“He’s alive,” I said. “We’re calling that progress.”
Dylan’s gaze cut to me.
There was heat in it now.
Not soft.
Not sweet.
Possessive.
Angry.
Confusing as hell.
Because he had no right to look at me like that with Georgia’s ring sitting in the world.
No right at all.
And yet my pulse still answered like an idiot.
Bennett came closer, checking the chart. “Vitals?”
“Temperature normal. O2 stable. Pressure acceptable. Pain underreported.”
Dylan muttered, “Snitch.”
I ignored him.
Bennett laughed. “Good to know. She’s tough on everybody, Degan. Don’t take it personally.”
“I don’t.”
Lie.
The air snapped with it.
Bennett, who was a doctor and therefore occasionally blind to things that did not appear on imaging, kept going. “Actually, Rourke, I’ve been meaning to ask if you’re off this weekend.”
My hand stopped on the tablet.
Dylan went utterly still.
Oh no.
Absolutely not.
“Doctor,” I said carefully.
Bennett smiled like he thought my tone was flirtation instead of warning. “There’s this new place near Old Town. Good mezcal, supposedly decent food. I thought maybe?—”
“Dr. Bennett.”
“What?” His smile widened. “Is that a no?”
I looked at Dylan.
Mistake.
