Page 18 of The Wrong Husband
I must tighten my hold on her, because she winces. “Hey—let go of me.”
Her voice brings me back to myself. Reminds me I’m holding her close, sniffing her hair like a…creep.
Why not? She already turned me into a stalker.
To disguise the intensity of feelings she evokes in me, I set her aside. "You could have hurt yourself,” I bite out through gritted teeth.
My blood pressure is still not normal from having seen her trip and almost face-plant.
“You could have knocked out a tooth, or broken your nose, or scarred your face.” The thought sends another pulse of anger through my veins. My pulse detonates in my chest.
I cannot bear to think of how she almost left a permanent mark on her beautiful face. I can’t. I lower my chin.
“Your clogs; get rid of them.”
“Excuse me?” She gapes.
Goddamn, that came out too abruptly. I fight for composure and manage to calm my blood pressure somewhat.
“Your clogs are too big for you. Your gait changed right as your heel lifted. That only happens when the shoe’s too loose—which means, they’re new or borrowed—and your foot’s trying to grip.”
I glower at the offending yellow contraptions.
“And judging by the slight swelling at your ankle? You’ve been on your feet for hours.”
I swivel my gaze up to her face.
“Did you skip your last break? You’re a doctor; you should know better than that.”
“I… You…” She seems to be at a loss for words.
“It’s not a criticism. Just an observation.” I try to soften my words.
“My clogsareborrowed,” she says slowly. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“You’re my doctor. You’re here to treat me. That makes it my business. If you hurt yourself, it’ll have to bemetaking care ofyou, not the other way around. And why not wear a pair of shoes that fit—preferably ones that don’t look this hideous?”
I glower at the yellow, closed-toe sandals with the thick, rigid soles. What I don’t tell her is that they emphasize the delicateness of her ankles, even swollen.
“What are you, the Sherlock-of-shoes?” She scoffs.
I nod at her feet. “Am I, or am I not, right about those?”
“I haven’t had a chance to buy new sneakers, so you’re right about that.” She waves a hand in the air and takes another step back as if to put distance between us. “And you’re very observant.”
I see patterns. Connect dots most people don’t even notice. Though, in this case, it was simple deduction. “It was nothing.” I shrug.
“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic, or modest.” She’s talking a little too fast. Clearly, she’s nervous. That only adds to her appeal.
Toe-to-toe, she barely comes up to my chest. I'm, at least, a foot taller than her. I’ve always been a big guy. I’ve learned, over the years, how to relax my body so I appear non-threatening on my undercover missions. But next to her curvy, petite form, I feel like a giant. I sink back onto the examination table.
She takes that as an invitation to get on with her examination. "You’re going to need stitches.” She peers at my forehead and begins gathering the items she'll need.
I slide my thighs apart in invitation. She hesitates. Then, because that’s the best way to examine the wound I sport, she steps between them.
Her cheeks flush, but her fingers are confident when she pulls out a pencil-shaped flashlight and shines it in my eyes.
Blinded, I blink, then manage to keep my eyes open. She makes a humming sound which could mean anything, in the way that doctors often do.
