He points at me, one long, masculine finger held aloft between us. "Now it is, but it wasn't before."
I stare him down, trying to come up with any plausible excuse for why I made whatever face it was I was making. He stares right back, and I'm starting to think this guy's superhuman strength is stubbornness.
I sigh, forgetting myself yet again. "Are you going to let this go and allow me to do my job?"
"One hundred percent no."
I sigh once more, adding a deep grumble to it so he will know how absolutely aggrieved I am. He did tell me to feel whatever I wanted to feel around him.
"The answer is still no," he says. "It doesn't matter how many times you sigh."
"What if I sigh until I pass out?"
"That's not a thing." He crosses his arms, and it does something to his biceps and pectorals I'm trying very hard not to notice.
"Sure it is."
He smirks, and dammit if it isn't obnoxiously adorable. "Where did you get that little fact?"
"From the fact fairy," I say loftily.
It works. He breaks. Helaughs.
Deep and rumbly, settling into my bones in a delicious way that brings with it discomfort. Because this man's laugh should not be delicious, or yummy, or any other food based adjective. It should be a zero. A nothing burger. A non-event.
"Anyway," I say forcefully, tapping the iPad screen. It comes to life, and I tap until I've reached the patient file labeledBravo.
"You didn't give my assistant much to write about," I say, skimming the notes Isla entered. Aloud, I recite what it says. "Patient is nearing the end of progressive strengthening, and is ready to begin advanced rehabilitation." I stop, giving him the chance to add to it, to fill in details about how he was injured, and what exactly it is he's rehabilitating from, but he doesn't say anything. "Ahh. The stoic, military type."
He frowns. "Did the fact fairy also tell you I was in the military? Because I know I did not offer that information when I called to make this appointment."
I bite the inside of my lower lip to keep from laughing. "No. Your tattoo told on you."
He uncrosses his arms, holding his right arm out to appraise his inked forearm. "The flowers?" With the tip of one finger, he outlines a daisy. "This one right here? One of these basic, nondescript, typical flowers? The kind that are found anywhere?"
Does he want me to ask what kind of flowers those are? Because it really feels that way. But of course, I already knowby sight the flower I'm named after. It feels like he knows I already know, but for some reason he wants me to ask. Which means I absolutely will not be asking, not only because I already know the answer, but also because I do not want to give him the satisfaction.
"One hundred percent no." It's my turn to smirk.
He drops his forearm on the table, poking at the frog skeleton. "I was a Navy SEAL."
There we go. A morsel. A little nugget of information from this otherwise tight-lipped man.
"Was?"
He nods. "I got a little too froggy."
A grin bends my lips. It's not a real grin, like I'm genuinely smiling, but more likeI understand.
"Tell me more."
"A service-connected injury while on a mission. Our team was ambushed while we were setting up an explosive, and it detonated before we were clear of the area. I was luckier than some." He looks down. "Several broken ribs, and shrapnel. A little nerve damage." He makes a circular motion on the left side of his midsection.
I do my damndest not to show the distress sweeping through me. I can only begin to imagine the fear that accompanied his experience. "Surgery?"
He nods. "To repair the damaged nerves."
"In the torso?"
