The door creaked open, and then came a slight rap. Wren, thinking it was someone looking for Luna, stayed where she was. She was having a crisis here; she simply wanted to wallow in it for a few minutes more.
“You’re the new doctor in town, aren’t you?” Luna said, husky delight in her voice.
Wren shot off the wall and glanced over her shoulder. Dane stood in the doorway, a pamphlet in his hand, looking scrumptious in navy chino shorts, leather flip-flops, and a white, button-down shirt with the cuffs rolled back showing off his truly yummy forearms.
“I’m a doctor, but I’m notthenew doctor in town,” Dane said. Wren wondered how many times he had been asked the same question since he’d arrived? Old Dr. Morris was in his seventies, and everyone knew that the town needed a new, young doctor. And Luna had him in her sights. The poor guy.
She shuffled on her feet, feeling guilty because she’d put him there.
“Hey, Wren.” His eyes locked on hers, and the corner of his mouth tilted in a half-smile that made her breath hitch. So …hell.
Nothing had changed. The past days hadn’t dulled a thing. Her attraction was still scorching, still stubbornly strong. Dammit. “I’m a surgeon specializing in trauma,” he added, addressing Luna. “Being a family doctor is not a skill set I possess.”
Luna wafted over to him, holding out her hand. “Pfft, a doctor is a doctor,” she replied airily. “I’m Luna Merriweather, Mayor.”
Dane took her hand. “Dane Trafford,” he replied. “Traumasurgeon.”
Wren’s lips twitched at him digging in his heels. He could try, but once Luna had an idea in her head, not even a meteor could dislodge it. As her own capitulation proved.
Dane held Luna’s assessing stare. “Do not even think about considering me to take over the local doctor’s practice. That’s not going to happen,” he told her, his tone firm.
Luna blinked, caught off-guard. When last did someone call her out and ever-so-gently put her in place? A decade ago? Two? Maybe Wren had underestimated the Hot Doc …surgeon. Maybe he was a lot tougher and more steadfast than she’d thought. Then again, she’d looked up what they did on the internet—because she was curious and not because she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Okay, maybe it was a little of the former and a lot of the latter.
Anyway, she’d done a little research into what field-trauma surgeons did and, to her, his job looked like a mix of miracle worker and stubborn mule. They ran, as he’d said, into chaos, assessing the injuries of crowds in a heartbeat. In natural disasters, trauma doctors worked in collapsed buildings, tent hospitals, school gyms turned into emergency rooms, or literally on the roadside if that was the only flat surface available. They handled crush injuries, penetration injuries that caused massive bleeding, burns, broken limbs … all the awful things she didn’t let herself think about too long. And while the world shook, flooded, burned, and misbehaved around them, they stayed steady, barking instructions, operating, and saving lives. As someone online stated, it was raw, relentless work—part medicine, part MacGyver, mostly pure grit.
His eyes met hers. Were they suddenly a warmer blue, holding a hint of amusement? His mouth quirked up. “You caved, right?” While he looked and sounded amused, he didn’t sound condescending.
She nodded. “Sort of.” She shrugged. “I’m teachingoneclass tomorrow at four.”
The amused skepticism on Dane’s face said it all—he’d sussed out that she was stalling. The thing was, shedidowe her godmother. She wouldn’t be at this point in her career, respected and reasonably well known, requested often, without Luna backing her dream.
But she couldn’t cave—not yet. She needed space to think, to figure out whether the dance class would become another weight she didn’t need and couldn’t handle. She was supposed to be taking a proper break from dance, to see if she could live without it…
Though God only knew what else she might do. Could do.
Dane looked down at the pamphlet in his hand. “About that… I don’t know if you know that I have, somehow, garnered a few guys who join me in the park to exercise.” He sounded confused by the concept, and Wren smiled. Few people in H-Town were shy about putting their best foot forward.
Curious as to where he was going with this, she waited for him to continue.
“So, I have this kid who is dragged out of bed at the ass crack of dawn by his father to exercise, and he hates every minute of it. His dad is a ‘bro’—into gym-ing and flexing. His kid is not”—Dane hesitated, and Wren knew he was looking for a tactful way of saying what he wanted to say; out in the field, she suspected he would just do what he wanted, and to hell with it—“the jock his father wants him to be.”
Why was he telling her, and Luna, this?
“I saw him standing in front of the community noticeboard in the square, looking at your poster,” said Luna.
She had posters? Wren darted a look at Luna, who lifted her eyes to the ceiling. The witch.
“The kid lives on my street, and we talk sometimes. I was wondering whether I should encourage him to join your dance class.”
Wren was glad some of the stigma of boys learning to dance had faded, but there were still pockets of dinosaurs who still called it “gay.” Like gay was an insult; some of her favorite people in the world carried that label with pride. As they should. “He should, even if I don’t end up teaching it.”
“You’ll still go ahead with it if Wren bows out?” Dane asked Luna, who pursed her lips, obviously irritated.
“Of course we will, as I went to the expense and effort of printing the posters and brochures,” Luna replied. “But, trust me, Wren will be their instructor.”
Wren’s hands shot up into the air. She might as well try to convince a particularly stubborn concrete wall. Dane didn’t look convinced. “Will he be the only guy? I think this kid has enough issues about being different without being the only male in a dance class.”
“I don’t know. Luna?”
