Page 26 of Already At Risk
“What?”
“The flaws,” he said, and if I wasn’t mistaken, a tiny smirk slid onto his face, all while his heated gaze roamedmyface. It didn’t go any further than that, though. It was like he’d created a barrier; every time his eyes dropped lower, to my mouth or neck, they immediately bounced back up, like an automatic rejection. Probably because the last time he’d stared at my mouth a little too long,I’drejected him.
I could feel myself flushing, hot and aware—oh, so very aware. Of Cameron and of the fact that I was no longer moving. I was stuck in a standstill, some kind of trance until Cameron cleared his throat, and I broke out of it.
“Can I get you anything?” I offered. “Something to drink or eat?”
“Natalie.” Cameron said my name with such clarity—a tone that almost hedged on disappointment. “Please don’t think you have to play hostess for me right now.”
“I just feel bad that you came all the way over here.”
He shook his head. “I actually don’t live that far from you, as it turns out.”
Great, as if we needed more circumstances to pull us closer together.
I lifted a brow. “I’m starting to think it’s surprising that we haven’t run into each other more.”
Cameron didn’t respond for a second, waiting until we were both in the kitchen, on opposite sides of the island counter. “Same,” he said, his voice soft, his eyes wandering over me again. If he could see the exhaustion on my face, he didn’t mention it. Which I appreciated. People always seemed to remind me that Imustbesotired, even on days when I felt pretty good. And then I’d start to feel…not so good. “Do you have a pen?”
“Right.” I shuffled to find something to write with. “Yeah, of course.”
We weren’t, I reminded myself, here to just ogle each other.
I found a pen in our junk drawer and returned to the kitchen island just as Cameron was placing a stack of papers on the counter. He separated the ones I needed to sign, which were already marked by a little sticky next to each line that required my signature. I focused this time, making sure I wrote the right name.
Myname.
Cameron cleared his throat after the last signature, and I looked up to see him shifting on his feet.
“Can I ask you—” He cut short as he watched me launch into the biggest yawn I’d ever yawned.
I covered my mouth and flashed him a sheepish look. “Sorry.”
“No.” He shook his head, running a hand over his short, black hair absently. “I’m sorry. I’ve got what I need. I’ll head out.”
I walked around the island, grabbing a mug from the cabinets next to the refrigerator. “It’s okay. I like to take a little bit of time to wind down after a shift.” I filled my electric kettle and then started it. A whirring sound filled the air. “Tea?” I offered.
He’d told me not to play hostess, but I couldn’t make some for myself andnotoffer him any.
“I’m okay, thank you,” Cameron said politely. He looked toobig, standing in my small kitchen. His shoulders were too broad, his hands too all-encompassing as they splayed across the granite counters. “Why don’t you sit, though. I’ll make it for you.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“Sit, Natalie.”
I sat.
Something about his voice forced it into existence. I didn’t know how tonotsit when he spoke like that, but I also didn’t really mind. In fact, I was entirely too tired to care, sliding onto the barstool across from him. Heaving a sigh, I dropped my head, rubbing my temples, trying not to think about the chemical burn patient whom I’d been treating right before I’d left for the night.
“Want to talk about it?”
I shook my head.
No, I didn’t want to talk about work. I didn’t want to think about it. The only way I survived in my line of work was to compartmentalize and switch my brain into different modes. Which was why Ineededthis time before bed, to make sure my mind had fully shut out the things I’d seen at work today before closing my eyes. I didn’t need any visitors in my dreams.
It wasn’t necessarily a bad shift, not today. The surgery had gone well, and there was nothing that should haunt me. But therewere always things that snuck into my synapses that I didn’t want to be there.
“Can I ask why you decided to become a trauma surgeon?” he asked, and suddenly, a mug of tea appeared in my line of vision, steam rising into my face. I breathed it in, the scent of chamomile calming my senses. I hadn’t even told him where to find the tea packets.
