Page 32 of The Focal Point

“William Bradford,” the nurse repeated, her tone flat with annoyance as she watched us pointedly, a silent request for my support.

Despite the fact that I could see sweat beading at Liam’s hairline and his jaw was clenched so tightly I could see veins in his neck, I couldn’t ignore the way his hand felt around mine. His long, graceful fingers enveloped my much smaller ones, the feel warm and firm against my skin. The sensation sent a spray of butterflies dancing in my stomach.

Liam didn’t let go of my hand the entire time we were waiting for the numbing agent to kick in, growing increasingly restless the longer we waited. And it only got worse when the doctor came in and got to work. I was almost afraid he would bolt with the needle and silk still hanging from his head.

“When I first got out of school, I was working for a big design firm here. My ex-fiancé and I were assigned the pickiest person I’ve ever met. She was looking for a specific piece of art but wouldn’t tell me exactly what she wanted. I scoured the art galleries she loved and even went so far as to go to several artist studios with her, but she refused it all.”

“Did you find anything?” Liam’s eyes had cleared slightly, and he was watching me instead of the needle.

“Well, kind of.” My cheeks heated, my gaze flicking to the floor before returning to Liam’s face. “I was desperate because my boss was on my case, and the client was threatening to fire us. So I bought a canvas and paint myself to try to create something, and I only had that morning before my client meeting. I had everything ready—the brushes, paint, and canvas. But I got a call from another client and had to rush out before I got started.”

“Did you get to finish it?” It wasn’t Liam who asked, but the doctor.

I laughed. “Someone finished it for me, actually. My roommate at the time had a dog, who managed to get on the table where I had the supplies and made a huge mess. He chewed on all the paint tubes and brushes and dragged them all over the canvas doing it.”

“Seriously?” I was happy to see a genuine smile at one corner of Liam’s mouth.

“Yes, seriously. My roommate took him to the vet while I rushed to my meeting with the painting—”

“With the painting?” Liam’s smile grew with incredulity.

I shrugged. “I had nothing else to give her—it was my last shot. So I got there with a barely-dry painting and presented the canvas to the client and my boss.”

“And?” Liam was leaning forward, and the doctor had paused with the silk pulled halfway out of Liam’s forehead.

“She loved it.”

“No way,” Liam laughed, and the doctor shook his head as he returned to stitching.

“I told her it was from an up-and-coming artist who had decided this life wasn’t for him, so this was his last work. She bought the entire story, and my boss was so happy he took me out to dinner.”

I was grinning, too, and shaking my head at the memory.

“Was the dog okay?” was Liam’s next question.

“He was fine. They cleaned him up and flushed him out, but I guess he didn’t end up ingesting much of the paint. And the client paid for his vet bills when she bought the painting,” I giggled. “I know it wasn’t the most honorable thing, but she ended up happy, I didn’t lose my job, and, honestly, she was just the worst. So rude and so demanding.”

It wasn’t my finest hour, but when Liam laughed, I knew it was worth sharing.

I told a few more funny stories about my time with the design firm while the doctor finished up. Liam had brightened considerably by that time, the color returning to his face and his shoulders coming down from his ears. And when the doctor gave Liam care instructions and told him the nurse would be up with his discharge papers and some medication to help with the pain, all we had to do was wait.

Silence fell between us, filled with the sounds of the ER and the other patients beyond the curtain.

“Thanks for that.”

I had been checking my emails on my phone, but Liam’s soft words drew my attention back to him. He offered a small smile as he rubbed the back of his neck with the hand wasn’t still covered with dried blood.

Slipping my phone back into my purse, I cocked my head. “For what?”

“For telling those stories. For distracting me.”

“Oh.” Shrugging, I returned the expression. “It’s not a big deal. I could tell you were having a hard time.”

Liam’s shoulders deflated, and he shook his head. “I must look like the biggest moron to you.”

“Why?” I asked, genuinely confused.

“It’s not exactly the manliest thing to be afraid of hospitals and needles,” he answered, his face screwing up into a cringe.