Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“And you said you aren’t a doctor.” He holds up his arm and inspects my work. “It’s kind of crooked, but I’ll live.”
“Hey,” I say, laughing and washing my hands. “I warned you that it wasn’t going to look good.”
I step away as he stands and gathers the bloody towels. I’m not sure what to do with the needle, so I wrap it in tissue and throw it away.
“I’m going to take these home and throw them in the washer,” he says.
“You can use the washer here.”
He grins. “Nope. It’s my mess. I’m not leaving them here for you to clean.” He studies me. “You look pale.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t expect to be stitching anyone up today.”
“Come on,” he says, nodding for me to follow him. “Let me get you juice and a snack.”
I laugh, stepping into the hallway behind him. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know. When you give blood, that’s what they do. Juice and a snack.”
“But you lost the blood. Not me.”
He shrugs, flashing me a mischievous smile that knocks me sideways. My body is on fire—flames licking every inch of me, and I’m completely off-kilter. I just stitched Brooks Dempsey’s arm, and now, he’s making me a snack.
Who am I?
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Audrey
“Gray usually has better shit than this,” Brooks says, rifling through the pantry. “Where are the cookies? The cakes? The freaking Nutter Butters?”
I watch his back muscles ripple out of the corner of my eye. I’m not sure whether he left his shirt in the bathroom or mixed it up with the towels when he deposited them on the front porch. Either way, I’m not upset about having to look at his half-naked body.
We exist in the same room, bathing in the sunlight streaming through the windows like two people who have done it a hundred times before. There’s a quiet comfort in it, a natural rhythm that surprises me. But I’ve never sewn someone’s body closed, either. Maybe that creates a new type of intimacy.
I open a cabinet to retrieve two glasses. The sound catches his attention, and he glances at me over his shoulder. “Sit.”
His tone—playful but firm—sends a ripple of chills through me. “I was going to get us a drink.”
“And I said I was getting you a snack and juice. So sit.”
“It’s really no problem. I—”
“Dammit, Doc.” He slides a hand down the pantry door and turns sideways toward me. “You just performed a half-assed surgery on my arm. At least let me get you a drink.”
His eyes don’t leave me until I’m sitting at the table. He mumbles something under his breath, but I can’t quite make it out. Under the circumstances, that might be for the best. I know that he should probably be resting his arm and not using it, but I have a feeling he’s used to being in charge, so I let it slide. I mean, if I argue and his blood pressure rises, that could be … messy.
“I think Astrid is starving my man,” Brooks says, returning to the pantry. “They have no snacks. What kind of torture is that?”
“I’m pretty sure that Astrid keeps Gray’s diet pretty healthy. I know athletes get a little loose with their diet and exercise in the offseason, but Astrid runs a pretty tight ship.”
Brooks pulls a chocolate bar from the back of a shelf, knocking over a can of green beans in the process. “This is all the fun food I can find. One lousy chocolate bar.” He sighs. “Gray used to be fun, but now he’s a man of discipline.”
“Discipline never hurt anybody.”
His smirk is deep and downright delicious. “I used to think that. Turns out that using self-restraint can be really, really painful.”
A rush of adrenaline hits my veins, and my pulse skitters like crazy. This is too much for one day. But it’s not quite enough either.
“What about you?” he asks, taking two glasses from the cabinet and pouring us each a drink. “You seem like the disciplined type. And, by the way, no juice. Your options include tea—and that’s it.”
“Tea is great. And you’d be correct about me having discipline. It was drilled into me as a child. If my parents weren’t so anti-tattoo, they probably would’ve had it inked on my forehead.”
“Are your parents both doctors, too?”
I laugh, taking a glass of tea and half of the chocolate bar from him. “No. My father is an investment banker, and my mother is the vice president of her very important social club. Not the president, mind you, because the president must deal with everyone’s problems and my mother wants none of that.” I take a sip as he sits across from me. “Mom likes the power and visibility, but doesn’t care much about the purpose, if that makes sense.”
“So I take it that you aren’t a social club girl.”