on light blue walls. There's fluid dripping into my arm through a tube, a needle inserted into one of my veins. No... No! Not another sedative. I claw at the tube and the man next to me takes both on my hands in his and pins them down. “Don't pull that out.” His voice is stern. Authoritative. “You need that.”
I clear my throat and find my voice. “I don't want any more drugs.”
The man beside moves across the room and picks up a chart from the wall. He scans it briefly then focuses his attention on me. “They aren't drugs.” He hangs the chart up on the wall and walks back over to me. “They’re fluids. Potassium. Saline. When you came in you were severely dehydrated and malnourished.” He produces a stethoscope from his right pocket. “You were bleeding internally. We didn’t think he you were going to make it.” He dips the end of the stethoscope beneath my gown, but doesn’t touch my skin with it. “This is going to be a little cold.” He puts the two prongs in his ears and places the flat part beneath my skin. I twitch when I feel the icy metal on my chest. Something about this man’s actions seem mechanical. Like he’s so used to checking heartbeats he could do it in his sleep.
While he's listening to my heartbeat, I avert my attention to a wide rectangular window, watching as nurses pass in their uniforms. White dresses. White caps. I even see a few more men wearing lab coats. “I'm in a hospital.” Like a normal hospital with people who are actually here to help me.
“You are,” says the man at my side. “Do you know why?” He removes the end of the stethoscope from my chest and tucks it back into his pocket.
I know he's staring at me. I can feel his eyes touching me in various places. Arms. Cheeks. Lips. My gaze locks with his and breath escapes me. My heart hammers and I can feel it in my throat. My angel is so handsome—no—more than handsome. My angel is ravishing. “Yes and no.” I drop my gaze and play with the edge of the sheet I'm covered with. “Are you a doctor?”
“Yes,” he says shortly.
I think about my childhood and how I always hated going to the doctor. Mostly because I hated getting shots, but as I observe the man next to me I have a funny thought. Perhaps I wouldn't have minded going to the doctor so much if my doctor looked like this one.
“Are you my doctor?” I press on.
A hint of a smile curls on his full lips. “Yes and no.” He takes my wrist and presses two fingers into it, feeling for a pulse.
I purse my lips wondering for a moment if he might be mocking me. The smile fades from his lips and it instantly changes his whole look. His face has taken on this hard edge and I'm amazed that a simple half-smile could add so much to it. Don't get me wrong; even with the hard edge this man's attractiveness cannot be hidden. In fact, all I can do is stare at his face. His long lashes are dark and thick curling up toward his eyebrows. His hair is the color of golden wheat and is parted on the side, every strand of it held in place perfectly by some kind of salve. And his amber eyes have flecks of gold around his irises.
“I was working the ER when they brought you in. Technically, I’m not really your doctor, but since I was the first one to examine you,” his eyes dead-lock with mine, “let’s just say I’m personally invested in the outcome of your recovery.”
“Oh.” My gaze doesn’t falter. In fact, there’s a voice somewhere telling me, I swear I could stare into those eyes for eternity.
He clears his throat like he feels uncomfortable under my scrutiny of him and walks across the room, picking up another chart. He's got broad shoulders and there's muscle definition in his bicep that I can make out through the thin fabric of his lab coat. “Jane Doe,” he says curtly.
I lift an eyebrow. “Jane Doe,” I repeat. “Who is she?”
He laughs and I notice the dimples in his cheeks and how every part of him is illuminated.
I clear my throat and find my voice. “I don't want any more drugs.”
The man beside moves across the room and picks up a chart from the wall. He scans it briefly then focuses his attention on me. “They aren't drugs.” He hangs the chart up on the wall and walks back over to me. “They’re fluids. Potassium. Saline. When you came in you were severely dehydrated and malnourished.” He produces a stethoscope from his right pocket. “You were bleeding internally. We didn’t think he you were going to make it.” He dips the end of the stethoscope beneath my gown, but doesn’t touch my skin with it. “This is going to be a little cold.” He puts the two prongs in his ears and places the flat part beneath my skin. I twitch when I feel the icy metal on my chest. Something about this man’s actions seem mechanical. Like he’s so used to checking heartbeats he could do it in his sleep.
While he's listening to my heartbeat, I avert my attention to a wide rectangular window, watching as nurses pass in their uniforms. White dresses. White caps. I even see a few more men wearing lab coats. “I'm in a hospital.” Like a normal hospital with people who are actually here to help me.
“You are,” says the man at my side. “Do you know why?” He removes the end of the stethoscope from my chest and tucks it back into his pocket.
I know he's staring at me. I can feel his eyes touching me in various places. Arms. Cheeks. Lips. My gaze locks with his and breath escapes me. My heart hammers and I can feel it in my throat. My angel is so handsome—no—more than handsome. My angel is ravishing. “Yes and no.” I drop my gaze and play with the edge of the sheet I'm covered with. “Are you a doctor?”
“Yes,” he says shortly.
I think about my childhood and how I always hated going to the doctor. Mostly because I hated getting shots, but as I observe the man next to me I have a funny thought. Perhaps I wouldn't have minded going to the doctor so much if my doctor looked like this one.
“Are you my doctor?” I press on.
A hint of a smile curls on his full lips. “Yes and no.” He takes my wrist and presses two fingers into it, feeling for a pulse.
I purse my lips wondering for a moment if he might be mocking me. The smile fades from his lips and it instantly changes his whole look. His face has taken on this hard edge and I'm amazed that a simple half-smile could add so much to it. Don't get me wrong; even with the hard edge this man's attractiveness cannot be hidden. In fact, all I can do is stare at his face. His long lashes are dark and thick curling up toward his eyebrows. His hair is the color of golden wheat and is parted on the side, every strand of it held in place perfectly by some kind of salve. And his amber eyes have flecks of gold around his irises.
“I was working the ER when they brought you in. Technically, I’m not really your doctor, but since I was the first one to examine you,” his eyes dead-lock with mine, “let’s just say I’m personally invested in the outcome of your recovery.”
“Oh.” My gaze doesn’t falter. In fact, there’s a voice somewhere telling me, I swear I could stare into those eyes for eternity.
He clears his throat like he feels uncomfortable under my scrutiny of him and walks across the room, picking up another chart. He's got broad shoulders and there's muscle definition in his bicep that I can make out through the thin fabric of his lab coat. “Jane Doe,” he says curtly.
I lift an eyebrow. “Jane Doe,” I repeat. “Who is she?”
He laughs and I notice the dimples in his cheeks and how every part of him is illuminated.
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