Two words.
Civil.
Awful.
I looked at Dylan one last time.
He was looking at me.
Georgia saw that too.
Of course she did.
Women always knew.
I walked out before the room could ask any more of me.
In the hallway, I pressed my back against the wall for exactly three seconds.
Three.
No more.
Inside Dylan’s room, Georgia’s voice softened. His answered, rough and low.
I could not make out the words.
Good.
I did not want them.
I wanted too much already.
I pushed away from the wall and walked back toward the nurses’ station, pulse still racing, hands still steady, heart still stupid enough to ache because a wounded, engaged man had glared at a doctor for asking me to dinner.
Possessive.
Jealous.
Mine and not mine.
And the worst part was this:
For one brief, terrible second, when Dylan looked at me like he wanted to tear the room apart because another man had smiled too long, I had not felt ashamed.
I had felt wanted.
Then I remembered Georgia’s ring.
And the shame came back twice as sharp.
CHAPTER 12
DYLAN
I knewshe was in the room before I opened my eyes.
Could’ve been scent, except hospitals smelled like bleach, plastic, old fear, and whatever antiseptic they used to convince people death didn’t live in the walls. Could’ve been the sound of her steps, except nurses moved in and out all night and half of them wore the same soft-soled shoes.
