“This is—” She slides down in the chair, arms dangling loosely over the armrests. “So. Relaxing.”
“If you like this, I can think of a few other ways to help you relax.”
More than a few actually. And I’d be happy to show her all of them. But that might count as flirting…
“Keep it in your pants, Spellman. Need I remind you the whole reason you’re in this hospital is because you were following your penis every which way it waggled?”
Burn.
“First of all, my cock doesn’t waggle,” I inform her indignantly. “What does that even mean?”
She gives a vague hand gesture and now I’m seriously questioning where she’s getting her information. I hope this isn’t what they’re teaching in nursing school now.
“Yeah. Cocks don’t do that,” I say, switching feet. “And have you even considered the possibility that my accident was fate’s way of bringing us together?”
She laughs. “Not even once, so whatever Florence Nightingale fantasy you’ve got going on up there,” she says, pointing to my head. “It’s not going to happen.”
“You know Florence Nightingale was chaste, right?”
“Really?” She lifts her head, and I’m pretty sure she’s trying to decide if I’m fucking with her again. “How do you even know that?”
“I took a feminism class freshman year,” I tell her, flexing her toes with the heel of my palm.
“Let me guess. Easy A?”
“Hell, no. That class was hard as fuck.” No lie. It was the hardest class I took freshman year. Granted, it’s possible that’s because I was basically a caveman, but I like to think I’ve grown since then. “Nearly killed my GPA, but it was worth it. The class made me think differently, you know?”
She studies me and just when I think I’m starting to win her over, she says, “Whatever. I’m not going to be seduced by a feminist jock, even if it is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Never say never,” I tease, moving on to her Achilles tendon, which is tight as hell.
“I hate to break it to you,” she says, slinging an arm across her forehead. “Your leg is fractured in three places. You can’t even go to the bathroom by yourself. You’re in no shape to have sex.” She lifts her arm and gives me a pointed stare. “Not good sex, anyway.”
I promised no flirting, but technically she’s the one who brought up sex, so…
“My mouth and fingers work just fine.” I sweep my thumb across the arch of her foot to prove my point. “Climb on up here and I’ll show you.”
Her breath catches and I watch, transfixed, as her chest rises and falls. Her eyes darken and for an instant—just one brief second—I think she’s considering it.
“Thanks for the foot massage, but that’s as far as this goes.” She pulls her feet back and slips them into her Crocs. “Like I said, the last time I cut loose, it didn’t end well. It’s the straight and narrow for me from here on out.”
More like the straight and boring. What is it that has her so shook?
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, curiosity piqued. “I’m a pretty good listener.”
And not just because I’m bedridden.
“No, thanks.” She stands, smoothing the front of her scrubs. “I should get going. I need to return the game cart and it’s getting late.”
By AARP standards, yes. For two college students, not so much.
But there’s no point pressing the issue. If Harper doesn’t want to talk about it, she won’t. She’s stubborn as hell and while I admire her for it, it also makes getting to know her…challenging.
“You know where to find me if you change your mind,” I say, watching her retreat.
When she reaches the door, Harper looks back over her shoulder. There’s a sadness in her eyes that wasn’t there before. “I won’t.”
Déjà vu sweeps over me. I don’t know why, but this whole scene feels familiar. Like we’ve said these words before. But try as I might, the memory slips through my fingers, and I can’t shake the feeling I’m doomed to repeat some egregious mistake.
