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“Yeah, well, she had a big heart. Fell in love with the wrong men. She gave herself to them, and they treated her like shit. Love killed her in the end.”
I look at him with understanding. “I lost my mom too when I was a teenager. The pain never really goes away, does it?”
“What happened?” he asks, and while I normally don’t share personal details with my patients, he has just opened up to me, so I try.
“Car accident. She never drank, she always stuck to the limit, yet this one night, both apparently were a factor. It is still hard to believe,” I say with a sigh. I miss her every day.
“Sorry you had to lose her like that.” Such a simple statement, but the look in his eyes is filled with such deep understanding. It makes me want to hug him. I feel entirely too comfortable around this man, and that’s a problem.
Clearing my throat, I smile softly. “So, have you been able to get some rest? Your friend seems pretty cozy? His snoring is loud enough to cause an earthquake.” Pushing the trolley closer to him, I prepare everything to stitch the cut above his eye.
“If you have a bandage, I can wrap around Benji’s nose to shut him up. That would be great.” I can’t help but huff out a laugh as I smile and shake my head.
“No, sorry. You need to find another friend who isn't so loud, I am afraid.” I give him a shrug, and he smiles at my banter.
“Nah. I have had him around for years; I don’t think I will get rid of him yet,” Carter replies, giving me a small glimpse into their relationship.
“What time is it?” he asks me, and I meet his deep blue eyes that are staring straight at me. They are vibrant, almost sparkling, as they go from my head down my body and back again. It feels like he is undressing me with his eyes and my blood heats.
I internally scold myself while hearing my father’s voice on repeat in my mind, “You are nothing. An unwed single mother, no one wants you.” Which causes me to shake my head to dislodge the thoughts. I need to pull myself together. I have been in the medical field for years, treating all manner of people, yet this is the first time I have had such an instant reaction to a patient. This is ridiculous and so unprofessional.
“Just after 3am. I’m going to quickly do your stitches and then you can rest some more. I’m sure you’re exhausted,” I say gently, aware that he has had little to no sleep tonight, and also wanting to remove his eyes from me before I lose focus entirely.
“I’ll be fine. What about you?" he asks, and I pause, the question catching me off guard.
“Oh. Tired, actually. It’s been a long week.” I try to busy my hands with prepping the medical tray as I stifle a yawn. Talking about being tired makes me more tired.
“What time do you finish?” That question has me looking at him, wondering why he wants to know. His eyes pierce mine, appearing open, wanting to have a genuine conversation, and I will admit, it is nice. Not many patients ask me how I am or what my hours are like. Actually, not many people outside of work do either.
“A few more hours yet.” I lean over to look at his cut, and I am suddenly aware of how close our bodies are. My waist nearly comes into contact with his, and I tilt my head so I am looking him in the eyes. The air around us crackles, his nostrils flare, and I feel the electricity of this moment as it zaps me to my core.
And I ignore it, ignore it, ignore it.
“Can you move your head this way a little?” I say in my most formal doctor voice I can muster, trying to get my betraying body to fall back into line. As my hand touches his jaw, I pull his face toward me, feeling the scratchy stubble on his cheek.
“I can see the cut better in the light,” I tell him. In the ER room earlier, I could see the lights were harsh, and now as he is resting, I didn’t want to make them too bright again.
His eyes continue to drill into mine, and I blush under his gaze. It is incredibly intense, and I am not yet sure if that is a good thing or not. Who am I kidding? It can’t be a good thing. And that’s confirmed when my stomach flips into itself, and I suddenly have the urge to squirm my legs together. Yet I refrain.
“So you’re the doctor that fixed up Annie, then?” he asks, as I run the numbing cream around his cut, not missing the way he is white knuckled, locking his hands together. I’m not sure if the cream is causing him pain, or if he is feeling things he shouldn't as well.
The mention of Annie brings me back to reality, since he must know her from Dante. Which means… he must be close to the mob. How close is the question, because, like me, he could merely be an acquaintance. The fact that I know Dante is enough to get me in trouble with work, not to mention I have a small daughter to worry about. Getting closer to anyone even associated with them and their lifestyle is not something that I should be doing.
“Yes. She is a lovely girl. I am so glad things worked out for her. I spoke with her only a month or so ago, actually, and she sounded happy,” I say with a smile on my face as I think of the beautiful young woman who was shot back in New York. I still have regular check-ups with her. How someone like her became involved with the mob is a whole other story.
“She is,” he replies simply, watching me pretend to tidy up my tray of supplies as I wait for the numbing cream to take effect. My mind is swirling with questions that I shouldn’t even want to ask, but I don’t have to wait long until he gives me more clarity. Completely unprompted, like he could see my thoughts all over my face.
“Dante never leaves her side now,” he says with a huff and a small smile, and with that, it’s clear he knows them both well. It’s slightly unnerving. Everyone knows the New York mob, and most people stay right out of their way. Except me, it seems. They just walk straight into my life, apparently, I think to myself with a dose of sarcasm. And for some reason, I’m feeling content in his presence. Enough so that I can’t help but keep talking.
“Hmmm, well, it is good that she has someone to look after her,” I murmur. And as I say the words it sinks in that that luxury isn’t one afforded to a woman like me. Exhaustion nips at my heels again, knowing that there is no rest for me, no one to help with Ivy or to lift any of the heavy load I carry.
Taking a breath, I grab the tools I need from the tray and lean toward him again, trying to concentrate on the task at hand and not his muscled chest.
“So you moved here from New York?” he asks as I put the first stitch in, not even flinching as I pierce his skin. I concentrate on the work before me as I think about how to reply. I want to be honest, because in the quiet of the night, it feels like just the two of us. It is almost intimate as we talk in hushed tones. His deep voice surrounds me like a protective shield, one that makes me want curl up in his lap and stay there forever. Who he is outside of these walls, I am not sure, but I feel strangely safe around him. Something that is new for me, given that I feel the exact opposite with the existing men in my life.
“Yep. About nine months ago,” I say as I continue stitching, ensuring that I make them nice and neat to prevent scarring.
“New York not your scene?” he asks, peering up at me.
