My example growing up was a dad who slept around, who treated women like shit, and all I knew was that I didn’t want to be like that. So maybe I went too far the other way. Maybe I thought every girl who showed interest in me was the love of my life. That’s got to be better, right?
Ok, so sometimes it happened that I became the one being treated like shit, but I could deal with that.
After all, I was used to it.
But Florence is something else entirely. She’s dangerous in a different kind of way. And she’s the first person who’s had this effect on me since Robyn and I separated, so if I’m thinking rationally, it’s probably a good thing she thinks I’ma player. Even better if she thinks I’m an idiot, too.
Even if it makes me feel like there’s something on fire in my guts.
So, as she expertly slides the needle out of my arm, I lean into it.
‘Was that good for you?’ I ask, schooling my expression into a cocky grin, even though really I want to say something else. Something quiet and vulnerable. Somethinggrateful.
And maybe my face betrays me, or maybe it’s that she has Bram’s mind-reading superpower, because there’s nothing but compassion in her eyes when she turns back to me.
‘You’re welcome,’ she says quietly, sticking a ball of cotton to my arm with a length of medical tape. And then she carefully rolls my shirt sleeve back down over it, and I swear to God, her small act of tenderness makes a lump form in my throat.
I’ve been loved, don’t get me wrong. The guys at the bar have loved me like crazy, far more than I probably deserve. They’ve given me friendship and opportunities and understanding and their endless patience. But I think this might be the first time anyone’s taken care of me.
It’s only the second time we’ve met and I’m already giving Florence pieces of myself. Pieces I’m not sure I can afford to lose. I don’t know what scares me more: blood or the very real possibility of having my heart obliterated. It’s not lost on me that she represents both. I mean really, a vampire phlebotomist? It feels like some kind of cosmic joke.
Maybe it’s my penance. All my past indiscretions back to taunt me.
‘Ok,’ Florence says, buttoning the cuff of my shirt with a grin that makes something turn over in my chest. ‘You’re done.’ And then, as she pulls her hand away, there’s a moment when her fingertips skim across my skin and it sends a jolt of attraction ricocheting through my body.
Yep, I’m definitely atoning for something.
ChapterSix
FLORENCE
I’m just pulling off my gloves after dealing with another difficult patient when I feel a hand cup my elbow. Cam’s, I identify, from the temperature and strength of those fingers. Before I have time to say anything to him, he hauls me across the room and thrusts us both into one of the unisex toilets just off the corridor from waiting area A, locking the door shut behind us.
‘Cam, what the hell?’ I snap, spinning around to take him in. He’s on edge for some reason– filled with some kind of energy I can’t decipher. He could be ecstatic or spitting with rage. I actually think the two emotions would look the same on him.
‘It’s important,’ he says, which offers me no further clues as to what the hell is going on. ‘I need to talk to you.’
‘In atoilet?’ I huff, my hands finding my hips. I was annoyed by the manhandling anyway, but the aggressive drone of the extractor fan on top isn’t helping at all.
He scans the room quickly, like he hadn’t really thought about it. ‘I needed somewhere we can’t be overheard.’
‘Well, great,’ I snap. ‘Now half our patients and all our colleagues will think we’re having sex in here.’
‘Florence,’ he whisper-shouts. ‘Focus. This is important.’
I relent. ‘Fine. What’s going on?’
He meets my gaze for a moment before he starts to pace. I’m honestly not sure how he’s managing it in such a small space, but that’s winding me up, too.
‘George just messaged me,’ he says after a beat. ‘About Quinn’s follow-up tests.’
My stupid, dead heart kicks out a single beat at the mention of Quinn’s name that’s so hard it makes me flinch. And it doesn’t help that Cam’s tone doesn’t clear anything up. All I know is that it’s something big. But I’ve worked with Cam long enough to know that ‘big’ in his eyes is bad as often as it is good.
‘Go on,’ I say tentatively. I go to sit on the closed lid of the toilet before remembering we’re in a patient bathroom and thinking better of it. It’s not like the germs could make me ill, but still. No thanks.
‘So, as you know, on the first sample George was concerned by the behaviour of the red blood cells,’ he says, finally slowing to a stop.
I hum in agreement. ‘We thought maybe some rare manifestation of anaemia.’