Page 13
Except on night two, at one a.m., when my feet are screaming, and my brain is fried, and I’ve been battle-axing through the worst shift of the week. The second I step away from the ER, the exhaustion hits me like a damn bus. I just want to get to the break room and die in peace for twenty minutes. That’s when I see him.
Jaxson Thorne, in the middle of my sacred at-work sanctuary.
The big jerk is leaning against the counter like he belongs here. Black T-shirt, dark jeans, damp hair, and the smoking hot body that does things to my nerves I’m too tired to handle right this moment. There’s a cardboard tray in his hands, two steaming cups of espresso, and a paper bag that probably holds carbs and regret. Of course, he brought food. I stand there gaping like a goldfish while he holds up the tray like a peace offering.
“You look like you could use this,” he murmurs, eyes raking over me. The way he watches me isn’t subtle. It burns me from the inside out.
I grab one of the espressos, ignoring his smirk. I don’t mess around when it comes to caffeine. “You stalking me again?”
He shrugs, all cool and unbothered. “I’m taking care of you.”
He hands me the paper bag, and I open it up and inhale deeply. Blueberry. My favorite.
“How did you know blueberry is my favorite?” I demand, squinting up at him over my coffee.
He grins, slow and smug, like he’s just made a game-winning save. “Little birdie told me.”
I squint at him as I take a big bite out of the muffin. Holy hell. Perfection in a paper wrapper. I don’t know if it’s the sugar rush or his cocky-as-hell grin, but my insides do a weird, happy flip. “Little birdie, huh?”
Jaxson’s eyes gleam. “The main desk receptionist was very helpful. I appreciate her dedication to the cause.”
God, he’s infuriating. And sweet. And standing way too close in my sacred break room. “What, exactly, is the cause, Thorne?” My voice goes raspy. Sexy even. I blame the exhaustion.
He doesn’t hesitate. “You.” He leans in so close I can feel the heat rolling off him, and my heart tries to stage-dive out of my chest. “And making sure you’re taken care of.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I mutter against the lid of my cup, pretending I’m not two seconds from climbing him like a damn tree. “You can’t just show up at my job with snacks and expect me to swoon.”
Jaxson’s mouth twitches. “Not expecting swooning. But I’ll settle for a smile.”
I actually smile. What can I say? Seeing him makes my night.
I can’t stop thinking about him for the rest of my shift. Not in the way you might obsess after an especially hot date, or in the way a single woman would fixate on a pro athlete’s ass, but in the way a raw nerve can’t stop screaming after you’ve stubbed your toe.
Every time I triage a patient, every time a trauma page shrieks, every time I get assigned a new patient, my mind is running some kind of background program—Jaxson Thorne. I replay those five minutes in the break room until I’m dizzy. The way he looked at me, the way his voice had gone low and lethal, the way his thumb traced my jaw like he was memorizing it. I spend the rest of the shift running flat out, pretending I’m not haunted, but it’s a losing game.
After hour twelve, I drag myself home with the kind of brain fog that makes you forget your own name. I collapse face-first onto the couch in my scrubs, daring the universe to send me a single additional problem. Instead, my phone vibrates. It’s a text, and just seeing his name makes my heart start doing that ridiculous cymbal crash thing again.
Iceman
Did you survive?
Me
Mostly
Iceman
I’ll see you soon
Me
Thanks for the warning.
Before I’m able to analyze and reanalyze his text, exhaustion pulls me under, and I fall asleep on my sofa without going on my morning run or taking my morning shower.
That night, I’m a mess of anticipation. I try not to look at the clock. I fail. I try not to check my phone every chance I get. I fail. I tell myself that if he shows up, it’s just a bonus, not a big deal. But when I walk into the break room at 2 a.m. and find him there, relief cuts through me. Darn.
He’s leaning against the same counter, looking like he’s barely slept, hair still damp as if he’s only just stepped off the ice. He’s in a battered gray hoodie and jeans that hug his muscular thighs and very impressive rear end, and he’s holding a cardboard tray just like last time. The only difference is his grin. It’s softer now, less cocky, more like a secret he’s keeping.
