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)
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.
“Well, this is a surprise.” I ignore the happiness flowing through me.
“I told you I’d be here.” He holds out the tray with a theatrical flourish. “Lemon poppyseed. I heard it’s your backup favorite,” he says, voice pitched low, like we’re in on something together.
I reach for the muffin, but he holds it just out of reach, making me step closer. I try to glare at him, but his eyes are so blue I actually forget what I’m supposed to be annoyed about. “Stop torturing me and hand over the scone.”
“Anything for you,” he says, and there’s a flicker of vulnerability so brief I almost miss it. “I told you I was persistent.”
I take the muffin and break off a piece, refusing to let him see how hard I’m blushing. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I actually did.” He stares down into my eyes. “I needed to see you, and I couldn’t wait a second longer.”
I’m about to make a smartass reply when he leans in and presses a kiss to my lips—quick, soft, electric. It’s so unexpected I nearly drop my muffin.
“See you soon.” Then he’s gone, just like that, leaving me with a mouthful of lemon poppyseed and a fresh supply of adrenaline. I stare at the door after he leaves, muffin forgotten, lips tingling like I’ve swallowed a mouthful of Pop Rocks.
I make it through the rest of my shift on that single stupid kiss. The triage line could be a thousand people deep, but I can’t stop replaying the memory of his mouth on mine, the quiet way he said “needed to see you,” like it was the most natural thing in the world. When the end of the shift finally comes, I find myself at the hospital doors scanning the sidewalk, half-expecting him to be there waiting for me.
The third night, I’m an actual wreck. I tell myself to be cool, to not expect him. I stand in the hallway outside the break room for a full minute before psyching myself up to go inside. I count to five. I breathe. I walk in.
He’s there before me, sitting at the tiny table with his long legs folded awkwardly beneath him, scrolling through something on his phone. “Hey, firecracker.” He holds up the bag. “Tonight, I got chocolate chip muffins and double espressos.” My stomach instantly growls in anticipation.
His hair is a disaster, sticking up in all directions, and there’s a cut above his eyebrow he didn’t have last night. I want to ask if he’s okay, but my words come out all tangled.
“How are you even alive right now? The Knights played earlier tonight. You couldn’t have had enough time to get some sleep.”
He shrugs, looking up at me like I’m the only woman in the world. “I don’t need much sleep. And I wanted to see you. So, I made it work.” He says it with that low, unhurried confidence.