The receptionist sighed dramatically. “Fine. Sit. Wait.”
She disappeared through the back door.
I realized what I’d done and turned slowly.
He was watching me now.
I became acutely aware of myself under that gaze—of the careful, practical outfit I’d chosen that morning. Safe. Neutral. Invisible. It was perfect for bureaucracy, not for … this.
I suddenly wished I’d worn something else. Something softer. Tighter. The dress that skimmed my hips just right, or the sweater that dipped low enough to remind someone I had a body under all that composure. Something that showed I had curves worth noticing. Worth wanting.
Instead, I was wrapped in competence and grief, wishing he’d met a version of me that felt more alive. The embarrassment followed immediately, sharp and self-correcting. What was I doing, worrying about how I looked to a stranger in a clinic waiting room?
Up close, the effect of his gaze was worse. Or better. His eyes were darker than I’d thought. Brown almost to black. Focused. Sexy as fuck.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said.
And there it was.
American.
Not just American.
New York.
Brooklyn, specifically. The vowels flattened just enough. Consonants clipped. A rough edge softened by time but unmistakable.
A small, surprised smile escaped me. “You’re from Brooklyn.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “That obvious?”
“I grew up in Manhattan.” I sat again, suddenly self-conscious. “You don’t lose the accent completely.”
He studied me another second, then nodded once, like information filed away.
“Thanks,” he added, quieter.
“You’re welcome.”
Silence settled.
Comfortable, somehow.
Which made no sense.
Up close, the details kept registering. The way his shirt stretched across his chest when he shifted. The faint scent of him. The heat of him, even from a seat away.
My gaze drifted to his hands.
Large. Scarred. Controlled.
Hands that knew how to hurt people.
Arousal hit me again—low, undeniable, inappropriate as hell.
Jesus.
I crossed my legs, trying to ignore the warmth pooling in my stomach.
