I lean against the table and cross my arms. “Then maybe I shouldn’t be your patient.”
She freezes, then slowly looks up at me. “Excuse me?”
“I want a new doctor.” I arch a brow before teasing, “Aniceone. So I can take you out.”
She laughs, loud and bold. “That’s not how this works.”
“Sure it is,” I reply. “I’ll make a scene. File a complaint. Cry a little. It’ll all be very dramatic.”
“Flirt all you want, but I have rules.” She shakes her head. “I don’t date adrenaline-junkie soldiers.”
I arch a brow. “Who said I’m an adrenaline junkie?”I mean, it’s not a lie.
“You have shrapnel scars on your calf,” she fires back instantly. “And the triage nurse counted four old bullet wounds on your back when she did your intake. I’m just going to assume there are more that she didn’t see.”
Damn…
“I’ve got one more in my shoulder,” I reply with an unrepentant grin.And two stab wounds—one in my gut and another in my thigh—but who’s counting?
Without batting an eye, she firmly states, “No.”
“Come on. Coffee?” I try. “Dinner. Something painfully drab and normal.”
“There is nothing normal about you.”
Is she flirting with me, too?
“Rude again.”
“I don’t date patients,” she adds.
“We’ve cleared that up already. I’m barely even a patient.”
“Or liars,” she snarks.
“Semantics,” I counter. “That wasn’t evenreallya lie. More like a little fib to get you into a room with me.”
She steps closer and lowers her voice. “Listen to me carefully. Whatever game you’re playing, stop. You don’t want to be involved in my life.”
I meet her gaze and unwaveringly hold it. “You don’t get to decide that alone.”
Her jaw tightens. “I said no.”
“Fine.” I sigh theatrically, lifting my hands in surrender. “Worth a shot. Shot… If I came back with a bullet wound, could I change your mind?”
She points at the door, a huge smile plumping her cheeks. “Get out before I actually hurt your ankle.”
I laugh, backing toward the exit. “Threats from medical professionals. Very sexy.”
“Out!” she snaps, unable to hide the tinge of excitement in her tone.
As I step into the hallway, I glance behind me to find her hunched over my chart with a smile anchored firmly in place. She might’ve said no, but she’s interested, and that’s not an ending. It’s an opening. And I’ve never been great at walking away from those.
“He’s cute.” Zahra’s voice is light, almost sing-song. She says it like it’s an observation about the weather and not a loaded comment dropped squarely into the middle of my already frayed nerves.
I don’t look up from the chart because if I do, she’ll see it all over my face. She’ll notice the way my focus fractures a little at the thought of him. “He’s trouble.”
“Those two things are not mutually exclusive.” She hums thoughtfully. I lift my eyes from and glance over at her. She is leaning against the counter at the nurses’ station, arms crossed, eyes bright with curiosity and the faintest hint of mischief. Zahra thrives on moments like this. “Besides, you know what they say about trouble…”
