Page 2 of My Protective Biker

"You did the right thing."

I finish counting respirations and straighten, and that's when I actually look at him.

He fills the doorway.

That's the first thing that registers, not his height though he has to be over six feet, not his build though his shoulders are broad enough to nearly brush both sides of the frame, but the way he occupies the space itself.

Dark hair going gray at the temples. A strong jaw that's just starting to show the years. Gray-green eyes that scan the clinic with focused attention, assessing everything before deciding what it requires from him.

He's wearing a black leather vest over a plain t-shirt, patches visible even from across the room.

Those pale eyes land on Zoe first, quick and thorough. Then on the cat. Then on me.

The impact is immediate and visceral.

My pulse kicks up hard enough that I feel it in my throat.

Heat crawls up my neck and spreads across my chest, and I'm suddenly aware of how I must look right now, hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, wearing scrubs that do nothing for my figure, no makeup because I stopped bothering with that when I moved to Bloomfield.

Not that it matters. Not that I want him to notice.

"What are we looking at?" he asks, and his attention settles on me with the same thorough focus he gave everything else.

I have to clear my throat before I can answer. "Broken leg. Probable bruising along the left side but no signs of internal bleeding that I can find. He's young and healthy under the road damage, so the prognosis is good. I'll splint the leg, keep him overnight for observation, and if he's stable in the morning, Zoe can take him home."

He's assessing me the same way he assessed the room when he walked in, and I understand with a small shock that he's deciding whether I'm competent. Whether Zoe is safe here. Whether he can trust me with something that matters to his daughter.

"You do this often?" he asks. "Strays?"

"Often enough." I turn back to the cat, needing to do something with my hands. "Bloomfield doesn't have animal control. People bring me what they find."

He nods once, economical. Then his attention shifts back to Zoe. "You want to keep him?"

The hope that floods her face makes my chest ache. "Can I?"

"If Carina says he's good to go home, yeah." He looks at me again, and this time I catch it, the way his gaze drops for just a fraction of a second before coming back to my face.

It's fast. Quick enough that I could almost convince myself I imagined it. But I feel it like a physical touch, that brief assessment of my body, and the warmth in my skin intensifies.

"What do we owe you?" he asks.

I quote him the exam fee plus overnight observation. It's fair, maybe slightly under what the county clinic would charge.

He doesn't argue. Just pulls a worn leather wallet from his back pocket, counts out bills with hands that are scarred and callused across the knuckles.

He hands the money across the exam table.

Our fingers brush during the exchange.

It's nothing. The kind of accidental contact that happens a dozen times a day, meaningless and forgettable.

Except I feel it all the way down my spine.

His hand is warm, the calluses rough against my skin, and that brief press of his fingers against mine sends a jolt of awareness through my body that makes my breath catch.

I pull my hand back too fast, fumble the bills, have to focus on smoothing them out so I don't have to meet his eyes.

When I finally look up, he's watching me.