Chapter 1
Claire
“Claire. We’ve got a chainsaw-vs-forearm in Seven. Patient is stable but I need you to consult.”
“Be there in two.”
I log out of the computer in the Shark Tank as my colleague, trauma surgeon Bodhi Kaufman, disappears around the corner. We both practice medicine at Northwest General, a Level 2 trauma center in Indigo Hills, right in the heart of the Texas Hill Country. As a plastic surgeon, I’ve performed many procedures with Bodhi during my two years here.
The Shark Tank was dubbed such years ago, and now it’s decorated with aquarium memorabilia. On my first day, the nursing staff gifted me a stuffed shark. Their station is The Hive. Makes this hard job more fun.
It has been a beast of a day. Although I’m mid-shift, I don’t see me heading home on time tonight. Tomorrow is opening day for the Cobalt County Antiques Fair, one of the largest outdoor antique festivals in the country. More than 100,000 people will be visiting our county over the next seven days, bringing heat exhaustion, illnesses, and injuries with them.
I scrub my hands and arms at the wash station before sliding on my gown and mask, the fluorescent lighing bright overhead. Chainsaw wounds can be splattery, so I add a face shield before heading to Bay Seven. No point in being unprepared. As I walk, Brahms’ Lullaby plays over the PA system. Something tightens in my chest until I force it down and focus on the new little life that someone gets to have.
I stand in front of the patient’s the curtain and silently count to ten, then step inside, where Isaac Lopez, one of Northwest General’s best nurses, is swapping out blood-soaked gauze over a nasty wound. The rhythmic beat of the heart monitor is strong.
A shredded flannel shirt lies crumpled on the chair, one sleeve scissored away by the paramedics. Work boots, caked with mud and wood chips, sit beneath the gurney.
Then I do a double take at the shirtless man laying on the table.
Hunter-hot-as-sin-Ashe.
The best man to my maid of honor role at my friend’s upcoming wedding, and one of the sexiest men on the planet. Heat crawls up my neck. I’ve seen hundreds of shirtless men on hospital beds, and it’s never affected me. But Hunter’s body isn’t clinical.
He’s a lumberjack with miles of muscle, sun-bronzed skin, and the kind of build you get from swinging axes, not workout in gyms. Right now, he’s showcasing them as he lies on the bed, one forearm covering his eyes while his other arm is being worked on by Isaac. The way his abs flex when he shifts, how his chest rises and falls, the V-cut of muscle disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans? My mouth goes dry.
The first and only time I saw Hunter was two weeks ago at Esme’s wedding party brunch, where Hunter and I were introduced. My hormones did a quick shout of yes! at meeting the guy Esme says is perfect for a hookup, so I steered as clearof him as possible. Apparently, Hunter’s wife died ten years ago while they were trying to start a family. Since then, he plays the field. I’m not looking for a one-and-done, and children are probably not in the cards for me, so why start something that would never work?
Derek couldn’t handle the surrogacy conversation when I finally had it. Said it was “too much planning” for something that should be “natural.” That’s when I knew he and I would never work. He didn’t understand—or want to understand—that my advanced endometriosis will likely make carrying a child impossible. That’s why I froze my eggs.
Hunter wanted a family at some point. I’m not putting myself through the pain of a surrogacy conversation again with someone who’s already grieving the family he tried to build.
I mentally tick through the list of available plastic surgeons on call, but I can’t justify not doing this consult for Bodhi. He’s already prepping for surgery.
Pulling on gloves, my voice is calm yet firm. “Hunter Ashe, I’m Dr. Elliott. We met at Esme’s Pre-Game Luncheon.” It’s good to get the awkwardness out of the way, especially in front of my team.
Hunter yanks his arm away from his eyes, jaw tight, his pupils slightly pinned from the morphine but his pain still evident. His expression shows the same shock I had at seeing him. His light brown hair is cut shorter, his hazel eyes looking blue in this light. Sawdust clings to the scruff along his jaw, and even through the sharp sting of antiseptic, I catch the faint scent of pine resin and woodsmoke.
The pulse oximeter beeps as Isaac looks up from dressing the wound. “You two are in Esme’s wedding?” The irony of our situation isn’t lost on me.
Hunter’s eyebrow quirks up, holding my gaze instead of looking at Isaac. “I’m Franklin’s best man.”
“Wow. What a small world,” Isaac says with a tiny smirk from the rolling stool. “And you’re the maid of honor, right?” Isaac knows full well that I am. Esme works here as a pediatric radiologist. I don’t need reminders that Hunter and I will be orbiting each other for the next two months with fittings, parties, and all the rest of those unavoidable best man and maid of honor duties.
Isaac also knows that Esme’s been talking Hunter up to me since her engagement.
Hunter emits a quiet laugh, and I shoot Isaac a mind your business look as I switch places with him at Hunter’s bedside.
All it takes is one look at the wound to flip into work mode. “Tell me what happened.”
“I was using a chainsaw on a log that looked clean. It struck an old nail that caused kickback. That nail head was deep in there.” He winces as I remove the dressing to take a look, the meds not quite kicking in yet. “Better me than one of my guys.”
The words dangle like a truth hanging just out of reach. Of course Hunter shields his crew. Of course he’s the kind of man who steps between danger and everyone else, who takes the hit so someone else doesn’t have to.
Isaac steps toward the curtain. “I’ll grab a fresh tray from supply. Be right back.”
Before I can respond, he’s already disappearing through the curtain, leaving the room quieter than it should feel.
