Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 25267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 126(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 126(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
She snorts at me. I ignore it and keep drying her off. Her hair’s still damp and wild, curling at her temples and clinging to her cheeks. I want to bury my face in it and never come up for air.
She steps out of the shower, but I catch her around the waist like she’s about to make a run for it. Nope. Not letting her go.
I pull her close and nuzzle into her neck. Can’t help it. She smells like lavender, my soap, and something sweet that's all her. It’s fucking addictive.
"Got plans today?" I ask, voice gone rough. Don’t even try to play it cool.
She turns, blue eyes so clear it nearly floors me. "Yeah," she says. "I'm spending it with you."
I think my heart straight-up forgets how to beat. I stare down at her, this tiny spitfire wrapped in my towel, and every cell in my body sings a fucking national anthem just for her.
"That's the right answer," I tell her. I get cocky and crowd her toward the double sink, my hands bracketing her hips, possessive as hell.
She just grins back, a little wicked. "Don’t let it go to your head."
Too late.
I drag her closer, pinning her to the counter, and kiss her until she’s groaning into my mouth. That’s my new favorite sound. Top ten all-time life highlights.
CHAPTER NINE
MIA
The fluorescent hum of the emergency department usually acts as a sedative for my overactive brain, a steady white noise that drowns out everything but the immediate needs of the patients. Tonight, however, the lights feel abrasive, biting into the corners of my vision. It is 11:42 PM, the middle of my third shift back after spending the weekend in Mick McLinden’s bed.
After our weekend together, Mick dropped me off at home with a kiss and a promise to spend time with me as soon as he has a free moment. Of course, my three-day stretch and his two home games in a row will make it difficult, but we’ll figure out a way to make it work.
This freaking shift has lasted approximately three lifetimes and I’m ready for it to be over. I need about two hours of Mick’s special brand of lovemaking and twelve hours of sleep.
I check the monitor at the central station, my fingers flying over the keyboard with mechanical precision. The memory of Mick’s voice, low and thick with sleep in the pearlescent glow of his bedroom, keeps looping in my head like a glitchy track.
“Earth to Mia.” Katie leans over the counter, her eyes narrowed with a level of scrutiny that would be more appropriate for a suspicious labs report. "You've been staring at that discharge summary for five minutes. Mr. Henderson isn't that interesting."
"He has a very complex history," I lie, finally hitting the print button. My heart gives a traitorous little thump against my ribs, a physical reminder of the person I’m trying to pretend I haven't been obsessing over since he dropped me off at the ambulance bay this morning.
"Right. Complex history of mild indigestion and being a lonely widower," Katie says, tapping her pen against her chin. "You’re glowing, by the way. It’s disgusting. It makes the rest of us look like we’ve been dragged through a car wash without the car."
"I’m not glowing. I’m caffeinated," I retort, grabbing the papers. I turn toward the patient bays. I feel exposed without it, as if the scrubs aren't thick enough to hide the fact that I’ve spent the better part of the last seventy-tow hours being thoroughly, expertly loved.
The sliding doors of the ambulance bay hiss open. I don't look up. We aren't expecting a trauma, and the rhythm of the floor is finally settling into that weird, late-night lull where the only sounds are the rhythmic beep of heart monitors. Then the air in the room changes. It’s not a sound, but a shift in pressure, the way the atmosphere feels right before a massive storm breaks over the Sound.
I feel him before I see him. It’s a pull in my solar plexus that has everything to do with the man currently walking through a hospital at midnight like he owns the floor. I turn slowly, my breath hitching in a way that is distinctly unprofessional.
Mick McLinden is standing near the triage desk. He’s wearing a dark hoodie, the hood pulled down, and jeans that look soft enough to live in. He looks exhausted, the five o'clock shadow on his jaw more of a ten o'clock forest, and yet he radiates a kind of coiled, restless energy that makes every other person in the room look like they're moving in slow motion. He’s holding a brown paper bag with a familiar logo stamped on it, the grease stains on the bottom suggesting something heavy and delicious from the deli three blocks away.