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“Change into the gown, and you can put your sample on the counter.” She smiled, standing there, looking at me like all those crazy fans did.
Not like I didn’t appreciate my fans because I did. But, shit, one too many stalkers had put me on edge.
My stomach clenched with queasiness. Maybe I was nervous about the surgery. I’d never had surgery before, even as a rambunctious kid, growing up.
“Okay, I’ll be back. If you need anything, just call,” she said, all syrupy sweet.
When the door shut, Sydney stepped in front of me. “Up. Let’s get this over with.”
I bit back a smile, surprised that her taking charge not only made me feel relief, but it was also kind of hot. “You gave me such grief before when I asked you to help me. I was going to try to change myself.”
“Please.” She barked out a laugh. “You’re in the same clothes as yesterday. You have one hand in a splint, your other in a sling. You can’t even wipe your own ass. Up. Before I change my mind.”
Well, shit.
I couldn’t deny that I loved a woman who took charge. And, yeah, her tone, her presence, her straight-up flawless beauty being so close were definite turn-ons. Her hair was pulled back, which showcased the delicate span of her neck, and I swallowed, my eyes dipping lower …
“Austin, up!”
I jerked back, knocked out of my Sydney daydreaming zone, and stood on command. She reached for my shirt and lifted it above my head, tossing it onto the hospital bed. She reached for my waistband, getting close, and the hint of her floral perfume had me curious.Was it her shampoo or her lotion or her natural scent?
“Feet. Lift your foot.”
“Usually, when a woman takes off my pants—”
“Shut up.”
If looks could kill, I would be flat on my back and in one of those freezers in the morgue.
I did what I had been told, steadying myself against the bed. When my pants were off, she stood and blew out a breath. Without looking at me, she moved to the bed, where she unfolded the hospital gown, and she slipped it over my shoulders without tying it in the back.
“There, done. I’ll be going now.”
“You’re picking me up, right?” I called out.
She huffed so audibly loud I wasn’t sure if I had a ride home.
I still needed my boxers off, but I wasn’t about to ask her to do that.
I stuck my right hand—my only good hand with a sprained finger since my arm was in a sling—into the waistband of my boxers. But it got stuck, and I twisted my injured finger. “Fuck!”
She was just about out the door when she turned to face me.
“What now?” Sydney asked, nostrils flared, eyes narrowed.
“Nothing,” I said, trying to wave it off. “Just go.”
“I was going to be nice and wait for your doctor to come. God forbid the nurse comes in and freaks you out again.” She rolled her eyes, but I heard the slightest hint of compassion in her voice.
I smiled, my heart warming a little. “I’m just trying to get my boxers off, but my damn injured finger …”
“Got stuck in your dick?”
I had to give it to her—she kept a straight face.
I blinked because her joke shocked the hell out of me.
Still with the straight face, she added, “Don’t you think it’s a little inappropriate to be pleasuring yourself in the hospital?” Then, she laughed at her own joke as she stepped forward. She pointed a finger in my face. “I don’t want your wanker anywhere near my face.”
