Page 1 of Chaining Daisy
GUNNAR
The hospital hallway is too bright for my mood. Surgery just went wrong for a patient and my gut twists sourly over it. I fucking hate when I lose someone. My fingers clench.
I sigh, recalling the wife’s face when I told her that her husband didn’t make it.Fuck. The guy couldn’t have been over fifty.I spent more time studying the location of his tumor and surrounding blood vessels than his age, but it still bugs me that I can’t recall it. I’m certain they had kids, but she hadn’t brought them in with them … of course, it was an emergency surgery. Now, the kids won’t get to say goodbye.
Goddammit. They trusted me to be the best. I was supposed to be the best.
It doesn’t help my mood that I was called out of bed at three in the morning and was in the O.R. until seven. My stomach is now demanding food, even if that means vending machine fare because the hospital cafeteria doesn’t open for another hour.
At least the floor is mostly quiet right now. Visitors usually come after work, not early in the morning. Patients are grabbing what little sleep they can between pokings and proddings. I’m probably headed back to bed for a bit after I dictate my notes and relive my failure—trying to suss out what went wrong.
My body itches to get to the gym, to lift weights, to expel this negative energy darting around inside my chest and regain some control. Yes, a good gym session first, and then I’ll obsessively dive into articles on the tumor I just attempted to extract—like a quarterback trying to determine their opponent’s weaknesses, only with much higher stakes.
I reach the alcove with the vending machines only to find someone already there. Someone in fuzzy pink socks that hug her shapely calves, striped pink sleep shorts, and a soft gray t-shirt. Brunette hair is gathered into a messy bun on top of her head that has flyaways escaping every which way.
My throat dries out at the soft expanse of exposed skin from the woman’s legs, which are pale and creamy, as if they’ve hardly seen the sun. The shorts cling to the curve of her ass and I think about the term my surgical assistant used the other day when the young idiot talked about his latest conquest. Cake. That ass is pure cake.
I stand behind the woman, who’s clearly an overnight visitor in the ward, gawking like a pervert and inhaling the scent of her citrusy shampoo.
I’m struck dumb just by the shape of her, which is odd. No, not just odd. Stupid. At forty, I’ve had more women than I can count. I haven’t even seen this woman’s face yet.What’s wrong with me?
Sleep deprivation. That must be it.
Or maybe it’s the fact that my recertification boards are coming up and I’ve been studying instead of getting laid. I need to go home and jerk off before I go to sleep.
I scrub a hand down my face, telling myself to snap out of it. But that lush ass atop those perfect thighs keeps drawing my eyes like a magnet.
She must sense me, because the woman turns around.
And if I thought her ass took me out, her face destroys me. A couple of freckles dotted over a pert little nose, thick lips, soft thin brows, and big blue eyes lined with dark lashes—and young. The woman is young. Twenties maybe.
Utterly gorgeous.
She smiles up at me without any guile, not flirty or seductive, just genuine and shiny as a penny. And nowadays, since no one uses pennies anymore and everyone’s nose is always in their phones instead of giving out friendly greetings, that sort of glinting smile is utterly rare. Seeing it makes me feel like I just found a lucky coin.
“You can go first if you want. I haven’t decided.” Her voice is soft and quiet, like she’s shy.
My body and mind instantly react to her speaking by bombarding me with a million reactions at once.I love the cadence of her voice. The breathy quality. I wonder if she’s breathy in bed. Is she even legal? Do I care? Of course I care. Because I have to. God, she’d better be legal.
What she’s wearing should be illegal.
My eyes travel down over the thin, worn gray t-shirt she’s wearing, which has two little cartoon eyelids with eyelashes closed and the word “Goodnight” written under them in script. It’s so innocent that I don’t even know why it turns me on so much but it does. I can’t tell if she’s wearing a bra or not and wondering instantly sets me off.
But then I realize I’m probably coming across as a creep. A total perv.Fuck, I need to get some sleep and I sure as shit need to stop staring at her.
I tear my eyes away from her chest and look over at the vending machine. “What are you thinking about getting, so I don’t grab the last one?” I go for gentlemanly, my words contrasting the filthy images running through my head.
This alcove is out of sight of other people. If I knew her—if we were together—I could shove her up against one of the vending machines and have my hand down those silky shorts in under a minute. I wish I fucking knew her.
“I’m trying to decide if I want a candy bar or something like Skittles.” She tosses a single-shoulder shrug my way.
I shake my head, words pouring out of my mouth before I can stop them and decide if they’re a good idea or not. “So, sugar or sugar? No trail mix? No energy bar? Nothing healthy at all?”
She rolls those gorgeous blue eyes of hers. “Ok, Daddy.”
The retort is supposed to be sarcastic but it makes my cock thicken. Fuck.
What is happening right now?
