Page 28 of The Wrong Husband
I’ve asked her to have dinner with me. Things are beyond complicated.
Not to mention, I got involved in a bar fight—on purpose—so I could walk into the ER and have her tend to me, which took a little bit of arranging on my part but worked out fine.
Except, coming face-to-face with her was a punch to the gut. One which is repeated as our gazes meet.
"Oh, we’re about to close—" Skylar begins, then she realizes it’s me. "Connor?" She smiles. "What are you doing here?" A frown creases her forehead. She nods toward the bandage on my forehead. "What happened to you?"
"Got into a fight." I stop in front of their table, unable to take my gaze off the sultry siren who’s occupied my mind over the past few days. “Dr. Hamilton”—I nod toward her—“stitched me up.”
Skylar turns to me. "I didn’t realize you’d met Phoenix already."
"She saved my life," I say softly, not looking away from Phoenix.
"Anyone in my position would have stitched you up.” Her tone is casual, but her eyes flash little darts of anger at me. “And it’s not like you were bleeding out."
"I might have, if you hadn’t intervened." I take in her flushed cheeks. The way her chest rises and falls. It reassures me that she’s attracted to me. It’s a testament to how taken aback I am by this unexpected pull between us—that I needed to see her again to confirm it’s not one-sided.
"I was merely doing my job." She refuses to look away, and fuck, if her spirit doesn’t turn me on further.
"I believe I have something of yours."
Her eyebrows knit. "You do?"
I pull out the flashlight—the one she used to check my pupils. I hold it out, making it clear it’s hers.
She stiffens, then lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug. “So, that’s where it went.” She takes it from me. “Thanks.” She slips it into her bag, then fixes me with a look.
“You could have turned it at the registration desk, and they would have returned it to me. Come to think of it, how did you find me?”
Her tone is belligerent enough for the others around the table to take notice. Skylar frowns. The others watch us with avid attention.
If I tell her the truth, it’ll only raise more questions about my behavior. But if I want any kind of relationship with her, honesty—or something close to it—is the only way forward.
“I took the flashlight, so I’d have an excuse to see you again.”
I lift a shoulder, offering a crooked, almost sheepish smile, trying to strike a balance between self-deprecating and unapologetic. Hoping I come across as more foolish than threatening.
Her lips press into a firm line.
I let the smile fall, then meet her eyes; this time, with full transparency, voice low but even. “I also waited until you finished your shift… And followed you.”
She stiffens. Coughs. Reaches for a glass of water, buying herself a moment. Surprise flashes in her eyes, quickly overtaken by alarm.
“You’ve got a nerve admitting to that.”
I need to tread carefully. Find a way to stick as close to the truth as possible, but also, not piss her off.
I raise my hands. “I wanted to see you and return your flashlight, is all.”
“In which case, your job here is done," she retorts.
The other women, including Skylar, turn to me, waiting for my rebuttal with avid interest.
"Or just starting." I slide my hand into the pocket of my jeans. I changed out of the blood-splattered T-shirt and jacket in my van. Then waited outside the hospital with patience honed byyears of having to do the same on other assignments, until she left the hospital.
She searches my features. “You’re trying to tell me that’s the only reason you waited outside the hospital, then followed me?” The expression on her face indicates she doesn’t believe me. “What if I was delayed and didn’t come out for another few hours?”
“I’d have waited as long as needed.”
