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He smiles but sticks to business, watching my eyes as he holds up his pointer finger in the center of my line of sight.
“Follow my finger.”
He moves his hand left, then right, checking for signs of a concussion as my eyes track the movements.
“Good. Are you seeing two of me?” he asks. “’Cause that would be pretty awesome.”
“Har-har. You’re funny today.”
He lifts one broad shoulder. “I try.”
Connor snaps his gloves off, tosses them in the waste bucket, and moves to the sink to wash his hands.
“Listen, Vi—about what Garrett said in the cafeteria . . . it’s okay if you want to back out on the wedding. It’s not a big deal.”
It feels like I walked into the wall again. But harder this time.
Worse.
I’m glad his back is to me. Glad he can’t see me. I don’t think I’d be able to hide the crush of disappointment that’s on my face right now.
By the time he does turn around, drying his hands with a paper towel, my expression is blank and emotionless. It’s a countenance I’ve perfected when speaking to the family of patients who we know aren’t going to make it.
“Don’t feel like you have to go with me just because we told them we would.”
He’s smiling at me as he says it. Like I should be pleased. Like he’s doing me a favor.
And it pisses me off.
“Right.” I nod sharply. “I see how it is.”
He’s confused by my response. Or bothered—or both.
“Wait a second. What do you see?”
“You were just being polite—of course you were.”
Stupid hopes, stupid dreams. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m saying I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. Or feel . . . pressured to go to the wedding with me because of my brother and Dean.”
I uncross the arms I hadn’t even realized I’d crossed—lifting them out on my sides.
“Jesus, Connor, I’m not some wilting flower.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?” I snap. “I have a mouth, you know.”
“Trust me,” now he’s snapping too. “I’m keenly aware.”
“I can speak my mind if something is bothering me.”
“I know you can, Violet. I . . . I like that about you.”
“And it’s just a wedding. We might actually have fun together, did you ever think of that? And . . . and I happen to be a fantastic dancer.”
Connor watches me for a moment, not saying anything. And then he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck—that gentle, teasing tone slipping back into his words.
“I’ll believe that when I see it.”
“Just keep any sharp objects or scalding liquid ten feet away from me at all times and we should be fine.”
The left corner of his mouth lifts. And somehow it’s beautiful. He’s so beautiful.
“Was already planning on it.”
“Okay, then.”
“Good.”
“Great.”
His voice goes fainter—a feather-brush whisper I’ll hear in my dreams tonight.
“Good.”
Then he gives me his hand and helps me down from the gurney.
“I want you to head home now. Take the rest of the day off.”
My face is too sore to roll my eyes, so I infuse my voice with gooey eye-rolling goodness.
“Connor, I’m fine.”
“It wasn’t a suggestion, Violet. You’ve got four stitches in your head.”
“And no concussion,” I counter.
“But I bet it hurts like a bitch.”
I open my mouth to argue—and then close it. Because it does hurt like a bitch. And because it feels good . . . to have someone looking out for me. Concerned about me.
To have him concerned about me.
I’ve never had that before.
“Don’t make me bring Stella into this,” Connor warns lightly. “She scares me.”
Stella Brine is the head nurse of the Emergency Department. She’s a no-bullshit, effective, steel spine of a woman—like a nonpsychotic, less brutal version of Aunt Lydia from The Handmaid’s Tale. Navy SEAL drill instructors would acquiesce to her.
“Stella scares all of us. I think it’s in her job description.”
“Right.” He grins. “And you know the drill with the stitches—the wound will heal fully in seven to ten days, the stiches will fall out on their own. Until then . . . it’s too bad it’s not closer to Halloween—you’d make an awesome Frankenstein.”
“Well, it’s only May—there’s plenty of time. God only knows what the fall will bring.”
He laughs again—a deep, lovely rumble from his chest. A chest I might feel under my cheek next weekend if we dance.
On. Our. DATE.
“Take it easy today, okay?”
“Yeah, I will. I’ll probably just take a nap. Or maybe a bath.”
He glances toward the wall, his eyes sort of glazing over a little.
“Connor?”
He lifts his head, shaking it. “Sorry. I got distracted thinking about . . . something.” He clears his throat. “Make sure to keep those stitches dry when you’re in your . . . bubble bath.”
I never mentioned bubbles—but now that he’s mentioned it, the thought is enticing. A long, warm, luxurious soak in some creamy suds with my favorite pear-scented candles lit all around me and Dionne Warwick singing on my record player is exactly what the doctor ordered.
