Page 7 of Accidentally Fudging the Beast
"Thinking about running again, Sunshine?" he croaks.
"Only like ten times in the last two seconds."
He chuckles, and even with the swollen lips and the lingering splotches, he looks happier than I've ever seen him.
The nurse shakes her head, taping up his IV. "You two make a cute couple."
I'm pretty sure my face goes the same shade as Trent's hives, but at this point, who am I kidding? I would kill to be coupled up with this man. Evidently, I might also accidentally kill this man.
My name is Dani Frost, and my love language is accidental manslaughter.
Merry Christmas to me.
Chapter Two
Trent
The worst part ofanaphylaxis isn't the lack of oxygen, the itching, or the hives turning your skin into a topographical map. That shit is small fries compared to lying helpless in an assless hospital gown while the woman of your dreams paces a goddamn rut in the linoleum, looking like she's about to throw up or start sobbing. Or both.
I itch so bad I want to peel off my own damn skin. But I'll die before I let Dani Frost see me scratch my own ass.
She's doing her own impression of a caged animal as she paces, hands clasped so tight her knuckles are white. Her full lips move like she's reciting the ingredients list of every food in her fridge. Every so often, she muttershoney, and then makes this sound that's half demented bird, half abject misery.
There's a plastic Christmas tree blinking in the hallway, reflecting off the glass panel above the exam room door. Its rainbow LEDs have a disco ball effect across her blue eyes, which are fixed on my face with desperate, guilty intensity.
I smirk at her, which is tough when my upper lip feels like it's the size of a bratwurst. "You gonna keep pacing, or are you planning to faint dramatically into my arms?"
If the latter is an option, I'd absolutely prefer to go with it. Anything to get her into my arms at this point. I'm a desperate motherfucker.
She flinches, her cheeks blazing red. "You almost died, Kirk."
Ouch. The use of my last name means she's serious. I fucking live for the sound of my first rolling from her lips when she gives it to me, but I guess I'm not getting it today.
She's currently scanning my hives like she's about to start cataloguing them for a research paper…which I'm guessing isn't a good thing.
Fuck. This is not how the morning was supposed to go. I had a plan to execute before her delicious fucking fudge tried to kill me. I was going to get her hands on my body, and then, when she was nice and complacent, casually suggest she accompany me to Colt's Christmas party tomorrow night. She was supposed to say yes, and I was supposed to spend Christmas with her in my bed.
Best. Christmas. Ever.
"You'll have to try way harder than that to kill me, Dani," I say, trying to sound casual. It comes out kind of nasally and extra deep, like I'm auditioning to be Darth Vader's replacement.
She wrings her hands together, strands of blonde hair curling around her face in a way that makes her look beautifully wild. "Stop making jokes! I had to stab you in the leg with an EpiPen." She hits me with those wide eyes I can't resist. "I've never even used an EpiPen on a person before!"
I wiggle my toes under the sheet, mostly to prove I'm not dead. But also because most of the blood in my body is currently in my cock, so I should probably try to work it into other areas at some point, right? "You did great. Ten out of ten, would get stabbed again."
Her mouth works silently, like she wants to argue, but the words won't form. I've seen her like this before, usually with Ryan, or when Sandra tries to tell her a banana counts as junk food. Usually, she'll snort, roll her eyes, and then steamroll right through the conversation instead of losing her mind. My girl has the patience of a saint.
Today, she just keeps staring, shoulders hunched, looking about as dangerous as a kitten. And about as guilty as a puppy who just shit in a shoe.
There's a machine by my head, beeping like a Morse code distress signal, and every time it chirps, she jumps a little. She keeps looking at it, then at me, like the number might count down tomy last breath.
"How bad does it hurt?" she asks, her voice soft.
"Honestly? I'm fine," I lie with the confidence of a man who has told every team doc he'sgood to gowhile actively bleeding from somewhere important. "It's just a little itchy."
She eyes me, not buying my bullshit for a second. "You scratched yourself so hard you drew blood."
Shit. Did I? I sneak a peek at my left forearm. There are three bright red welts with a faint trickle of dried blood. Dammit.
