“Five of the prettiest stitches I’ve ever made,” the doctor finally said before rattling off a list of care instructions and making Aubrey promise to go to her doctor the very next day.
“Say, I didn’t catch your name,” she said.
“Dr. Rosenberg, at your service,” he said with a little bow.
“Thank you, Dr. Rosenberg.”
“A fine thanks for me will be a promise to wear proper footwear in all future basketball games.”
Aubrey grinned. “I can promise you that.”
I scooped her up once more, and the good doctor led us out to where the limo was waiting. We rode in silence until Aubrey looked up from her phone. “Uh, that’s Dr. Josiah Rosenberg. He’s only a world-famous podiatrist.”
I had to laugh. “Of course he was. And now you have pretty stitches for your dainty feet.”
13
Aubrey
After one last ride in Ezekiel Angelo’s limo, Cole carried me in the house in spite of my protests that he was going to throw his back out if he kept carting my carcass around.
“It’s the least I can do,” he said.
Now that my foot was fixed up and properly bandaged, I’d become very aware of the fact that he was running around with his dress shirt open. His chest was warm against my arm, and he somehow managed to still smell good in spite of all of the carrying.
He gently placed me on the love seat and plopped down on my left. Then he popped right back up and pulled the coffee table closer, grabbed a pillow, and guided my foot to the pillow. Once my injury was elevated, he sat back down again.
“You’re good in a crisis, Frost.”
“You’re good with people, Longfellow.”
We let those compliments sit in the air between us. We’d hardly spoken for the first six months I’d moved in, and, by then, we’d settled into a prickly truce. Of course, now I knew his gloomy disposition was probably due to having had his heart stomped by a woman who couldn’t appreciate his finer points.
To be fair, I hadn’t been able to appreciate his finer points, either.
“How can I be this tired and still not be able to fall asleep?” he asked.
“Adrenalin rush,” I said. “It’s kinda like trying to come down after a big game. But with stitches!”
“Oh, fun,” he said. “How do we get over that?”
“Chamomile tea or—”
Sex.
He was already up and moving before I could put words to my second suggestion, which was good for many reasons. I couldn’t think of any, but there had to be reasons. After a few minutes, he brought a mug of tea and a bottle of over-the-counter painkillers.
“Deidre is an idiot,” I said with a sigh as I warmed my hands on the mug of tea.
He chuckled. “Thank you for that assessment.”
“Seriously, you’re going to make someone a mighty fine wife one day.”
He laughed out loud this time. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I meant it as one. Gender rules are stupid.”
We sipped in silence for a while before he asked, “So you don’t want children?”
