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“I know, right? Miracles never cease,” he said, giving me a cocky smirk that I was starting to find endearing. “I’m off to go spend what is likely two hours of your hard work on an extravagant lunch,” he said before turning and walking off.
I was still smiling when I turned to find Seeley standing in the doorway of his exam room, his jaw so tight that a muscle was ticking there.
Seeley had a poker face better than anyone most people had ever seen. It was almost alarming to see actual tension in him.
“Are you in pain?” I asked, moving forward.
“Yes,” he hissed.
“Come on. In,” I shooed him backward, watching as he moved, his strong body leaned to his bad side, his breathing hitched with each small motion. “Take off your shirt,” I demanded, trying to keep my tone light and professional, but my chest felt tight as I said it.
Seeley let out a grunt as he tried to raise his hand to do just that.
“You need help.” It wasn’t exactly a question. Just an observation, really, but when his dark gaze found mine, I could see the answer before he said it.
“Yes.”
He didn’t need to take off his damn shirt.
I could easily just push it up to see his wounds.
I wasn’t even sure why I’d told him to take it off in the first place. I was a firm believer in the fact that even though my job sometimes required access to a patient’s body, that they had the right to as much privacy as possible. So I didn’t make them get into a gown if all I needed was their shirt off. And I always offered a sheet if I needed access to a body part that made keeping clothing on difficult.
I should have been giving Seeley the same courtesy I gave all my other patients.
“How’d you get this on?” I asked as I moved closer, trying to snag the edge of his sleeve without actually touching him, though I swear I could feel the heat emanating from his skin.
“With a fuckuva lot of cursing and a shot of whiskey,” he admitted.
I probably should have said something about the drinking since he’d had painkillers the night before. I knew better, though. And, honestly, I’d have needed a shot to lift an arm over my head if I was stabbed multiple times as well.
“Did you shower?” I asked as I pushed his arm through the hole, slipped his head free, then pulled it down the arm on his bad side.
I tried not to notice things.
Like the tattoos on his skin that hadn’t been there before, that I shouldn’t have found as appealing as I did. Or the scars on his body. Some I knew the stories of, others that I was completely in the dark about. Or, of course, the smell of him. Something a little spicy, but not just deodorant. It was the same cologne he’d worn since we were kids. My favorite scent in the world, damnit.
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t say you could shower.”
“You didn’t say I couldn’t either,” he shot back, shrugging.
No, I hadn’t.
I’d been too busy giving him lip, bringing our past into the present, where it absolutely did not belong.
I needed to get a grip.
“Alright, well, you can sit,” I said, starting to fold his shirt when he turned just right. And I saw it.
I knew that scar.
I’d seen it dozens of times.
More, probably.
Puckered and round, with some rough edges around it.
