When he turns back, his eyes are darker. The bergamot and sandalwood has shifted, gone heavier. Primal. It makes me want to tilt my head back and bare my throat.
“I’m going to wrap it now.”
He returns to the stool. Pulls my foot into his lap to stabilize it—my calf against his thigh, his hands cradling my ankle—and the contact sends a rush of heat through me so intense I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
His fingers pause for just a second. Then he starts wrapping, movements quick and efficient. Not looking at me. Jaw tight.
The silence between us goes thick and charged.
“Lucas, I’m sorry?—”
“Dr. Price.” He looks up at me, and underneath the composure, I see it—the anger he’s barely containing. The hurt. “In this room, I’m Dr. Price.”
The words hit like a bucket of ice water. Which I probably needed, given what was happening thirty seconds ago.
He holds my gaze. His eyes drop to my mouth for just a second—one second—and the bergamot spikes, goes darker.
Then he looks away. Finishes the bandage with hands that aren’t quite steady. Ties it off and stands abruptly. Moves toward the door.
“Lucas.” It comes out before I can stop it.
He pauses. Hand on the doorknob. Doesn’t turn around.
“I want to explain?—”
“Ice and elevation,” he says. “Stay off it as much as you can for a day or two.”
Then he’s gone.
I sit therefor a long time after the door closes. The paper crinkles beneath me every time I shift.
Well. That was humiliating.
Not just the slick situation—though that’s going to haunt me at 3am for the rest of my life—but all of it. The way he wouldn’t look at me. The way he said “Dr. Price” like a door slamming shut. The way he wouldn’t even let me finish a sentence.
Great job, Cara. Really nailed it.
The nurse comes eventually. Brings an ice pack and an ACE bandage. I nod along, barely hearing her, too busy replaying every mortifying moment.
Did he smell it? He had to have smelled it. My scent must have been obvious. His nostrils flared. He went darker, heavier.
Oh god. He definitely smelled it.
I want to melt into the exam table and never emerge.
Mary wheels me back to the waiting room—clinic policy, apparently, even though I could walk just fine. Maeve and Mrs. Patterson are there, flipping through magazines, and they both stand when they see me.
“All set?” Maeve asks.
“All set.”
They don’t ask about Lucas. Maybe they can read it on my face—the flush that won’t fade, the thousand-yard stare of someone who has experienced a profound personal humiliation.
The drive to Grandma’s is quiet. By the time we pull into the driveway, I’ve catalogued approximately a thousand things I should have done differently. Starting with “not fallen on the ice” and ending with “not gotten slick during a medical exam like some kind of feral animal.”
A medical exam I didn’t even need. Mild sprain. Ice and elevation. I could have done that at home.
Mrs. Patterson pats my shoulder as I climb out of the car. “Don’t you worry, honey. In the books, they always get back together in the end.”
