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I chuckled, watching foamy soap slide off my wrists. “I don’t have kids of my own, but I stitch up enough of them—more than once—to know that nothing is really ‘safe’ when it comes to daredevil kids.”
“I’m not a daredevil,” Calla protested.
“Apologies,” I amended, reaching for a paper towel, and drying off my hands. “Adventurers.”
Calla giggled again, and as I turned, still drying my hands, I caught the mother staring at me with unabashed gratitude in her thick-lashed eyes.
Sweet Jesus, she was beautiful. I didn’t need to see the rest of her face under her mask to know that much. If she was married, I would… what? Be disappointed?
Don’t be a dick, Cade, I thought with a mental shake.This isn’t the local bar. We’re not here to pick up random women.
I pulled a pair of disposable gloves from my pocket and stretched them over my hands. Then, I bent over Calla, lifting the paper towel, and assessed the injury. The laceration looked to be about two centimeters wide and four long, and as I poked around the inflamed tissue, Calla winced. But I didn’t feel any structural damage underneath, which was reassuring. “How long ago did you say this happened?” I asked Laurel over my shoulder.
“I think an hour?” she answered uncertainly. “I came as soon as they called.”
I nodded, using my fingers to test the damaged tissue. There was certainly some moderate soft tissue damage, but contamination looked to be minimal, and a few stitches would close up the damaged dermal layers. I gave Calla a conspiratorial look. “You’re a smart cookie, Calla. You are going to need stitches.”
“I like cookies,” she said, as if concurring with a business proposal.
I sat on the rolling stool, wheeled it over to the metal table Angela had set out for me, and then pulled it with me back to the nervous girl. She might have been injured before, but her past experience with the process was clearly making her ill at ease.
Afraid to look at Laurel in case she messed with my concentration again, I gestured her over to stand next to Calla for comfort.
Laurel came forward immediately, standing next to her daughter, taking her hand in her own, and then perching herself on the edge of the medical bed. “What kind of cookies should we get when we’re done here?” Laurel asked Calla, clearly in an attempt to distract the child.
“Chocolate chip?” Calla asked hopefully.
“Definitely chocolate chip,” Laurel confirmed. “Here, let’s get a show going while the doctor does his thing. You pick.”
I smiled to myself as I readied things on the table next to me. I could do this with my eyes closed. Although, with the wound being smack-dab in the middle of the girl’s head, I probably should keep them open. “Okay, Calla,” I said, unfolding a blue drape casually. “What I’m going to do is give you a teeny, tiny pinch. No big deal after you smacked it open in the first place, right?”
Calla looked up from the show on her phone, her eyes bouncing between me and her mother. “Okay.”
“Then the worst part will be over,” I assured her. “After that, you won’t even feel me stitching things up.”
“Okay,” she said again, this time with a tremble in her voice.
I glanced up at Laurel, and she met my gaze. Worry pinched her dark brown eyebrows, pulling them together over her luminous, blue eyes. But her expression softened some, as if the reassurance I was offering her through my silent look had imbued her with some calm. It might have been my imagination, but I could have sworn something passed between us. It was like the charged air before a lightning strike.
I swallowed hard, looking to the side. That had been a mistake. Something about her was electrifying. Compulsive. Like it was impossible not to drink her in and want more. If I screwed up her kid’s stitches, I doubted she would look kindly on me if my excuse was, “But you’re mesmerizing.”
“Okay, Calla,” I said, running through the steps in my head. I didn’t really need to—not anymore than I needed to run through the steps of driving a car every morning. But it would keep my brain occupied. “I’m going to have you scoot around and lie your head right here next to my leg.” I pressed a pedal at the base of the bed, lowering it.
Calla scrambled around and Laurel helped her. Both of them seemed to know the drill.
“I’m going to make you a blue ghost,” I joked, fanning out the blue drape for her to see. “This goes right on your face.”
“Spooky,” Calla grinned. She laid her head down on the scratchy paper, and I made sure to leave at least one of her eyes uncovered so Laurel could hold the phone for her to see.
With the drape over Calla’s forehead, I cleaned the wound and let the methodical practice of my experience take over. Calla flinched visibly when I injected the local anesthetic, and her little hands balled into fists, but Laurel was there, rubbing her arm and assuring her that I was almost done.
Laurel had scooted forward, and her knee pressed against my thigh as she consoled Calla.
Ignore that, I told myself firmly.Not a problem. This happens all the time. At least she’s not trying to cop a feel, like Mrs. Leffler.Not that I would have been offended if she had. Fucking hell, maybe I just needed to get laid. How long had it been?
As I worked on autopilot, threading Vicryl through the wounded tissue and tying precise, tidy knots, I allowed my mind to wonder at that question. Had it been a month? Two? I’d broken my own rule and slept with two nurses last year. Regretted that. Then there’d been the tennis player from Salt Lake City.
Three months, then. Shit, no wonder I was salivating over Miss Daffodil Reincarnate. She even smelled like flowers, which was so nauseatingly sweet, I almost couldn’t believe she was a real person.
