Going Under (Wildfire Lake 2)

I nod, acknowledging the next step, then ask, “Will you be off tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I will.” He does what any good doctor would do, continues making small talk while he numbs the wound. But he takes one little extra step that makes all the difference—he lets lidocaine spill from the needle into the wound before sticking me, and that really takes the edge off the pain.

“All parents should have Christmas off,” I say.

“Will you be able to see your dad?” he asks.

“No.” I exhale. The pain is fading, and my muscles loosen from their coiled state. “He passed away ten years ago, now.”

“Oh, heck.” The sympathy in his eyes is real and appreciated. “I’m sorry.”

I shake my head. “Don’t be. We had a lot of good years together, and I cherish those memories. I’m always happy to relive them.” But my heart still feels heavy, so I change the subject. “I’m going to guess nine stitches.” I chance a glance at the wound, now mostly numb. “Make that twelve.”

“Pretty good guess. Why have you had so many stitches?”

“I was a daredevil as a kid, an avid diver from age ten, and I’m a mechanic, so one way or another, I often seem to be at the wrong end of sharp objects.”

He puts the syringe down. “We’ll just let that kick in before I start.”

I nod and exhale, relieved the pain has eased.

“A mechanic,” he says. “Followed in Dad’s footsteps, huh?”

“Sort of. He was a car mechanic. I’m a marine engineer.”

His expression shows real interest, and I’m still dazzled by the symmetry in his face, the shape of his eyes, the edge to his jaw, just shy of being square. It’s too damn easy to imagine how his expression would change during sex. The hunger that would tighten his jaw, the pleasure that would cloud his eyes.

I shift in my seat to relieve the ache between my legs. It’s been way too long since I had sex.

“I’ve never heard of that profession,” he says. “What does a marine engineer do?”

“We maintain all kinds of ships, from aircraft carriers and tankers to sailboats. We work with internal systems, mostly—steering, propulsion, refrigeration, electrical, that kind of thing.”

“That’s fascinating. Where do you do that kind of work around here?”

“I recently left my job in the engine room on a cruise line to work on the boats in the lake’s marina.”

“The one around the corner from Whisper Cove?”

“That very one.”

“We just bought a house there.”

I grin. “Fancy.”

He chuckles and picks up a prethreaded needle, testing the numbness of the wound’s edges before starting the stitches.

“When I was in medical school,” he says, placing the first stitch, “we bought a tiny beach shack in San Diego. Eight hundred square feet. We were always on top of each other. All the girls shared one room, but we were steps from the beach.”

“Sounds idyllic.”

His gaze is intent on his work. “The idyllic part was that it sold for millions more than we paid and gave me the money to buy something nice here, where all the girls have their own room, plus added to their college funds.” He shakes his head. “Seriously, a fluke. I’m no wizard with money. It’s probably my greatest weakness.”

“What did you get your girls for Christmas?” I ask.

“Since it’s our first Christmas away from where they called home, I splurged more than I usually do. The oldes

t is getting the latest smart phone, the middle is getting an iPad, and the youngest is getting her dream bed.”