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He cuts me off, “Makenna,” he says absolutely.
So much for normal conversation. “Right. Sorry. I forgot you don’t do small talk.” I forgot for a moment that we aren’t friends.
I don’t even bother with a goodbye. Anything I say to him is just a waste of time.
The following morning, I stop by Ochsner on the way to my clinical, just to get a glimpse at Carlos’s medical history and a briefing on his condition. He’s sleeping, so I don’t bother him. I do leave flowers and a card to let him know I was there. The nurse on duty says she believes he’ll be released this morning. But if he’s still here when I get off work, I plan on stopping by again.
I’m standing just outside Carlos’s room discussing plans for his after-care with her when I feel eyes on me. I know this feeling. My whole body reacts to it.
I peek over my shoulder and spot Cal leaning against the wall a few doors down on the opposite side of the hall, legs crossed at the ankle and arms folded across his chest.
“I wish all our patients had visitors like that,” the nurse who introduced herself as Becca, says when she spots Cal too.
If she only knew. “I’d be willing to bet if you gave him your number, he’d call.” I turn my head back toward her.
“You really think so?”
Yep. He seems to favor variety.
“Sure. I’ll even do it for you if you’re nervous.”
“Seriously?”
Really? He’s just a man. I wonder quietly if this is the reaction he gets from all the women he meets. Of course it is. Just look what he does to me. Although I don’t get giddy, just dripping wet. And I can’t decide which is worse.
She hands me her number then walks away with an excited “thank you.”
I feel him getting closer as I stuff Carlos’s file back in the slot on the wall. “You’re up early,” I say without turning around.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he replies coolly.
No amount of coffee could awaken my senses the way the sound of his voice does. Irritation consumes me for the way I let him affect me. Why can’t he just be a normal guy, like Jaxon? Why does he have to be an emotionless robot with no regard for the way he treats people?
His scent overpowers me as he steps directly behind where I stand. Soap and clean linen stuffed in a pair of baggy gray sweats, solid white T-shirt, and black baseball cap. The way the shirt hugs his biceps makes me worry for its durability. It looks as though it could bust at the seams at any given moment. He looks so casual like this—almost normal.
“And you?” he asks, his voice penetrating the barrier I’m mentally trying so hard to construct between us. “Why are you up this early?”
“Clinical.” I swallow at his closeness.
His chest brushes my back and the tops of his thighs graze my butt as he inches even closer.
I remember the nurse and hold the paper with her number on it over my head, hoping it’s within his direct line of vision.
“Yours?” he asks.
I chuckle once, “No. Becca’s. Apparently, you’re quite a hit with all the nurses.”
“Not all of them…” he says, leaving his statement open ended.
If he’s waiting for some sort of confirmation that I’m interested, he’s in for a long morning. That’s not something I’m ready to admit, to him or to myself.
I roll my eyes, then waggle the paper again.
He takes a step back. “Keep it. I don’t make a habit of taking phone numbers.”
“Really? Well what do you take? Mastercard? Visa? American Express?” I smile proudly at my jab.
“Is that what you think of me?” he replies, and I’m afraid to turn around. The tone of his voice is enough to let me know I’ve offended him.
