Closing out of the message thread, I stare at the door in front of me.
The distraction helped.
But not enough to make me walk away.
I’m still here, lurking. And if I stand here any longer, it’s going to get weird.
With my shoulders pulled back, I push through the door to Emmett’s room.
His eyes find mine the second I step over the threshold.
Blue-and-white-striped pillows prop his thick frame up against the bed’s angled back. Dark circles hollow his rugged features. Without the adrenaline of a life-or-death emergency I take a moment to really look at him. The stubble on his square jaw is thicker now, and dark lashes frame blue eyes that are hard to look away from and sharp enough to cut steel.
He looks haunted.
And ruggedly handsome in a way that clashes with the gown, the wires, and the bed.
Setting that thought aside, the nurse in me goes straight into assessment mode, looking beyond the obvious. His tanned skin is washed out and he doesn’t look like he’s slept at all since the flight. Despite that, he’s alert and tracking me approaching his bed.
Becky might have mentioned that the longer he’s here, the grumpier he gets. A feat considering it’s only been two days. But the charge nurse takes no crap. Anything less than total cooperation puts you on the top of her shit list. Just one reason why she’s my favorite.
His attention shifts back to the TV.
I guess I’m not of interest to him.
He leans forward with effort when a grizzled hotshot steps into the camera’s frame for an interview.
Carl Calloway—not a name I recognize from our local emergency response team. And I know most of them.
As good of a reason as any to break the silence.
“A friend of yours?” I ask.
“Not exactly.” He doesn’t bother looking at me. “He’s my boss.”
Emmett doesn’t elaborate, and I can tell he won’t even if I ask.
So much for breaking the ice.
I check his IV just for something to do. His attention might be elsewhere, but the way his hand is wrapped tightly around the bed rail tells me he’s aware of my every move.
I glance at his vitals and then back at him, taking inventory of his visible injuries. The stitches above his eye look good. He’ll have a scar, but I doubt he minds. It’s his shoulder that concerns me the most. At the moment, it’s dressed, but I saw it firsthand in the helicopter. It was full thickness and covered a good portion of the joint. Hopefully he can avoid a skin graft and preserve his mobility.
The silence between us grows until it’s taken on a personality all of its own—looming and clunky.
He moves around it first, clearing his throat.
“Are you going to say it?” His gaze is still glued to the screen as updates on the status of the Stillwater fire roll steadily across the bottom of the screen.
I tuck my hair behind my ear, ducking my head as I do to hide my shock. After what Becky told me, I wasn’t sure he’d allow me in his room let alone speak to me.
“Say what?”
“That I look like hell and should be resting,” he croaks out. “The other nurse already read me the riot act so you’re off the hook.”
Shrugging, I suppress my smile at his blunt appraisal. He doesn’t look well, and heshouldbe resting, but he’s certainly not hard to look at.
“Well if she’s already told you it hardly seems like I should waste my breath.”
