs.

From this close, his voice sounds more potent, more grainy, more rough, more deep.

Just more.

He reaches out his arm, and his fingers fold around the yellowed pages, lying on the side. Gently, he plucks them off the floor, arranges them in order, exactly the way I was doing a moment before. The way he grips the thin strips with such care, such finesse, wakes up my goose bumps.

I whip my eyes up to look at his face.

I breathe out a relieved, suspended breath. I didn’t know I was even holding it. My gaze catches on to his square, rock-hard jaw, tracing the stubble that roughens up the slant of it. My eyes move up and I see his cheekbones, high and cliff-like.

Royal, masculine, stunning. Just like his name. He reminds me of the timeless statues I’ve seen in my history textbook.

His eyelids are lowered, as he’s still focused on his task, and a couple of stray rain droplets shine on his eyelashes. In fact, I don’t even think he’s looked at me once. Not once. It prickles me that he finds a book worthier of his attention than me. Which is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever felt.

Ever.

Once he’s done, he offers the pages to me. Again, barely looking at me. “Here.”

His eyes are gray in color.