Page 12 of Night Shift

“I never thought that,” I said too quickly.

“No? What did you think then?”

I dared to meet his gaze—a mistake. There was a hunger in his eyes that made my pulse stutter. “Nothing. I don’t have an opinion on your personal life.”

He smiled slightly, but the intensity in his eyes remained, and his pupils were blown wide open. “Smart girl.”

The praise shouldn’t have affected me, but a flush of warmth trickled down my spine. I shifted, unsettled by his fierce perusal and the reactions of my own traitorous body. “Was there anything else?” I asked.

“Yes.” He leaned in close, his breath hot against my ear. “Like Bethany said… The right man could show you things you’ve never even dreamed of.”

I jerked away, stunned speechless. My skin was feverish, hypersensitive even, and it mortified me to realize I was so turned on. By him.

With a smug little smirk, Dr. Thorin straightened, clearly pleased by my reaction. “Just something to consider. Carry on, Sammich.”

He strolled out of the doorway and down the hallway, leaving me to stare after him, equal parts bewildered and infuriated. How dare he say such things? I didn’t care how skilled he was in bed—and surely that had been exaggerated anyway. And I didn’t care what things he could show me. I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole.

Even if some traitorous part of me was curious what those things might be.

Chapter four

Dawn was clawing its way across the sky, dragging with it a bitingly cold autumn morning. The hospital parking lot was deserted except for the last stragglers of the night shift. As I made my way to my car, pulling my coat tight against the chill, a sound caught my attention—an engine coughing, desperately trying to start.

Across the lot, Sam was struggling with her car, gripping the steering wheel of the little GTI and pleading with it to start. Each of her breaths fogged up her windshield in little white puffs of frustration.

As I approached, I noticed she was shivering. Her red curls had escaped from the confines of her braided ponytail and now framed her face in a fiery halo. Her eyes were narrowed in irritation. The bitter cold had caused her creamy, freckled cheeks to flush brightly.

“Need a hand, Samantha?” I called out.

She turned, startled, then composed herself and cracked open the window. “It’s fine, Dr. Thorin. I can manage.” But her hands were shaking.

“Here, let me take a look.” Stepping up next to her car, I slipped my hands into my leather gloves. It wasn’t normal for me to play the Good Samaritan, but watching her struggle stirred something within me.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll deal with it,” she said, her teeth chattering as she popped the hood. I didn’t wait for her permission before raising it and peering inside. She reluctantly got out, stood beside me, and leaned over. The engine lay exposed, a mess of metal and rubber. Judging by the helpless tilt of her head, it was like an alien world to her.

“Have you checked the battery lately?” I asked, my voice taking on the clinical tone I used in the ED. “Do you know how old it is? Maybe the terminals are loose.” My breath fogged up in the cold, mingling with hers in the space between us.

“Um, no, I haven’t, and it’s the same battery it came with four years ago,” Sam admitted, her fingers fumbling with the cuffs of her jacket before she pulled her hands into her sleeves. The faint floral scent of her skin drifted from her, incongruent with the odors of grease and grit under the hood.

“Let me.” I nudged her aside gently and reached in, my hands inspecting the connections. They were tight. The problem could be anything. Cars weren’t my forte.

“Seems fine here,” I muttered, straightening up. My gaze met hers, and I could see the strain of the night shift lingering in her tired eyes. “Might be the starter or the alternator. Who knows?”

“Great.” She sighed, a puff of resignation crystallizing in front of her lips. “Just what I need.”

“Let’s try it again,” I suggested, closing the hood.

Sam slid back into the driver’s seat while I leaned against the open door. She turned the key, and the engine sputtered weakly before falling silent once more.

“Damn it to hell,” she muttered, her knuckles white as she gripped the steering wheel.

“Seems like it’s not your morning,” I said, unable to suppress a twinge of something akin to empathy. This was not the kind of struggle I was accustomed to. Yet here I stood, feeling oddly helpless as I watched her battle with something as mundane as a dead car.

She tried again, but it still wouldn’t start.

“It’s not catching at all,” I observed.

“Clearly,” she huffed, then reached over and rolled up the window, her snarkiness surfacing. It was a defense mechanism, one I was beginning to recognize all too well. She stepped out of the car, one hand hanging onto the edge of the window. She shook her head grimacing at the hood. She was obviously worrying about what to do next.

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