Page 90 of Walking the Edge

Mitch rubbed a weary hand over his very masculine, very bare thigh. “Without wrecking us.”

“Imagine,” she said. He knew very well she could drive a much bigger vehicle than his extended-cab pickup. The fluorescent light bleached the color from his dark hair and shadowed his eyes. He looked exhausted. From pain?

“Did the doctors tell you how bad it is?”

“The bullet didn’t penetrate.” He gave her a jaunty smile that didn’t meet his eyes or erase the frown on his handsome forehead. “I’ve suffered worse.”

He didn’t want her to make a big deal of this, so she’d play along. “This isn’t anything on the Purple Heart level, huh?”

“No.” He stared at her so long, she shifted. Had she made a mistake teasing about that? He straightened. “You never saw all my scars.”

“I was a little distracted by other parts of your body.”

“The snake?” He lifted a hand to his neck.

“That too.” The sliver of white BVDs exposed by his too-small patient gown transfixed her at the same time the reality of what he’d been through slammed her. If the bullet had hit an inch or so higher, he might be on the operating table instead of here in the exam room, flaunting his virility.

* * *

Mitch stilled under her gaze, his pulse flaming. “I can show you—”

Next time. Like they were going to have a next time? He rubbed his scratchy jaw. “I should have itemized them for you when I had a chance.”

In bed. Getting sweaty. Twisting in the sheets. Exploring the cleft between—

The door opened. He clasped his hands in his restless lap at the sound of voices from the hall.

“Sorry. Looking for an empty room.” A nurse pulled the door shut again.

Two pink spots appeared on Cath’s cheeks. She glanced at the plastic bag beside him and wrinkled her nose at his bloody clothes. “We need to get out of here if the doctors are finished with you, but tell me, what’s the deal on this wound?”

“I got some stitches.”

“Now you and Hal can compare and see who has the prettiest.” Her mouth lifted.

“How fun.” He held out his hand. “Let me have the clean clothes and the car keys.”

She set his clothes on a chair. “You think you’re driving us home?”

“It’s only a slight wound. Local anesthesia. I’m fine to drive, and this is not the time to be stubborn.” He made a gimme gesture.

She crossed her arms. “I never pegged you as one of those men with a fetish about their cars.”

“I don’t need to drive a truck to be sexy.”

“You think you’re already sexy enough?” She arched her brows.

“Yeah, and you do too.” He wiggled his fingers again, and she handed over the keys.

“Thank you,” he said with exaggerated politeness. “Now the clothes.”

She set the folded T-shirt on the table and opened the waist of the jeans. “I’ll help because you need to be careful of the stitches.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice pulling on my pants while wounded.” He tugged the dungarees from her grasp. “Now go away and let me get dressed. Wait outside in the hall.”

Her sweet mouth turned mutinous.

“I am grateful you brought me here and waited.”

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