4. Harper
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.
"That’s a deep cut," I breathe, reaching for the saline to flush the wound. “Are you left-handed?”
“No,” he answers, completely confusing me.
I blink several times, trying to picture how this cut could’ve happened. “Then how did you cut your right palm?”
“I dropped the knife and tried to catch it.” The look on his face is pure embarrassment. “Dumbass move, I know.”
“Must’ve been a very sharp knife.” I clean the wound with the saline flush. Jaxson winces as the cool liquid hits the raw tissue, but his gaze remains fixed on my face.
"Too sharp. Evidently, I need to start with the beginner cooking implements. Cooking is supposed to be therapeutic. Apparently, the universe had a different plan for my evening."
"So, it would seem," I say, keeping my focus on the wound. I can feel him watching me, the weight of his attention like a physical heat. I try to stay in my professional bubble, cataloging the depth of the cut, the tension of the skin, the way his tendons move beneath the surface. He has hands that look like they belong to a sculptor—broad-palmed, powerful, but with a surprising grace in the length of his fingers. I catch myself wondering what they’d feel like if they weren't covered in blood and saline, and I immediately shut the thought down. Denial is a very useful tool in the ER.
I take out my hospital phone and send the attending a quick text, then I start prepping the suture tray. "The doctor will be right in to stitch you up, Mr. Thorne."
He doesn't even blink as he stares back at me. "Call me Jaxson. 'Mr. Thorne' makes me feel like I’m about to be audited by the IRS."
"I prefer to keep things professional with my patients." I snap on a fresh pair of gloves and set up the tray like it’s my only mission in life, just so I have something to look at that isn’t Jaxson’s hands or his absurdly square jawline.
The air in the little ER bay is thick enough to suffocate a horse.
I let out the breath I’ve been holding when the curtain opens, and Dr. Patel breezes in looking exactly like a guy who could run an entire ER, teach a seminar, and host a dinner party without breaking a sweat.
Mid-fifties. Olive skin and graying hair that actually makes him look more distinguished than old.
Round glasses, and he wears them like a badge of honor.
The man exudes confidence, but not the annoying kind.
More like “I’ve seen some shit and nothing phases me” dad energy.
The air shifts the second he enters the bay.
I swear, the panic and fear of making bad decisions floating around in here just evaporates.
He takes in Jaxson’s hand in about two seconds flat, his voice warm and all business.
“Deep laceration from fighting with a kitchen knife?” He’s already pulling on gloves. “Let’s take a look. Good work, Harper.”
“Thank you.” I actually stand a little straighter. Why does that tiny bit of praise make me feel like I just won a spelling bee?
He’s all business as usual, not five seconds of small talk. “Alright,” he says, sliding on his own gloves. “Why didn’t you have the team doctor take care of this?”
Jaxson barely reacts as Dr. Patel examines his wound. “I didn’t want to bug him at home.” I don’t think the man even knows how to flinch.
“It doesn’t look as deep as I originally thought. I should be able to stitch it up without involving plastics or ortho.” The doc irrigates the wound again, eyeballs the damage, and gets right to work.
“Sounds great,” Jaxson mutters.
“This is going to sting,” Dr. Patel tells him as he grabs the syringe I laid out.
Jaxson doesn’t even blink when the doctor injects Lidocaine into the wound.
He just watches the whole thing like it’s a boring YouTube video.
Patel works fast and neat. “Good job holding still,” he tells Jaxson, but there’s no real praise in it.
We’re just another patch job to him. “You’ll need to keep this clean, and you’ll need a couple of follow-up appointments to make sure it’s healing properly.
” Dr. Patel waits while the anesthetic takes effect.
“Do you wear your glove on your right hand?”
“Yeah.” Jaxson nods his head.
“Then I think you should still be able to play. Just have the team doc add some padding to your glove. He’ll probably want to check the wound daily to make sure you aren’t causing any damage.
He can also remove the sutures in seven to ten days.
Avoid putting any pressure on it for forty-eight hours if you want this to heal quickly. You got that, Thorne?”
“Crystal,” Jaxson rumbles.
Patel’s already writing a note. “Your nurse will go over instructions and get you out of here.” The doctor flashes me a quick “he’s all yours” look and vanishes.
I’m alone with Jaxson again. Just me, a tray of bloody gauze, and a man with hands built for destruction and eyes that make me want to break every rule in the book.
A small, choked sob from the little cubicle next door breaks the quiet.
It’s the kind of sound a child makes when they’re trying very hard to be brave and failing miserably.
I remember glancing at the chart. It’s a six-year-old who came in with a suspected broken wrist after falling off the top bunk of his bed.
He’s been waiting for his X-rays, and the fear of the unknown is clearly starting to win.
Jaxson’s head turns toward the sound, his brow furrowing. The cocky, flirtatious glint in his eyes vanishes, replaced by something much softer. "Is that a kid?"
"Sounds like it," I whisper as I finish bandaging the wound. "Most kids are scared of the needles. And the doctors. And pretty much everything else in this building."
The sobbing escalates into a frantic, hiccupping gasp. "I want to go home! Mom, my arm is fine! Please!"
I see Jaxson shift, his body tensing as if he wants to get up, but he’s anchored to the table as I finish up. He looks at his hand, then at the curtain, his expression shifting into genuine, uncalculated empathy.
After I finish up the dressing, I release his hand.
He stands up and walks over to peek around the curtain.
He clears his throat, and when he speaks, his voice isn't the rumbling baritone he uses with me. It’s higher, lighter, flavored with a gentleness that feels completely foreign to the man I thought I knew.
"Hey there, buddy." Jaxson kneels next to the hospital bed and is still taller than the child sitting on it. "What happened to you?"
The crying stops abruptly. A small, watery voice sniffles. "Are you Jaxson Thorne?" The kid’s voice is so raw and stunned, it actually makes Jaxson smile. A real one. I’m not sure he knows how intensely gentle he looks kneeling next to the bed with that stitched, bandaged hand.
He smiles at the child. “That’s me, bud. What’s your name?”
“Leo, sir.” The little boy hiccups bravely. The mother, who’s been white-knuckling the rail of the bed, gives a little smile. The young boy is starstruck and totally forgets about his arm. “Did you get hurt in a game? Is that why you’re here?”
Jaxson winks. “Nah. Worse. I got in a fight with a chef’s knife, and the darn thing won. Nearly took my whole thumb off trying to slice onions.”
The boy giggles, a hiccupy little wheeze, pure relief. “That’s so dumb! You’re supposed to stop pucks, not cut your fingers off!”
“Yeah, well, maybe you and I both made some mistakes today,” Jaxson says, voice low and a little conspiratorial. “What happened to you? One of those crazy hockey fights?”
The boy shakes his head, eyes wide. “No, I was fighting with my sister, and then I fell off the top bunk. She said I was being annoying, so she pushed my pillow, and I fell.” I actually have to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing at the look on the little guy’s face.
“Darn, that’s brutal.” Jaxson glances up at the mom, who looks half-wrecked and half-relieved by this whole exchange. “Sisters, man. You gotta watch out for ‘em.” The boy laughs for real this time, even as fat tears still hang on his lashes.