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)
So, I decide to cook something complex that requires focus. I pull a chef's knife from the magnetic rack, the steel cold and familiar. I’m chopping onions, the rhythm a poor substitute for the thud of a puck, when my mind drifts back to that moment in the ballroom. The way she looked at me, not with awe, but with a quiet, analytical scrutiny.
The knife slips, and my dumbass tries to catch it. With my goddamn right hand.
It’s a clean, sharp bite across my palm. For a heartbeat, there’s no pain, just the sight of the skin parting. Then the red wells up, thick and fast, staining the white cutting board. I hiss through my teeth, dropping the knife and grabbing a kitchen towel. I wrap it tight, but the blood seeps through the fabric almost instantly. It’s deep. Deeper than a simple bandage can handle. Damn it. Motherfucker.
I look at the towel, the pulse in my hand a rhythmic throb that echoes the hollow ache in my gut. I could call the team doctor, but the thought of the questions, the reports, the lecture on being more careful with my 'million-dollar assets' makes my stomach turn, and I decide to try my luck at the ER right up the road.
I grab my keys, my hand wrapped in a fresh but already blood-soaked cloth. The drive to Seattle General is a test of focus, the steering wheel slick beneath my grip. My palm throbs as I drive through the busy downtown streets.
The emergency department is a chaotic symphony of sirens and shouting. It smells of antiseptic and old coffee. I walk up to the triage desk, my tall frame casting a shadow over the paperwork. The nurse behind the counter doesn't look up immediately. She’s busy with a chart, her movements efficient and tired.
"I have a laceration," I say, my voice sounding more like a growl than I intended. "I cut myself with a kitchen knife, and it won't stop bleeding."
She looks up then, her eyes widening as she recognizes the face from the billboards and the sports highlights. But before she can speak, a familiar voice cuts through the noise of the waiting room.
"I'll take him to bay four," Harper says, appearing from the hallway. She isn't in the emerald dress anymore. She’s in blue scrubs, her hair pulled into a practical ponytail, a stethoscope draped around her neck. God. She’s goddamn stunning. She looks at me, and there’s no warmth in her expression. There’s only a professional, guarded edge that reminds me exactly whose sister she is.
At least I’m losing less blood right now since all the blood flow has redirected straight to my cock. I follow her, the 'Ice Wall' finally coming face to face with the one person who seems to spread heat through all the iciness. Fuck. I haven’t felt this alive in… forever.
CHAPTER FOUR
HARPER
Of all days. Today isn’t the day to deal with this. My schedule is all messed up from attending the gala and then working the next night. And now I have to deal with the one person in the world I need to avoid. Jaxson Thorne. The man whose face is currently running through my mind like a freaking highlight reel and whose name is a curse word to my brother. I point to triage four. “Have a seat on the bed.” His presence eats up the small space of the treatment bay until it feels like I’m drowning in him.
His hand is wrapped in a makeshift bandage of kitchen towels, now sodden with a deep, dark crimson. He follows my instructions. I stare into his eyes, and for a second, the sterile fluorescence of the ER catches the gold in his eyes. He doesn't look like a statue of focused granite right now. He looks like a man who tried to fight a kitchen knife and lost.
"Hello again," he says. His voice is a low rumble that vibrates in the air between us, landing somewhere in the pit of my stomach. “I’d say us meeting again is fate if my hand wasn’t throbbing like a motherfucker.”
"You should be more careful playing with sharp objects, Mr. Thorne," I reply, my voice smooth and clinical. I don't let the flutter in my chest reach my hands as I set the tray down on the rolling cart. "Let's see the damage."
I reach for his hand, and the moment my fingers brush his skin, a static charge jumps between us. He breathes out, and his eyes never leave mine. His jaw tightens, and his breath hitches when I carefully peel back the blood-soaked towel to reveal a jagged laceration running across the meat of his palm. It’s deep, the edges clean but angry, pulsing with a steady rhythm that tells me we’re going to be here a while.