CHAPTER 12
JASMINE
I wasn't sure whether Cam would text me again after the last night I was there. The thought of him maybe feeling embarrassed had crossed my mind a time or two. Not that he particularly seemed like he was the type to get embarrassed over something like that.
But then, later the next day, hedidtext me. Itliterally just said, “I'm still alive.” It brought a silly grin to my face, and I replied immediately. Another text he sent included a picture, asking what I thought of his wrap job. Another one before bed asked if his wound was looking okay – it was.
Since then, we've been exchanging a couple of texts daily, mostly about his recovery and how he's doing. I wanted to make sure he was okay after that dizzy episode.
His text earlier today was simply to double-check whether I was still coming over tonight.
My steps echo in the stairwell as I make my way up to his apartment once again. This time, to take the stitches out. My stomach flutters with anticipation. Each step I take has my heart beating faster and faster, and it has nothing to do with the exertion of climbing the stairs.
When I had brought him home that first night and then returned the night he texted me, I was too focused on his well-being to think about how weird the situation was. But now, I've had all week to think about it.
I've had all week to think about the fact that I brought an attractive stranger back to his home after him being my patient. How I slept on a pile of his clothes and how unprofessional it all was. Then, returned a few days later at some early hour of the morning.
I've thought about my brother's words about how I should be out dating. And I've been thinking about how I don't exactly have time to go out and find someone, but if Cam asked me, I probably wouldn't say no to going on a date with him.
I wrestled with the ethical, moral, and legal dilemmas of the situation, concluding that he was only my patient for about seven hours before he left. There is no abuse of power. There was no special attention given or neglect to others. There is no reason that I can think of as to why we . . . I pause on the steps. God, what am I even thinking?I'm literally going there to remove his stitches. He probably sees me as nothing more than his nurse.
Which is whatI was.
A few meetings, some texts, and a daydream, and I'm talking about dating him?
I shake my head at myself and walk up the last flight of stairs. By the time I reach his door, I've convinced myself that all of my thoughts are ridiculous, and it's only been spurred on by my brother's words and my original thoughts about our first meeting. I don'tactuallylike him, and I'mnotattracted to him.
But when he opens the door a moment later, looking a whole lot better than he did the last time I saw him, all of my resolute thoughts go out the window, and it takes a few extra seconds for my mouth to move. Black sweatpants hang low on his hips, and an old faded baseball t-shirt stretches across his chest. It's nothing particularly special, but he wears it damn well.
“Hey,” I finally greet him, meeting his gaze and then accidentally dropping my eyes to his pillowy lips and then to his forearms for the briefest second, noting that they're less bruised now.
“Hey,” he echoes back, stepping aside to let me in.
I walk past him into his apartment and then take off my shoes as he closes the door behind me. My gaze swings around the room, and I immediately notice that his place is looking much more neat and tidy than it did the first time I was here. I hadn't paid attention to it the second time since it was pretty dark.
If it weren't for the hint of lemon-scented cleaner that I can smell and his dishwasher that I hear running in the background, I'd assume that he always keeps it this way and that the messiness was an anomaly. But something tells me that he cleaned specifically for my visit.
I'd probably ponder over that some more if I wasn't reminded that I have a job to do by Cam walking over to the couch and gesturing to it. “We can do it here,” he suggests. “If that works for you?”
“Sure.” My nurse mode activates, and I walk over, placing what I'll need to use onto the coffee table, and then drop my bag to the ground.
At first, I sit down on the couch, and Cam sits beside me. But I realize quickly that it won't work like that and that I need to be up higher, so I stand again.
“Why don't you sit on the armrest, and I'll move across,” Cam offers.
“It's alright. I'll just stand.”
His forehead creases in what appears to be concern. “Haven't you been standing all day?” He's right. I have. And as if to remind me of that fact, the dull ache in my legs suddenly becomes more apparent. “You need to relax a little. Sit down,” he orders.
“Okay,” I concede, with a slight smile tugging at my lips.
I pull the coffee table closer so I can reach what I need, then put some gloves on and take a seat on the armrest. Once I'm ready, Cam slides across, positioning one of my legs behind his back and the other one on his lap. My eyes widen slightly at the placement he's put me in, but he just settles back, not looking like he particularly notices or cares.
“This okay?” he asks, facing forward.
“Uh, yeah, sure.”
For someone who loves touch and hasn't gotten a whole lot of it lately, this seems perfect, and I'm reveling in the closeness. But I probably shouldn't be feeling this good when I'm here to do a job.
