Two.
Clayton
Her light knock before entering has me sitting up straight on the exam table and puffing out my chest. I might even flex a bit once her tired gaze finally lands on me.
I took the liberty of removing my sweatshirt and T-shirt, leaving myself bare from the waist up even though the area she’s here to look at is on my hand. Granny used to say, A good woman needs to see with her own eyes what they’re bedding before they buy the stud .
I might be taking her advice a bit too literal, but it can’t hurt to cover my bases, right? I’ve already gone above and beyond to make my intentions known to this woman. What more can I do? What else can I say for her to believe I’m the right man for her?
The only man for her.
“Evenin’, darlin’,” I say, letting my deep western accent come through in full force. “How you been?”
Julie sighs heavily, her beautiful hazel gaze drifts over my face, exposed chest, and down to my hand wrapped in an ice pack.
She’s wearing the lavender scrubs again today, I note—the ones that are a size too small—my favorite pair she owns.
They outline her figure in a way that has me feeling the need to flex my biceps to keep my thoughts from straying to my cock.
She sets the weighted file on the counter with a thud before choosing a pair of latex gloves.
Picking two from the box labeled small, she turns to me.
It’s later in the day, nearing the end of her twelve-hour shift, and I can tell she’s had a trying day—her usual warmth drained from her cheeks.
That, or she isn’t as thrilled with me being here as I am.
Granted, my finger hurts like a bitch, but it’s easy to tune out the pain with her this close to me.
“Did you sustain any other injuries you didn’t mention when you arrived, Mr. Montgomery?”
“Clayton,” I say, reminding her like I do every time. “You can call me Clayton, or anything you like, darlin’. No need for formalities here.” I give her what my grandmother claims is my award-winning smile. “And no, just the finger,” I add, lifting it to her eye level.
She approaches me and my entire body heats up.
With her hair pulled up into a tight, no-nonsense pony-tail, I fight the urge to tuck the few blonde strands behind her ear that have fallen around her heart-shaped face—the last attempt I made got my hand swatted and an earful from Dr. Boris.
She stands beside me, her petite stature making our differences glaringly apparent. I can’t get over how tough as nails she is given her natural beauty. It doesn’t match up. She’s a pocket full of wild field burrs, prickly as an untrained steed, and more beautiful than any actress in Hollywood.
It’s no wonder I can’t help coming back for more.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I pry. “How you been?”
Ignoring me, as I anticipated, she begins unraveling the ice pack from my hand. “Why don’t you tell me what happened here?” she asks, exposing my bruised and swollen finger with a pulse of its own. This might be the one time, other than my blown-out eardrum, I actually needed to see her.
“Truck hood slammed down on it,” I admit, noting the swelling seems to be covering up the fact it was noticeably crooked about an hour ago. “You have any dinner plans tonight?”
“My aunt is coming over,” she mumbles, turning my hand over. “Mom is making lasagna.” She gives my fingers a slight pull and I grunt. “Pain level? Scale of one to ten.”
After what she just did, I’d give it a goddamn nine, but I don’t want her thinking I’m a weak man, so I lie and say, “Five.”
She hums, eyeing me suspiciously enough that I’d venture to say she knows I’m lying. Little does she know, I know when she is, too. And my future wife can’t lie worth a crap.
“It’s definitely broken,” she says, rewrapping the ice pack for now. “I’ll get you something for the pain and have Becky take you for a quick x-ray down the hall. Dr. Boris is gone for the day, but Carol should be able to reset this before we splint it. Sound good?”
I chuckle low. “As long as you’ll hold my good hand, sweetheart. That’s all the pain meds I’ll need.”
Her lip twitches at the corners, tamping down the gorgeous smile that’s ready and waiting to greet me. “I’ll be right back, Mr. Montgomery,” she says, turning away from me and reaching for the door.
“What about tomorrow night?” I have to ask, expecting there will be two or three more people in the room with us shortly. She gets embarrassed at my blatant flirting in front of her coworkers, and the last thing I want is to make her feel uncomfortable. “I can pick you up around seven and we can—”
“I don’t like to eat that late,” she mutters, and I realize she’s halted her exit. Her hand lingers on the doorknob while she stares at her feet.
My ears perk up. This is the most she’s responded to my advances in months. “Would you rather I—”
“I have a date tomorrow, actually.”
Spine rigid, I can’t help the dark thought that crosses my mind. The hell you do, little wife. “With who?” I grind out, my jaw locked tight enough my still-healing eardrum pulls with an ache.
Julie shifts on her feet, suddenly looking more uncomfortable than I’ve ever seen her. Her saddened expression meets mine and my chest knots—wanting nothing more than to reach out, pull her against me, and assure her that I could never be angry with her.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.” She opens the door to leave. “I’ll be back in a moment…Clayton.”
And with my name still lingering in the space between us, fresh off her delicate lips and swelling my heart with the pure bliss of progress—I’ve never been so fucking whiplash-confused in my life.
Who the fuck dares to take my wife out on a date before me?