Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
"How’s the range of motion been?" she asks, not looking up. She’s focused on the wound, her thumb gently pressing against the skin near the stitches.
"Good. I practiced today," I say. I watch the way her lashes cast long shadows against her cheekbones. She’s so close I can see the tiny pulse in the hollow of her throat. "Coach wasn't thrilled with my performance, but the hand didn't complain."
"You shouldn't be pushing it yet," she murmurs, finally looking up. Her eyes search mine, looking for signs of dishonesty. "Dr. Patel told you to lay off using it for at least forty-eight hours. If you tear these stitches, you’re looking at possibly damaging the muscle beneath and a longer recovery. Do you always ignore medical advice?"
"Depends on the advice," I say, the words coming out lower than I intended. The banter is gone, replaced by something heavier. "I was careful. I just couldn’t miss practice."
She pauses, her fingers still resting against my palm. For a second, the professional mask slips. I see a flicker of something in her eyes—curiosity maybe, or a reflection of the same heat radiating off my skin. It’s a moment of shared awareness, a bridge forming across the distance between us. Then, she blinks, and the nurse is back.
"Despite your best efforts, the wound is healing well," she says, reaching for a bottle of antiseptic. "No signs of infection. I’ll re-dress it, but you need to keep it dry for another forty-eight hours. And wear a brace if you’re going to be practicing."
"Yes, ma’am." I smirk at her.
“And either have your team doctor look at it or make a real appointment at the sports clinic.” She begins to apply a new bandage, her movements swift and sure.
“How did you know I don’t have an appointment at the clinic today?” I have to know.
Her wicked little grin causes my cock to turn rock-hard. “Because they keep bankers’ hours up in the sports clinic. They closed at four pm.” She smirks, rolling her eyes.
“Then why did you tell me to go up there?” I laugh, totally enjoying myself.
“Because I wanted to see how far you were willing to take your little stunt.” I watch her work, the air in the bay growing thick.
"Oof. My bad.” I’m not at all embarrassed that I made shit up just to see her. I’m a man who lives by strategy, and right now, every instinct I have is telling me to take a shot. I’m supposed to have a heart of ice, but standing in this sterile little room, I feel too much. I want to know everything there is to know about her. And I want to break through this wall she’s built between us. “Would you have dinner with me?" I ask, the words cutting through the quiet.
She stops, the roll of medical tape halfway to my hand. She doesn't look up immediately. She finishes the wrap, smoothing the edges with her thumb before she finally meets my gaze. "Excuse me?"
"Dinner. With me. Tomorrow, or the next day, or whenever you have a free evening." I lean in slightly, closing the small gap between us. "I still want to get to know you."
Harper sighs, a soft sound of exasperation that deflates the tension. She stands up, pushing the stool back with the back of her legs. She crosses her arms over her chest, the professional mask firmly in place, but there’s a hardness in her eyes now that wasn't there before.
"No," she says simply.
I blink, the rejection stinging more than the original cut. "No? Just like that? No 'let me check my calendar' or 'I'm busy washing my hair'?"
"I don't need an excuse. And I don't need to check my calendar to know that dating a hockey player is a bad idea. Especially you." She steps toward the curtain, her hand gripping the fabric.
"Especially me? What’s that supposed to mean?" I stand up, hating the distance I feel growing between us.
"It means," she says, turning back to me. Her voice is tight, guarded. "You’re the last man on earth I should be dating. You’re my brother’s enemy on and off the ice. And I have one very simple rule I follow. No athletes. No matter what. Now, have a good evening, Mr. Thorne."
She walks away without looking back, her stride purposeful and unwavering. I stand in the middle of the small cubicle, feeling my hand pulsing in a dull, insistent rhythm that matches the thud of blood in my ears.
I walk out of the hospital, the cool Seattle air hitting my face like a slap. Damn it. That definitely didn’t go the way I’d planned.
I’m impenetrable. I’m the man who doesn't let anything through. But as I pull out of the parking lot, I realize I’ve got a big fucking problem. Harper Coleman not only got through. She’s already embedded herself deep in my soul.