“The one you need the most,” he says almost to himself. His eyes meet mine as he taps the enameled surface. “Mind if I take a look?”
I shrug. “Knock yourself out.”
He lifts the cooking grate and sets it aside. Then he peels back the little metal cap in the center of the burner, leans over, and inspects the ring. I step closer to try to see what he’s looking at. “The base looks clean…” He squats down so he’s eye-level with the stovetop. Then he turns to burner knob to light it. As usual, the igniter pops, but the burner refuses to light. He kills the switch before the kitchen can fill with natural gas. “You might have a bad igniter.”
“But it’s sparking,” I say, squatting down beside him, eyeing the stubborn burner. “If it’s sparking, it should light, right?”
He inhales to respond... and I see the moment it happens.
He smells me.
Or rather, not me, but the evidence of the anal sacculectomy I’m wearing on my scrubs. But the way his eyes cut to me with sudden horror, it may as well be me, not my clothes. A full-body blush assaults me.
Why did I think this was a good idea?
“That’s not me,” I hear myself say.
Valencia looks away, giving me his profile. He clears his throat and nods. Oh my God. Are his eyes watering?
“Good to know.” He rises and takes a not so discrete step to the right. Presumably out of sniffing range.
My face burns like I’ve moisturized with Tabasco. “I swear, it’s not me,” I say, almost pleading. “It’s… from a patient.”
He raises a fist to his mouth and coughs against it. I’m not sure, but he might be trying not to gag. “O-Okay,” he rasps. When he clenches his jaw, I know he’s trying not to gag.
“Oh, Jesus,” I mutter, roasting with embarrassment. I take three steps backward, guessing that my rising body temperature isn’t going to help matters. “I should go change.”
He clears his throat again with obvious force and shakes his head. “No. I’m good.” His face is red now too, but I know he can’t possibly be embarrassed. Can he? He looks like he’s fighting a smile, but it’s a lost cause. “So… uh… are you a nurse?”
“No.” I frown. “I’m a vet.”
He looks genuinely surprised, and he blinks at me with confusion. And my humiliation gladly steps aside to make room for affront.
“Why would you assume I’m a nurse and not a doctor?” I ask, cocking a hand on my hip.
My question seems to stun him. Yeah, there’s no way he’s looking at me like he did last night. Not now. Never again. And that’s exactly how I want it.
I just wish I didn’t feel this clenching in my stomach. Like I’ve missed winning the lottery by one number.
He stares at me for a second, surprise turning to challenge in the narrowing of his gaze. “You don’t look old enough to be a doctor.”
Damn. That’s a good answer.
My chagrin must show on my face because his expression softens just a little. “Besides, when my dad was in the hospital, it wasn’t the doctors who did the dirty work,” he says, tipping his head in the direction of my fouled top.
Another good answer.
I bite the inside of my lip because he doesn’t need to know I think so. “With animals, a lot of it is dirty work.” But then I have to give credit where it’s due. “I’ll admit that my techs probably have it worse than I do most days.”
“Just not today,” he says under his breath.
Laughter ambushes me.
He smirks. “So if you’re telling me that smell isn’t human, all I can say isThank God.”
I laugh harder. Wait. What am I doing?
Shit! Flirting alert!
