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Yup. Same blue eyes I remember.
And boy, do I remember them.
Blue. Blue. Blue.
They’ve become a regular appearance every night in my dreams, along with his warm, slightly gritty voice. Which is annoying. And inappropriate on so many levels.
“Kate,” I reply, forcing myself to concentrate on our conversation and not on how attractive he looked in my dreams last night. “My name’s Kate. Hi.”
“Hey.”
“Hi,” I repeat for what, the third time?
Seriously. Kill me now.
To be fair, I’ve always been somewhat awkward around guys. I blame it on the lack of alcohol experience and desire to attend parties. You know, since alcohol has a way of making social interactions a little easier, and parties seem to have the same effect when you’ve been to enough of them.
What I wouldn’t give for a strong shot of something right about now to get through this interaction.
I still can’t believe I was so mean to him on the way to the hospital. I turned all my anger and frustration on the stranger who demanded to ride with me in the back of the ambulance. I didn’t even make an effort to ask his name, and when he offered to give it, I full-blown told him not to bother. Once we reached the hospital, I silently stewed, ignoring everyone and everything. The doctors. The nurses. I closed up like a little clam, choosing silence and avoiding the situation altogether until I could get home and process it in my room. Alone. It’s easier that way.
However, the consequences of my actions have a way of catching up with me, and this one is currently standing three feet away.
When I realize I’m still holding Mack’s hand, I let it go and wipe my palm against my black leggings, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
I look like a cherry. A sweaty cherry. Seriously. My hair is so wet from perspiration it’s sticking to my temples, making me look like a drowned rat or something. Which is great.
First, a seizure. Now, this.
Could I be any more embarrassing?
“How you doin’?” he prods.
“Fine.” I fold my arms and rock back on my heels, caught between my upbringing––and the need to be polite––and my desperation to get the hell out of here.
“I’m good too,” he replies, a smile teasing his pretty lips, despite the fact I most definitely did not ask how he was doing. “You’re still prickly, I see.”
“Excuse me?” I balk.
He turns to Blake. “Is she always like this?”
“Prickly?” Head cocked, Blake studies me carefully and taps her chin. “Not usually. Apparently, you bring it out of her.”
“Can we please stop talking about me like I’m not even here?” I interrupt.
“Okay,” he answers. I don’t miss the slight lift at the corner of his full lips.
My own purse. “Good.”
“Good,” he repeats.
“Good,” Blake chirps. I’d say she’s drowning in the awkwardness the same way I am, but the girl doesn’t feel awkward.Ever.Pretty sure she doesn’t even know the meaning of the word. If anything, she basks in it.
“So,” she continues. “Since when do you come here?”
“I’ve been coming here before work since the gym opened. It’s right by the hospital.”
“You work at the hospital?” I blurt out, interjecting myself yet again into a conversation I have no desire to be in.
