I grab all I need, silently cursing the lazy doctors here. They spend two seconds with a patient after making them wait hours to be seen. Then they send us in with minimal knowledge of what’s going on. It’s counterproductive. Now I have to go read the chart that he has already read. He could have just briefed me.
I should have just stayed a RN instead of working longer to become NP-C. And this place tends to get more unorganized by the second with the constant moving us around to deal with the shortage of healthy employees right now.
After grabbing all I need, I head to the exam room, but stumble over my own two feet when my eyes land on what’s waiting for me. Please don’t let me be drooling.
Hospital gowns are not sexy. So explain how that pale gown with tiny dots on it makes the bastard on the exam bed seem like a freaking piece of tattooed art. My eyes run down his arms, taking in all the ink that sleeves them both. His tan skin separates the numerous pieces that seem to be bound together by thorny vine designs.
His legs have some ink toward the thighs, which I can see since he has the gown just barely covering his—
“Enjoying the view?” the gruff, sexy, incredibly confident voice has my eyes jerking back up.
His inky black hair is tousled on his head. I’m not sure what color his eyes are, but they look dark. And sexy. And taunting. A cocky smirk is fixed on his very sexy lips, which pisses me off.
Just my luck. He’s exactly the kind of guy I’ve sworn off, and I’m squirming in panties. Clearing my throat, I put down my supplies, and pick up the chart, but I can’t focus enough to read it.
Really hate myself right now.
“That weirdo doctor said I didn’t need stitches.”
“If that’s what he said, then he’s right,” I say under my breath, really trying to read.
Apparently I can’t focus when the scent of him is all around me. I can’t describe it, really; it’s almost a masculine fragrance, but a hint spicy as well.
Clearing my throat again, I put the chart down and go to inspect the wound while picking my sterile bandaging kit back up. I place it all on the rolling cart’s tray on top, then slide it closer to him, doing damn good not to look at him.
“Where is your—”
The words die on my tongue when he spreads his legs, almost letting that gown rise too high, and I see the shallow, yet jagged looking cut. It’s long but not deep. It’s also not bleeding too much, fortunately.
“Waited three hours just to see a doc, then realize I could have just used a bandage from the store down the street. Gotta love the ER.”
“Considering that is a jagged cut, I’m assuming you weren’t cut by something sterile. Antibiotics are a good idea, considering its location.”
I sound professional and not at all like a breathy drone. Yay me.
The rolling stool is already positioned right between his legs, but I hesitate, clutching the edge of the cart that holds my supplies.
“How did this happen?” I ask, trying to sound as calm and monotone as possible.
My eyes move up again just as a slow smile spreads across his face. His eyebrows bounce as he tilts his head.
“See? There were these two girls in my room, and—”
“On second thought,” I interrupt, “let me rephrase the question. What did this?”
I wish I could just read the damn chart.
“A crazy bitch with a broken beer bottle,” he answers with a careless shrug.
Yep. He’s the example of the bad boy all misguided girls think is sexy. Bad boys look sexy. Bad boys seem sexy. We all want a bad boy… Until they live up to their name and cheat, lie, or steal.
So I have no pity for him or the girl whose heart he broke. I used to be that girl. Not anymore. At least I’m trying hard not to be that girl anymore, I should say. Doesn’t make me immune.
Stupid body.
Shaking off the thoughts, I pull on my gloves, happy for the latex layer between us. “I assume you’re not allergic to latex,” I say sweetly, even smiling as I lay out the double entendre while also asking the question required by law.
“No glove, no love, baby,” he says, winking at me.