I begin with his face.
Connor stares at me.
My heart is thumping in my ears. I’m so close to him, standing between his legs, and when I lean in to clean under his jaw, his hands touch my belly. This close, I can see every minor line of his face. There are scars. Small ones. Crisscrossed under his jaw.
I swallow. “Can I ask you something personal? You don’t have to answer me.”
A smile. “I know I don’t have to answer you, but you have to ask now.”
“Did you use to cut yourself here?” I trace with my finger under his swollen jaw. Gently. I wouldn’t hurt him.
“Maybe.”
When Connor says nothing more, just looks away from me, I feel bad that I asked. “I had a friend who used to cut. She’s not with us anymore.”
“If you’re drawing parallels, I assure you I’m not like your friend.”
“You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met.” I step back.
Connor licks his lips. “That’s not true. I’m like someone. His name is Declan Crossbow.”
“Only on the outside.”
“That’s the problem.”
I take his bloody hands. “Not to me,” I whisper, because I don’t have it in me to admit out loud that I find this beautiful monster attractive.
He pretends he didn’t hear me. Just as well. I focus on his hands. He has nice hands because, of course, he does. Long, masculine fingers with some calluses, as if they have, surprisingly, done some manual labor.
“My brother worked in construction.” I start with a story that’s not true. “My dad did too. They wore jeans, boots, and gray T-shirts. Every Christmas, my mom would buy them a pair of black T-shirts because the gray ones would get dirty easily. They’d sit at the back of their closets because my dad and brother only wore gray ones.”
My dad loved working on projects in the shed. He always wore a gray T-shirt. That part is true.
I miss my family. I miss them so much that sometimes I cry myself to sleep. My daddy would make such a wonderful grandpa for my baby. He’d teach her how to ride a bicycle, the way he taught me.
“You’re very good at your job, Nurse,” Connor says, putting me out of my misery of having to talk about and remember my family.
“Thank you. You don’t need stitches, so you’re almost done.” I wrap his knuckles in gauze and move to put the supplies away when Connor grasps my wrists and pulls me back to stand between his legs.
I keep my gaze down.
“I will hurt your feelings,” he says.
“I’m a big girl.”
I can’t look up at him because if I do, I might find him difficult to resist. I should stay professional and send him off with wound care instructions.
The curtains part, and I jump away from Connor as if burned.
Dr. Olton, the trauma surgeon, walks in. He looks from me to Connor, surprise registering on his face. Dark hair falls gentlyover his forehead. Brown eyes widen. “Ekatia,” he says. “What are you doing here?”
I swallow. “I…”
“She brought me in.” Connor lifts his hands, his eyes like ping-pong balls switching between me and Dr. Olton.
“I see. Mr. Crossbow, I’m Dr. Pete Olton. What can I do for you today?”
“Nothing,” Connor answers.