“But—”
“And tell Chloe to wait for me in the lobby.”
“Why?”
I give a little side-eye toward the hub of activity. “Chloe’s got her hot cop. I want my hot doc.”
Laiyla glances toward the nurse’s station, then narrows her eyes on me. “Isn’t he a little too pretty for you?”
“Absolutely. But he’s not bad fantasy material.”
She smirks and lays the forms on the gurney beside me. “Whatever you say. You know how to find me if you need me.”
Laiyla turns and almost runs into Pretty Boy, whose name I upgrade to Doctor Delicious, stopping just short.
“Sorry,” he tells her. “I don’t mean to run you out. You’re welcome to stay.”
“Nope. She says she’s good, so I’m getting out of the way. Thanks.” She’s shaking her head as she walks toward the exit.
I refocus as the doctor enters the room.
“Hi, I’m Doctor Latham.”
“KT.”
“KT,” he says, arms crossed over the tablet pressed to his chest. “Is that an abbreviation of first and middle names, or your given name?”
“Given,” I lie.
“Interesting,” he says. “Different.”
I shrug.
“Can I take a look at your arm?”
I lower my arm and carefully peel back the blood-soaked towel. This time, I avoid looking at it because the adrenaline has burned off, leaving me hurting. It’s far more pleasant to think about Latham. So as he assesses the wound, I assess him.
He’s older than me, but I’m not sure by how much. He’s got laugh lines bracketing his mouth and smile crinkles at the corners of his eyes. There are threads of gray woven into the dark-blond strands at his temples. Damn, but he is so pretty. And he smells incredible—sandalwood, citrus, and man.
“You got yourself good.” His gaze flicks to mine, making me realize how close we are. I meet his gaze openly, almost defiantly. I’m impressed when he doesn’t look away. God, his eyes are the deepest, prettiest shade of blue ever. They remind me of the pool at the base of Rainbow Falls, a little treasure hidden on Laiyla’s property. “What were you doing?”
He has a nice middle-of-the-road presence, confident but not cocky, professional but not cold. I’d bet good money those ocean-blue eyes have melted dozens of hearts, but there’s no risk of that happening with me.
“I had my arm somewhere it didn’t belong without enough light,” I tell him.
“Cryptic.” He straightens, lowers the tablet, and taps the face. One of his wrists is adorned with three friendship bracelets, the kind you weave with embroidery thread, but there’s no wedding ring and no tan line where a ring would lie. “I’m just going to get some basic information, and then I can get to work on that arm.”
While he verifies everything the nurse asked and tosses in a few new questions, the nurse returns with a suture tray. Yes, I know what a suture tray looks like. I’ve seen them far too often. She removes the outer packaging, careful not to contaminate the sterile field, and adds a variety of supplies to the tray, then lays a pair of sterile gloves off to the side. She then uses her own sterile gloves to draw up the lidocaine and leaves the readied syringe on the tray.
By the time the nurse leaves again, Dr. Delicious knows I’m on birth control, that I have no STDs, no mental illness, and I’m not married. All important facts to know for the purpose of safe casual sex. I can assume as much for him, being a doctor and all. Well, aside from the married or not-married part, though I’m betting on the latter, even though it seems inconceivable that he doesn’t have a significant other. Then again, I’ve had men say the same thing about me.
“Great.” He sets the tablet aside, and I catch a glimpse of something purple on his finger. The smudge of leftover polish, I’m pretty sure. But he turns toward the sink to wash his hands before I can do a double take. And, wow, I’m completely distracted by his ass. A really nice, high, muscular ass. An ass that could put a punch behind a thrust and feel incredible in my hands.
That’s a nice visual clip to have available to run in my head while he’s digging into stitches.
He pulls paper towels from the dispenser, and the muscles of his back pull against the cotton scrubs, making me sigh. Actually, audibly sigh. I’m glad there are a dozen different legit reasons to sigh in this situation.
He moves the metal tray closer. “You can rest your arm here.”
When he reaches for the sterile gloves, I hyperfocus on his hands again. Yep, two nails with remnants of polish.
He pulls on the gloves and repositions several items in the tray the same way I arrange parts of an engine. “I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone smile just before I open a suture tray.”
“I’ve done this a few times,” I tell him, “but I was smiling at the nail polish. You must have a daughter.”
He gives me a blank stare before he looks at his hands. Even through the gloves, the polish shows. “Ah, heck.” Then he shrugs and grins. His smile is quick and bright and makes me glad I’m already on my ass. “I do, have a daughter, I mean. Three, actually. I’m always walking around with something pink or sparkly on me.”
“Three? Jeez. You’ve got glitter on your cheek and a spot reserved in heaven.”
He chuckles, pulls out gauze squares, and pours saline on them. Then he uses them to gently wipe the blood from my arm. It stings, and my teeth clench. “I’ll have to do a better job of cleaning up before I come to work.”
“You must be a single dad.”
His gaze flicks to mine, then back to his work. “It’s that obvious?”
“Probably not to others, but I was raised by a single dad. He was a mechanic, but he always had the best manicure in three states. I made sure of it.”
Latham laughs. Man, that sound. There’s just nothing like it. And one of the quickest aphrodisiacs in existence.
“I’m sorry you have to work Christmas Eve,” I say. “I remember it as a magical time. My dad and I used to drive around and look at Christmas lights. We created this whole scoring system with categories like music, light variety, lawn ornamentation, and we’d rate each house from one to ten. It was a production.” I smile at the memory. “Good times.”
“Sounds fun.” He picks up the syringe. “As you know, this is the worst part.”
I nod, acknowledging the next step, then ask, “Will you be off tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I will.” He does what any good doctor would do, continues making small talk while he numbs the wound. But he takes one little extra step that makes all the difference—he lets lidocaine spill from the needle into the wound before sticking me, and that really takes the edge off the pain.
“All parents should have Christmas off,” I say.
“Will you be able to see your dad?” he asks.
“No.” I exhale. The pain is fading, and my muscles loosen from their coiled state. “He passed away ten years ago, now.”
“Oh, heck.” The sympathy in his eyes is real and appreciated. “I’m sorry.”
I shake my head. “Don’t be. We had a lot of good years together, and I cherish those memories. I’m always happy to relive them.” But my heart still feels heavy, so I change the subject. “I’m going to guess nine stitches.” I chance a glance at the wound, now mostly numb. “Make that twelve.”