I slide the stool back and stand. “Stay here.”
“You got it, Doc.”
A few minutes later, I’m wheeling the portable X-ray machine behind the wall.
He groans. “It’s a bruised rib, Jovie.”
“We don’t know that.”
“I know that.”
I position the machine. “You aren’t diagnosing yourself.”
“I’ve had enough broken ribs to know when I have a broken rib.”
I stop and stare at him. “That isn’t reassuring.”
“It should be.”
Ten minutes later, the images confirm exactly what I suspected. A fracture.
Not a clean break, but still serious. And one very angry contusion.
I wheel the machine away and return with an ice pack and wrap.
“Good news.”
“Told you.”
“It’s only a hairline fracture.”
The smug smile dies on his lips.
I place the ice pack against his side, and he sucks in a breath.
“Fuck, that’s cold.”
“Funnily enough, that’s how ice works.” I move behind him with the wrap. “Hold this.”
He obeys, and I begin wrapping the compression band around his back.
And suddenly, I realize just how close we are.
Chest to chest.
The smell of sweat and soap fills my nostrils. Beneath it, I notice the familiar cologne I caught on cool evenings when we sat on one of our decks, talking beneath the stars.
My pulse stutters.
I reach around him again. The wrap slides through my fingers as I repeat the motion. He’s so … big.
His arm comes up, and his hand settles on my waist.
My breath catches as I glance up.
Big mistake.
His eyes are on me, watching intensely, and my heart starts racing.
