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“What do you mean, there’s no wine here?”
Miss Louella was fifty-three-years-old and had the unfortunate assignment as my nurse. “It’s midday, Reagan. Even if I could, I wouldn’t serve you it.”
I blew out a long breath and dropped my head back as she secured the blood pressure cuff around my upper arm. “I’m fine. It was shock. I didn’t inhale enough smoke for it to be damaging. The doctor said so. Why won’t they let me go home?”
“Sugar, I’ve told you three times this mornin’. Smoke inhalation symptoms don’t show up immediately.” She checked the machine next to me. “Dr. Wilson wants to make sure you’re really all right before he sends you on home.”
“I’m asking for wine, aren’t I? If I was sick, I wouldn’t ask for wine.”
“Reagan.” She removed the cuff and sat on the edge of my bed, looking at me with her kindly blue eyes. “You’ve had a traumatic experience. You’ve lost everything you own except the clothes you were wearing and your cell phone that you somehow managed to drag to the ambulance. I’d say it’s the optimum time for wine.”
She had me there.
“So why won’t you bring me any?”
“It’s not on the menu for patients. And before you ask—no, your friends cannot bring you some with the Subway sandwich you insisted on having.”
“Miss Louella, I’ve had a traumatizing time. Can’t I have the sandwich my heart desires?”
She pursed her pale pink lips together. “You’re trouble, you know that?”
“Yes.”
I said it so flatly that she just laughed. “All right, that’s you done for now. Your obs are all good,” she said, picking up the chart. “You’re not showing signs of shock, so if you really want to leave, I’ll call Dr. Wilson and see what I do for you.”
“Pleeeeease, Miss Louella. I’m totally fine. If you have a phone charger, I’ll be even better.”
She fought a smile. “Let me check the staff room.”
“I love you.”
“You’ve said three times this morning.” She grinned and with a click of her pen, put it back in her chest pocket. “All right. You rest up. Your friends shouldn’t be much longer.”
I sighed. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
She winked. “I know you do, honey.” She left my room, the door clicking as she opened it. “Oh, sir, she’s not taking visitors right now.”
I frowned.
“Sorry, ma’am—uh, her doctor said I could see her.”
That voice was familiar. Why did I recognize it?
“I took the call to the fire last night.”
Oh, shit!
It was the voice of the guy who had literally carried me out of a burning building.
“I’m not sure she’s up to unfamiliar visitors right now,” Miss Louella replied.
“It’s okay.” My voice was smaller than I wanted it to be. “Miss Louella, it’s okay. He can come in.”
She looked over her shoulder. “Are you sure?”
I nodded, pushing my hair behind my ear. “I’d like to thank him.”
With a jerk of her head, she stepped aside and said, “Be gentle. She’s had a rough night.”
“Of course,” rumbled the deep voice.
I looked down as the door clicked shut. What did you really say to the person who’d saved your life? I hadn’t expected to ever see him again, but here he was, in front of me.
Well, I assumed he was.
I wasn’t looking at him.
With a swallow, I looked up.
My breath caught in my throat. Clad in black sweat shorts and a white polo shirt with the Creek Falls fire department logo on it, I noticed two things: he was tall—at least six-three—and built like he lifted weights eight hours a day. No wonder he’d tossed me over his shoulder so easily. His dark hair was trimmed short to his head but it was just long enough to run your fingers through, and green eyes fixated on me with shock flashing through them.
But I barely had time to register his parted lips or the dark coating on his jaw before my gaze roved over his arm.
It was covered in tattoos.
A thick, black line at his wrist gave way to trees that wove into the hints of a Celtic knot and red roses on his elbow and a ferocious, roaring lion on the bicep.
This.
Was.
Not.
Happening.
There was no way. Absolutely not.
But it was.
I knew those tattoos. I’d seen a picture of them just days ago.
“Oh, holy fuck,” I whispered.
CHAPTER FIVE – NOAH
Surprises Aren’t Just For Birthdays
She looked at me the exact same way I imagined I was looking at her.
It was one thing to suspect that the purple-haired woman I’d hauled over my shoulder and carried out of a burning building was the girl I’d been texting all week. I swore I’d heard her give her name as Reagan to the medic, but I’d passed it off as hearing things.
I was working. I was doing my job. Between the burning fire and the sound of the hoses roaring through the night and the commotion of all the people gathered outside, there was every chance I’d heard wrong.
