Chapter 12
“Where are you going?” Gunnar calling across our safe house stops me mid-stride.
I have my boots dangling from one hand and car keys in the other, with a smile plastered across my face like I’m not about to walk straight into trouble.
I turn to find him standing at the kitchen doorway, his arms crossed, and an expression carved out of granite screaming, don’t test me.
Damon glances up from the weapon he is cleaning, while Hawk sits beside him, pretending to be absorbed in his tablet, which means he’s listening intently to every syllable.
“Hospital,” I answer nonchalantly.
Damon practically tosses his gun onto the table as he pushes back his chair. “I’ll come with.”
“Negative.” I shake my head.
His brows furrow. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah… very.”
Without breaking eye contact with the screen, Hawk sighs. “Just because you liked her panties does not mean you need to go flirt with her.”
I grin, slowly and without shame. “Of course it doesn’t.”
Gunnar exhales heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose, already tired of my bullshit. “Then why did you change your shirt three times?”
As I pull on my boots, I glance over my shoulder with a shit-eating smirk. “It’s not because they were cute. It’s the fact that they matched her pouty pink lips that has me heading over there.”
“We’re on a fucking job,” Gunnar snaps.
“And I’m doing fucking recon, Dad,” I shoot back as I reach for the doorknob.
Hawk glances up, and his searing gaze locks on me. “You screw this up—”
“I won’t,” I interrupt. “I’m not touching anything I shouldn’t.”
“She’s something you shouldn’t,” Gunnar grumbles, knowing it’s going to fall on deaf ears.
I wave them off and step out into the heat, still grinning to myself.
Truth is, I’m not just thinking about her little panties or pouty lips.
Although they have both been on my mind.
I can’t stop thinking about the way that little thing squared her shoulders like she could take on the world with nothing but a stethoscope and that spunky attitude.
Yeah… Recon.
When I pull up to the hospital, I’m still in awe that a swift breeze hasn’t caused this place to collapse in on itself yet.
At registration, I sign in under the name John Roberts and walk with just enough of a limp to sell my injury.
The triage nurse leads me back to a curtained-off exam room.
“Ankle?” she asks after a brief, yet thorough, physical assessment and vitals check.
“Yeah.”
She eyes me skeptically. “Which one?”
“Dealer’s choice.”
She tries to hold it back, but there is no mistaking the tiny chuckle that rattles from her as she scribbles something in my chart. “Wait here. Dr. Hart is available.”
Perfect.
A few minutes later, the curtain pulls back, revealing Blake Hart in powder-blue scrubs, her walnut hair pulled back tight, and dark circles that don’t dull the softness of her chestnut eyes one bit.
Her eyes focused on the chart in her hands, she asks, “John Roberts?” After closing the curtain and turning, she stops short when she sees me, her entire body stiffening with annoyance. “You.”
“Me,” I agree, warmth curling in my chest.
Her gaze flicks to the chart in her hand then back to me. “Like I told you the other day, I don’t know where she is.”
“Did I ask?”
She blinks at me, clearly thrown by this turn of events, then huffs, “Then why are you here?”
I tap the chart in her hands with my finger. “Because I think I sprained my ankle.”
She looks at the chart, then down to my ankle. Her gaze falls on my face before glancing at my ankle once again. She sets the chart on the counter and crosses her arms. “You have got to be kidding me.”
I offer my best innocent smile. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”
“Yes.”
“Rude.”
She gestures sharply at the exam table. “Sit.”
I hop onto the table, maybe a little too smoothly.
She crouches in front of me, her fingers firm but professional as she palpates.
Her touch is warm and confident. If she’s wary of me, she isn’t letting it interfere with her work.
Carefully, she removes my boot and slides my pant leg up to my knee.
“Does this hurt?” she asks, pressing on the ball of my ankle.
I shouldn’t like this as much as I do.
“Nope.”
She squeezes harder. “This?”
“Still no.”
She glares up at me. “You realize I can tell when someone is lying, right?”
“Occupational hazard for you, too?”
She rolls her eyes and continues her exam by moving my foot through its range of motion.
“Any pain on flexion?”
“No.”
“Rotation?”
“No.”
She pauses, narrowing her eyes. “Weight-bearing?”
I hop off the table and take a few steps with ease as she stares at me unamused. She straightens her spine and plants both her hands on her hips. Which is fucking adorable. “You do not have a sprained ankle.”
I shrug. “It must be a miracle. You healed me.”
She points toward the door, frustrated. “Get out.”
“You didn’t finish the exam,” I counter, my grin growing wider.
Her lips twitch, and she pinches the bridge of her nose to hide the tiny smile. “Why are you actually here”—she air quotes—“John Roberts?”
For a fraction of a second, the truth crowds my throat.
Because you are in danger. Because someone left a threat attached to your door. Because something about you intrigues the fucking hell out of me.
“I wanted to talk to you without an audience.”
Her eyes widen. “About?”
“Nothing illegal,” I promise with a cheap smile. “Well, mostly.”
She studies me momentarily, then steps back and picks up the chart before scribbling in it furiously. “Your ankle is not sprained. My official diagnosis is mild delusion.”
“Harsh.”
She tears a page off her prescription pad and hands it to me, snickering when I read it.
Don’t waste doctors’ time.
“You this friendly with all your patients?”
“Only the ones who lie to get into my exam room, Mr. Roberts.” She emphasizes my fake name.
I lean against the table and cross my arms. “Then maybe I shouldn’t be your patient.”
She freezes, then slowly looks up at me. “Excuse me?”
“I want a new doctor.” I arch a brow before teasing, “A nice one. So I can take you out.”
She laughs, loud and bold. “That’s not how this works.”
“Sure it is,” I reply. “I’ll make a scene. File a complaint. Cry a little. It’ll all be very dramatic.”
“Flirt all you want, but I have rules.” She shakes her head. “I don’t date adrenaline-junkie soldiers.”
I arch a brow. “Who said I’m an adrenaline junkie?” I mean, it’s not a lie.
“You have shrapnel scars on your calf,” she fires back instantly. “And the triage nurse counted four old bullet wounds on your back when she did your intake. I’m just going to assume there are more that she didn’t see.”
Damn…
“I’ve got one more in my shoulder,” I reply with an unrepentant grin. And two stab wounds—one in my gut and another in my thigh—but who’s counting?
Without batting an eye, she firmly states, “No.”
“Come on. Coffee?” I try. “Dinner. Something painfully drab and normal.”
“There is nothing normal about you.”
Is she flirting with me, too?
“Rude again.”
“I don’t date patients,” she adds.
“We’ve cleared that up already. I’m barely even a patient.”
“Or liars,” she snarks.
“Semantics,” I counter. “That wasn’t even really a lie. More like a little fib to get you into a room with me.”
She steps closer and lowers her voice. “Listen to me carefully. Whatever game you’re playing, stop. You don’t want to be involved in my life.”
I meet her gaze and unwaveringly hold it. “You don’t get to decide that alone.”
Her jaw tightens. “I said no.”
“Fine.” I sigh theatrically, lifting my hands in surrender. “Worth a shot. Shot… If I came back with a bullet wound, could I change your mind?”
She points at the door, a huge smile plumping her cheeks. “Get out before I actually hurt your ankle.”
I laugh, backing toward the exit. “Threats from medical professionals. Very sexy.”
“Out!” she snaps, unable to hide the tinge of excitement in her tone.
As I step into the hallway, I glance behind me to find her hunched over my chart with a smile anchored firmly in place. She might’ve said no, but she’s interested, and that’s not an ending. It’s an opening. And I’ve never been great at walking away from those.