Going Under (Wildfire Lake 2)

“What is a dream bed?”

“She’s starting to want sleepovers with friends, like her older sisters did where we used to live, so she asked for a bunk bed, and she picked out this elaborate bunk that’s dressed up like a playhouse. The things they make now, it’s incredible. That’s what I got her. But I still have to put it together before they wake at the crack of dawn.” He looks at his watch. “Once I get out of here, that gives me about eight hours.” He sucks air through his teeth and shakes his head. “I’ll be cutting it close.”

His self-deprecation makes me laugh. He seems glad I find him funny.

“It would take me an hour,” I say. “Okay, maybe two with these stitches.”

“Oh, to have those mad skills.”

“You’ve got plenty of mad skills,” I say, looking at his neat, almost artistic stitches. “Arguably more important skills than mine. So I’d guess your girls are somewhere around twelve, ten, and eight.”

He pauses to smile at me. Oh, yeah, there’s definitely a spark happening here. “Close. Eleven, eight, and five.”

I nod. “Fun ages.”

“Do you have kids?”

“No, but I encountered hundreds on the cruise ships. They seem fun for the most part, but then they’re not mine.”

He laughs. “True enough.”

“What brought you here?”

“My mom and sister live here. Decided the kids were at ages where they could use some positive female role models.”

So the girls’ mother is either not in the picture or she’s not a good role model. And the fact that he needs a female in the kids’ lives means he’s not involved with anyone. But the reason I haven’t met him isn’t because he’s a traveling doctor or lives below the radar, it’s because he’s new in town, and that doesn’t make him the disconnected type I was hoping for. Still, he’s not someone I’d run across often either. We live in very different worlds.

By the time he finishes my stitches and snips the thread, we feel like old friends. Which is odd for me. Men who feel like old friends don’t usually turn me on—Levi, for example. And this guy has every box in the do-not-touch category ticked off—kids, local, likeable, and oh so pretty. Yet I’d jump at the opportunity to get naked with him. Even partially naked would do.

“You’re good to go,” he says, pulling off his gloves and tossing them on the tray. “These won’t dissolve on their own, so you’ll just need to see your regular doctor to have them removed in two or three weeks.”

“Guess I’ll have to get a regular doctor, then.”

He winds gauze around my forearm and secures it. “Best to keep the wound dry. You can use saran wrap or a plastic bag to cover them when you shower. The nurse will be in to give you care instructions—”

“No need. I know all about stitches.”

Time for a bold move on my part. He’s clearly more of a beta type. I pull a pen from my purse, slide off the table, and reach for his hand to jot my phone number on his palm. The shocked confusion on his face makes me laugh.

“In case you need help with that bunk bed,” I say, “I’m a night owl, and I live on a boat at the marina, right around the corner from you.”

He looks at his hand, clearly, adorably flustered. He’s definitely not your average good-looking guy. “Oh, wow. That’s a nice offer, and I would seriously take you up on it, because putting that monster together is the last thing I want to do when I get home, but I’ve got these professional ethics to deal with. The whole doctor-patient thing makes it complicated.”

I slide my purse strap onto my shoulder and smile at him. “Not a problem.” I step into his space, lift my hand to pat his chest, and make deliberate eye contact. “Because you’re fired.”

2

Ben

I really shouldn’t text her.

Not because of the professional ethics—as there is no expectation of continued professional relationship—but because, a: she intrigues the hell out of me, b: I don’t have time for a relationship, and c: I don’t have a lot to offer a woman at the moment except a hell of a lot of work that’s not her responsibility. Not to mention KT is ten years younger than me.

But damn, it’s been a long time since I met a woman that interesting. Or that beautiful. Or that sexy.

I lean back against the wall of Jazz’s room and look at the bunk parts strewn across the floor. As usual, all the girls are asleep in my bed. Tonight, that gives me the time and space for assembly, but I really didn’t plan this well. I don’t usually wait until the last minute for things, but with the move, Christmas really snuck up on me.

When I look at the instructions again, they blur in front of my eyes. I sigh and pick up my phone. This is probably a really shitty idea, but a shittier idea would be to have this bed still in pieces when the girls wake up in the morning. I can too easily picture the disappointment on Jazz’s face when she sees her gift all over her bedroom floor.