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Before I realise what he intends, Fletcher steps close and raises the hem of my shirt, his eyes on the exposed skin of my hip.
“I … It’s fine. Just bruised.” I yank my shirt down and stumble back, but not before he’s seen the uneven scar marring the skin above my hipbone.
“Grace?” His mahogany eyes find mine, an unspoken question in them.
Of course, he’d know the puckered flesh isn’t the result of a neat surgical scar. It’s the kind of scar left by a bread knife and self-administered stitches.
I shake my head, lowering my eyes from his probing gaze. “Don’t ask. I have scars you don’t want to know about.”
To my surprise, Fletcher doesn’t push. Instead, he bends and rolls up his left trouser leg to reveal a prosthetic limb extending from his boot to mid-calf.
My eyes widen in shock. “Fletcher, I—”
“Take a good look, Grace.” His eyes bore into mine in silent challenge.
Dear God, I didn’t expect this. I open my mouth and close it again, unsure what to say to this gruff, proud man who’s driven me crazy all night.
Finally, I settle on, “So … you can drive and … do other stuff?”
Bloody hell, Grace. If there were an award for the world’s dumbest question, you’d be a clear winner.
He raises a dark blond eyebrow. “I can do plenty of things. Drive, walk, talk, eat. Have sex.”
Embarrassed heat hits my cheeks, and I scowl. “That’s not what I meant.”
Fletch nods. “I know. Genuine curiosity I can deal with. Awkward silences and unwanted sympathy put me in a bad mood. But you’re not uneasy or disgusted. Why?”
His question startles me. “Why on earth would I be?” I ask, genuinely confused.
He shakes his head. “You’d be surprised at people’s reactions.”
I shrug. “Yeah, well, that’s on them, not you. Missing a limb doesn’t change who you are. It just means you’ve learned to adapt. And from where I’m standing, you’ve achieved that and then some. I would never have known. It certainly hasn’t affected your ability to do your job, although it does explain why you’re such a grumpy fucker.”
Fletcher’s head falls back as he laughs, a rich, booming sound that has goosebumps dancing across my arms. Oh, wow. That laugh should be classified as a sex toy because it’s certainly hitting me in all the right spots.
A thought suddenly occurs to me. “Oh, shit. That’s why you looked all weird earlier when I said about us getting off on the wrong foot! I’m sorry. If I’d known—”
“Don’t be sorry.” Fletcher waves a hand dismissively, his grin still in place. “That’s why I don’t tell many people. It changes how they act and what they say around me. Believe me, I’ve heard all the jokes, and some of them are good, but,”—he pauses and looks down at his foot—“nothing prepares you for waking up in the hospital and seeing empty space where your foot and toes should be.”
“I can’t imagine how that must have felt,” I whisper. “Is it true what they say? That you can still feel it?” I ask, unable to hide my curiosity.
“It’s true,” Fletcher confirms. “Sometimes, I can feel my toes cramping and tingling. Other times, it hurts like a fucker. But I remind myself I’m luckier than some because I still have my knee joint. The prosthesis is a precise mould of my limb. It’s lightweight and durable, so I have much more control than some amputees.”
I shake my head in wonder. “That’s … amazing. Science, technology, and medicine combined to achieve something wonderful which still allows you to do your job.”
“The first question the doctors asked me was, ‘What do you want to do?’ I told them I wanted to be useful, to get back to work. Once I healed and had my prosthetic, I underwent assessments to prove I could still function. I worked with the Fire Service. They have a large simulation area recreating an emergency with an overturned train in a tunnel. The London Ambulance Service assessed my ability to do the job, including whether my mobility posed any potential risk to my patients or colleagues. It didn’t. That was eight years ago, and here I am.”
My eyes sting with tears as I listen to Fletcher’s story. I rarely cry these days, so the strong emotions I’m experiencing for a man I met only twelve hours ago are unsettling.
I capture his gaze. “How did it happen?”
For a moment, I don’t think he’s going to answer, and the pain in his eyes almost makes me want to retract my question.
“IED in Afghanistan.”
He doesn’t say more, and I don’t push him. “Thank you for sharing all this with me. For trusting me. It means a lot.”
I’m still reeling from what I’ve learned. There’s so much more to my grumpy veteran than meets the eye.
