Page 6 of Crash: Love in Scrubs
He leaned in and flashed a light in my eyes. Rude. But Lord, his eyes. I forgot my name. I was fighting for my composure as his hands grazed mine, helping me take the cup of water.
“Slow sips. Yeah, good,” he coached. I shifted and closed my eyes.
My heart rate picked up. His encouragement, those dark, intelligent eyes beautifully framed by long lashes, had my attention. Everything about him had me shook.
He was watching me check him out and seemed to be enjoying it. He knew the effect he had on women, it was probably why he chose this profession. He had an easy way to flirt and sleep with any woman he wanted to. The jealousy I felt about this stranger caught me off guard. I quickly gathered my thoughts because my mind needed to be on finding out if my son was okay, not on the potential man whore in front of me.
“Where’s Samaj, my son?” I repeated, more urgently this time, trying to get more comfortable.
“Easy,” he said, helping me once again. “Your son is stable. Conscious. Banged up, but he’s a fighter. He’s got a fractured femur and a dislocated shoulder. The surgery went well; Dr. Yerba is one of the best orthopedic surgeons in the country.”
Surgery. My baby had surgery while I was unconscious. The words hit me like aftershocks, and tears rushed to my eyes. I tried to get out of the hospital bed, but the IV line tugged at my arm, and dizziness slammed into me. I groaned.
“I said easy,” he repeated, this time with a gentle arm around my waist to ensure I didn’t fall. “You’ve got a mild concussion and some bruised ribs. Nothing like what your son went through, but enough to keep you down for a while. You gotta chill, or I’ll have to get the nurses to restrain you,” he said, flashing a smile, head motioning towards the watching nurses. Nosey ass heffa’s. My suspicions on him being a hoe were confirmed seeing them watch him like he was their late-night snack.
My mouth went dry, and I couldn’t tell if he was flirting with me or not. It had been that long. I had male friends, booty calls, and men who would cut my grass for a chance, but none had stuck around, and absolutely none had made me forget my name. And none of them smelled like this—whatever cologne he was wearing was working for him and doing things to my already scrambled brain that had nothing to do with the concussion.
“I need to see him.”
“You will. But first, your name and what day is it?”
“Sametra Jonelle Andrews, and it’s February 31st. Now, where is my child, and when can I see him?”
“Funny,” he said, letting out a low chuckle that rumbled through his chest and straight into my stomach. I smiled despite myself. He wasn't paying me any mind, completely unbothered by my deflection, which only made him more attractive.
This time when I looked at him, I forced myself to focus on him fully, beyond the face that belonged in magazines and the voice that soothed me like a glass of warm milk. Beyond the way his shirt fit across his broad shoulders and the careful way his hands moved when he checked my vitals. He was so calm and gentle, it was almost scary. And not scary in a dangerous way, but scary in the way that challenged everything I thought I knew about men.
It was unsettling as hell.
“Let’s try that date again, huh?”
“Who are you? And I’m clearly coherent.”
“Dr. Malik Holloway. Physical rehabilitation and trauma therapy. I’ll be working with Samaj once he’s cleared to start PT.” He paused, studying my face. “And probably with you too, whether you want it or not.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Which part…Sametra or Ms. Andrews? My bad.”
“Sametra or MiMi, is fine.” I rubbed my temple, hiding my eye roll. Why the hell did I give him my nickname? I barely knew this man. “And what do you mean by ‘whether I want it or not’?”
“I figured that was it. It means I’m getting vibes. Strong ‘I’m the boss’ vibes. Even stronger short people syndrome vibes. You ain’t the boss in here,” he said with a wink and smile. Even his mouth was perfect. And those slightly gapped pearly whites, I was doing my best to hide the fact that I was blushing.
“Is that an issue?”
“Absolutely, when it comes to ensuring you heal properly. Those listening ears gotta be turned all the way up.” He was definitely flirting, and that confirmed it. But he didn’t sugarcoat anything either. I understood that my line of work required people to give up control sometimes.
“And trauma doesn’t just happen to the person in the hospital bed. It happens to the whole family.” His tone stayed professional, but there was something warmer underneath. “How long do you think you’ve been out?”
“I don’t know. Hours?”
“Eighteen hours. Your pops has been here the whole time, splitting between you and Samaj. Your son’s been asking for you every time he’s awake.”
Eighteen hours. My baby had been scared and hurting for eighteen hours while I was unconscious, useless.
Guilt hit me like a physical blow. “He was awake before me?”
“On and off. The first thing he said when he came out of surgery was your name.” Malik’s expression softened slightly. “He’s scared, but he’s tough. So don’t do that. This is not a competition, and no one but you is thinking about you waking up first.”
