“Claire.”
Hunter’s gruff voice stops me mid-motion. He’s watching me with a focused intensity like he’s been waiting for the room to empty. “You always this controlled when people are bleeding on your table?”
The man is hooked to an IV and has a serious injury, yet he somehow finds the strength to taunt me?
“It’s called doing my job.”
My hands tighten within my gloves, the room suddenly warmer. I stand in my pressed white coat, hair tight, hands sterile, and everything controlled. Hunter’s all rough edges, dragging something raw and dangerous into my carefully ordered world.
“What happens when you’re not in control, Doc?” He shifts on the table, revealing a pale line at his hipbones where his jeans, streaked with bark dust, sit low.
My stomach drops as something sharp flickers under my ribs. Does he even know what he’s asking? The way his eyes track my face and linger on my mouth suggests he does. I straighten, finding my professional footing despite recognizing the challenge in his eyes for exactly what it is.
Esme never should have tried to hook me up with Hunter. Her fiancé probably did the same with him!
I attempt to shift the conversation. “You’ve had morphine. I wouldn’t trust your judgment right now.”
He huffs a dry laugh, his lip curling to one side. “I’ve had worse than morphine.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s not meant to be.” His eyes track me, steady. “You look like someone who’s always the one holding everything together.”
I stop for half a beat too long before responding. “And you look like someone who thinks he can diagnose strangers in under a minute.”
That finally earns a hint of a smile. Small. Controlled. Gone quickly.
“Not strangers,” he says. “You introduced yourself to me two weeks ago. Wedding luncheon. You were doing a lot of watching.” The teasing edge in his voice softens for just a second, something almost vulnerable flickering across his face
I blink once. “That’s not what happened.”
“Pretty sure it is.” Now he’s at a full-on smirk, his dimples evident through his scruff.
The air between us thickens. His eyes drop to my mouth, then drag back up slowly, deliberate, dangerous. My pulse kicks against my throat. For three seconds, maybe four, the monitors and fluorescent lights fade away, and it’s just him watching me like he’s already decided something I haven’t agreed to yet.
The curtain shifts open, and Isaac reenters with the supplies, a large man following him in.
“Hey, man.” The visitor winces at Hunter’s injury as he moves to Hunter’s bedside, squeezing his good shoulder. “Declan told me what happened. You doing alright?”
The man scans the room, his eyes flicking to me before returning to Hunter.
This man looks to be maybe ten years older than me, early forties probably, a little gray at his temples and his tanned body sculpted. A Wilder Industries emblem is embroidered on his fitted black polo shirt. Hunter’s boss, maybe?
“Pain’s not too bad.” He twirls two fingers in a zig-zag motion. “Morphine.”
The man chuckles before introducing himself from the opposite side of the hospital bed. “Luke Wilder.”
“Claire Elliott.” I nod, the weight of too many bodies in too small a space pressing in. “Let’s take a look at the damage.”
An uneasiness blooms inside my chest as I carefully peel back the blood-soaked gauze. Hunter’s breath hitches, his jaw tight, as I examine his injury. The skin is jagged, his tendons possibly nicked. I gently probe the edges of the laceration with gloved fingers, the metallic scent of blood mingling with antiseptic as I lean in to assess the damage.
His skin is warm under my touch, even through the latex. His forearm is corded with muscle, veins prominent from years of gripping tools. The cut runs deeper than it should, the tissueleft uneven, as if the blade didn’t pass cleanly through. There’s likely tendon damage, possibly bone involvement—X-rays will confirm. It’s going to take time to fix.
“Am I going to live, Doc?” Hunter sends me a flirty smile that goes straight to my loins.
“Yes, you’re going to live. We just need to clean things up and ensure your tendons and ligaments are intact.”
Hunter holds up the palm of his good arm, revealing a faint scar running along its center. “This isn’t my first dance with a chainsaw, Doc.”
