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“You don’t look fine. What happened?” I ask, grabbing his shirt and undoing some buttons. His hand falls to the side before he lifts it and grabs me. I am standing right in between his legs, and he grabs my thigh, his hand so big it wraps almost completely around my muscle. Flames lick my legs, my skin tingles, and my heart thumps as I swallow roughly, trying to calm my traitorous body. I am trying to assess him, but the reaction I’m experiencing is something entirely new. I have never felt this way with a patient. I have never felt this way withanybody. His thumb strums then, slowly, hesitantly, across the side of my thigh and goosebumps scatter over my skin once again. My eyes flick to his, where I see evident heat in his stare, before he clears his throat, and his eyes lose focus as he answers me.
“I had a fight with a cupboard,” he says, barely audible. It is common for people to feel woozy if they don’t like the sight of blood, and I suspect Eddie is one of these people. I roll my lips because he looks so innocent and cute right now.
“So, the cupboard won, I’m guessing?” I ask, undoing the last button to pull the shirt from his frame.
“Unfortunately.” He huffs a laugh, his smirk small but there. I relax a little, knowing he isn’t in pain and can laugh at himself. He sits forward slightly and pulls his shirt off his arms, flinging it on the ground nearby. I should be prepared for what I see, but I am not. I lick my lips and my breathing quickens. I saw him shirtless only a week or so ago and that image has been on my mind every day since. But now, touching his skin, looking at him closely, I am struggling to remain professional.
“What did the cupboard do to you?” I ask as I look at the wound. A small cut, something a few butterfly clips will fix. Brian rushes in and delivers me a full medical kit, which is extremely impressive, before he is called to go out the front, leaving Eddie and me to it.
“Not the cupboard. My mother,” he murmurs as he leans back, his head resting on the back of the large armchair, his eyes locked on me.
“Your mother?” I prompt, confused, watching him, wondering if he hit his head as well. He could be concussed. He takes a few deep breaths before he continues.
“Yeah, she is trying to set me up with a wife.” My eyes flick to meet his, and his brows furrows slightly. The look he gives me almost melts my underwear clear off my body. He is angry, his jaw sharp and tight, his eyes alight, and without thinking, I run my hand down his jaw, wanting him to relax. I softly cup my hand around his face, and he tilts it upward to me before I come to my senses and remove my touch.What the hell am I doing?Clearing my throat, I get busy digging into the medical kit for supplies as I refocus on the small talk.
“And you don’t want one?” I ask, raising my eyebrow in question as my fingers press on the wound with a bandage I found, trying to stop the small trickle of blood.
“I want to choose my own,” he says with a growl. Obviously, his mother is a handful. I can’t imagine it at all, having not ever met my own mother.
“That makes sense. Now, I just need to wash the wound, and then I will dress it. You will be right as rain in no time,” I say, trying to focus on the work I have to do and not the feeling of his skin under my touch. He is warm, his skin smooth, the light scattering of hair across his contoured chest making my mouth water. He is too perfect for his own good. I am sure he has a myriad of women falling at his feet. His mother is probably wanting to set him up, so she doesn’t have to see them all melt around him. I shake my head, getting back on track, and squirt some saline across the wound and wipe it a little. The bleeding has almost stopped.
“You okay?” I ask him, the two of us having a quiet moment.
“Hmmmm,” is all he responds with. I can feel his face right in front of mine, my eyes zoned in on the wound I am nursing. I can smell his aftershave. A woodsy cologne, it is masculine, as is the broad expanse of his chest. Every inch of him screams protector, even though I am the one helping him.
“Am I hurting you?” I ask again to be sure. I am trying to be gentle as I stick him back together.
“No.” His one-word reply is too quick, which concerns me. I look at him, and his eyes are closed again.
“Open your eyes,” I demand, and as our eyes connect, I see his pupils dilate. His face looks white as a ghost again, and I know that he is going to faint.
“Eddie!” I yell, loud enough to grab Brian's attention, and I hold on to Eddie as he slumps forward, his face planting right on my chest. “Shit.” He is heavy. Thank God Brian is nearby, because I would have no hope in moving him on my own.
“Sorry, I should have mentioned that he faints at the sight of blood,” Brian says as he rushes in, and we both get him onto the floor on his back. I lift his legs up onto the chair he just vacated. “Will he be okay? Should I call an ambulance?”
“He should be fine. He is breathing fine, just a little woozy is my guess,” I say to Brian as I position Eddie on his side into the recovery position.
“Damn, man is a baby when it comes to blood,” Brian sasses before the bell dings at the front desk, and he leaves me to deal with Eddie.
“Eddie. Eddie,” I say, lightly tapping his cheek to rouse him. Watching his chest rise and fall and feeling his breath on my cheek, I lean in to ensure his breathing is consistent. “Come on, come back to me.”
“Pinkie?” he says roughly, his eyes remaining closed. “Pinkie from 10A.” I laugh, and I hear Brian huff a laugh too, as he stands next to me, passing me the cold pack and shaking his head.
“Yeah, Pinkie is here,” I say, grabbing his hand and giving it a squeeze. This man is turning me into mush. His limbs are a little cold, so I rub his hands in my own, trying to warm them up a bit. Brian steps away again, back to his desk outside.
“What happened?” he asks, still half-dazed but coming around.
“You fainted,” I tell him, looking down at this massive man who lies completely still on the floor next to me.
“I’m too tough to faint,” he says, giving me a smirk, and I laugh at his attempt at humor.
“No, apparently not.” I can’t help but smile, relief rushing through me that he really is okay.
“Just don’t make me look at blood.” Sitting up a little, he tries to get his bearings.
“Just look at me,” I offer as I help him to stand and get him back in the armchair.
“That is not a hardship.” I swallow at his confession. His grip on me is tight, and I don’t let go either. The need to comfort him is strong. Once he is settled back into his seat, I finish washing his small wound and place some butterfly patches on. It may be a little sore, but he shouldn’t have any other issues.
