“Would you believe me if I told you this was the first time?” I practically purr.
“Not at all,” she laughs. Her attention moves back to my stomach. She presses into my wound, her beautiful eyes staring into mine—full of concern. “Does that hurt?”
“Not at all,” I murmur, repeating the words she just used. I watch her lips slide into a smile. There’s a light in her eyes now that I could quickly become addicted to. It makes the grayish-blue hue they normally are turn almost lavender.
She’s fucking beautiful.
“If it starts hurting, let me know. I’m thinking it’s going to take about nine stitches,” she mumbles, her eyes on my wound and not where I want them—staring at me so I can see their beauty.
“Have dinner with me tonight, Gwen.”
“Why would I do that, Wyatt?”
“Because you want to,” I croon.
Her eyes finally move back to mine, and I’m rewarded with a smile that lights them up. God, she’s so fucking beautiful it is almost painful. I want to hold that beauty in my hands, taste it on my tongue, chain it to my fucking bed.
“You didn’t warn me you were psychic and could tell what I wanted before I could figure it out myself. It’s a true gift you have there, Wyatt.”
“I’m very talented in that way. Wait until I have time to show you my other skills. I think you will find them even more …impressive.”
She lets out a wry chuckle, shaking her head as she goes back to stitching my wound. “You really are something, Wyatt. I haven’t determined what that something is just yet though.”
“Have dinner with me, and I’ll tell you.”
“I shouldn’t. You’re a patient. That’s kind of a violation of ethics.”
“You’re stitching me up. You’re not my lawyer or my marriage counselor.”
“Are you married?” she asks, making me smile. Her question shows me she’s at least curious about me.
“If I were married, I wouldn’t be asking you out, Gwen. I am not that kind of man.”
“That kind of man?” she repeats, although it sounds like a question. It’s almost as if she’s tasting the words on her tongue.
“The kind who wants you in their bed and will do damn near anything to achieve that goal. I would be that man if there was a woman already laying her head on the pillow beside me every night.”
I hear the excited inhale and slow exhale of breath at my words. I don’t break eye contact with her. I need her to see the truth of my statement. I want her to know I’m more serious about this—about her—than I’ve been about anything I can remember, with the exception of my son Caleb.
“Just dinner,” Gwen murmurs.
“What time do you get off work?” I ask, not bothering to respond. She’s agreeing to dinner, but if I can get more from her than just dinner, I will fucking push for it.
Her forehead scrunches as she finishes the last stitch. “I only work until four today because I work a double tomorrow. Why?” she asks, taking off her gloves and pulling her gaze away from her handiwork.
“I’ll pick you up at four and take you home so you can change and get ready.”
“That’s not necessary,” she replies, already shaking her head no.
“It is. I’ll take your dog with me, too.”
“Um … no.”
“You can’t keep him here all day. I’ve never worked in a hospital, but I can’t imagine they want you to bring your pet to work. I also doubt you can break away on a second’s notice to walk him for a potty break. I can take excellent care of him and make sure he’s with me when I pick you up.”
“I don’t know you. Why should I trust you with a piece of my heart?”
I grin at her. “Because you know I’ll cherish it because I want all of your heart. I want you to place it in my hands, and I’m going to prove that to you.”
