Jill Shalvis - Instant Gratification

TJ laughed appreciatively, and Stone sighed. “I’m right here.”

Emma hadn’t stopped examining Stone during this exchange. She’d found no other head injuries, which was good. He did have a nasty bruise along his jaw, the first of many she suspected, but nothing life threatening. “He’s not in any immediate danger,” she assured TJ, then slanted a look at Stone when he muttered something beneath his breath about the damned Band-Aids. “Unless I sew his mouth shut.”

TJ nodded in amused sympathy, and with worry still in his eyes left the room to answer his phone.

“I thought he’d never leave.”

Emma ignored him and went to work on his shirt, which was a short-sleeved performance jersey. Staring at the hem, she lifted it up over a set of defined abs.

Here he was void of mud but not blood. He’d obviously tumbled along either asphalt or dirt, because he was covered in road rash. It had to hurt like hell.

He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and she raised her gaze to his. California surfer meets angel, she thought. It was the killer combo of that easygoing air and gorgeousness. Maybe also that light brown hair, streaked gold by the sun, wind-tousled and wild and inviting enough that a woman would want to run her fingers through it. Maybe it was his strong, lean, unshaved jaw. Or maybe it was his fathomless green eyes that made a person-or in this case, one grumpy doctor-feel as if he could see her soul.

And the way he looked at her.

Yeah. It was most definitely that, and she knew right then and there-as if she hadn’t already known-that he was trouble.

Crazy, big, bad trouble.

“No need to fuss,” he told her. “I heal fast.”

She could believe that. His body was in prime shape, sinewy and hard. Given what he did for a living-play basically-she knew that body wasn’t gym-made but the real deal, born of actual outdoor activity. She got to his ribs and he winced. “Did you fall?”

“Falling is a way of life for a guy like me.”

“A guy like you?”

He sucked in a hard breath as she probed her way over his torso. “Yeah. A mountain bum.”

He was long and lean, not an extra ounce of fat on him, so she had no trouble accessing the ribs. Unfortunately, she had to use her fingers, and as she did, his flat, ridged belly rose and fell with his agitated breathing. “Stone?”

He opened his eyes.

“Tell me what happened,” she said, looking at his pupils, which were the same size and reactive.

“It’s complicated.”

She’d been born here, but raised in New York by a tough-as-nails woman who’d taken no bullshit. As a result, Emma had either heard or seen it all, and nothing surprised her. Nothing. “I think I can handle it.”

He let out another hard breath when she pressed on his ribs. “It’s all a little fuzzy.”

She frowned and eyed the bump on his head again. “Fuzzy? Are you dizzy? Spots?”

“No.”

She checked his pupils again. “You can’t remember what happened?”

“Well…” He smiled faintly. “There were these three crazy women.”

Her eyes flew to his in time to see his mouth quirk slightly. “Three women,” she repeated.

“Uh huh.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And?”

“They jumped me at Moody’s.”

The single bar and grill in town, where the only nightlife for thirty miles happened. Emma once again took in the road rash all over him. “Bar fight, my ass.”

He laughed, then sucked in a harsh breath. “Oh, Jesus. Laughing isn’t good. Laughing is bad.”

“So save your breath.” His jersey was snug, fitted for outdoor activity such as mountain biking or hiking. She wasn’t going to be able to pull it off him without causing him considerable pain, and besides it was already torn and destroyed, so she grabbed her scissors.

“Hey-”

And cut it up the center of his chest, spreading it wide, revealing more road rash, bleeding sullenly and clogged with dirt wherever his shirt had torn.

A huge infection waiting to happen.

She set about checking his upper ribs. “Not broken, I don’t think,” she murmured, feeling the one giving him trouble as he held his breath. “Wait-”

“Christ.”

“Yeah, that one’s probably cracked,” she said as he went green and closed his eyes again. “We’ll x-ray it along with the rest of you. Head injury first. I’m going to give you a shot to numb the area. Then stitches.”

His eyes popped open, sharp and deep, deep jade. “With a needle?”

“That’s usually how stitches become stitches.”

“I vote for super glue. I used it last year on a gash right here…” He gestured to his chin with a bloody hand. “Worked like a charm.”

“And you have the scar to prove it,” she noted, leaning over him to check it out. “Don’t worry, I’m good. Damn good. You won’t scar from my work.”

“I don’t mind the scar.”

“Ah, but there’s no need to mess up that pretty face of yours.” She waved the gown at him. “So, back to that stripping.”

“You going to have to buy me dinner first.”

She gave him a long look that was wasted on him because his eyes were closed again, his mouth white and tight, his face green, and she sighed. “You want me to get TJ to help you?”

“I’ve got it.” Grimacing, he sat up. With a shrug, he let the cut shirt fall off shoulders that were approximately as broad as a mountain. He grabbed the gown from her, which was what she’d expected. In her experience, men rarely wanted help, even when dripping DNA all over her floor.

She moved to her station to gather what she’d need, hearing some rustling behind her, and then a low, heartfelt, rough oath. When she turned back, he was struggling to remove his biker cleats, and she did mean struggling. Bent over, his shoulders hunched as the ties on the cleats eluded his bloody fingers. She moved in to assist, eyeing that horrific road rash, some of which vanished up beneath the only thing left on him-his biker shorts.

She’d seen countless nude bodies, young, old, and halfway in between, and never, not once, had she felt even a fraction of a sexual awareness while in her doctor’s coat.

Her best friend and fellow ER-mate, and sometimes friends-with-benefits buddy Dr. Spencer Jenks didn’t believe her, but it was true. She simply wasn’t attracted to a person in need of medical help.

Fascinated, yes.

Excited to dig in, always.

Attracted?

Never.

Until now.

It wasn’t the sun-kissed hair, or those green eyes, or even that tough and rugged physique.

In truth, she didn’t know what attracted her exactly. But she knew what bothered her-he wasn’t her type. Not even close. He was laid-back and easygoing, and had one of those lackadaisical attitudes about life. One that said he was all play and no substance.

Hell, he skied and biked for a living.

Bottom line, she wasn’t into guys like him. So why she felt that frisson of awareness-lust-skitter up her spine, was one of the biological, maybe also chemical, mysteries of attraction, and she shoved it aside as completely inappropriate as Stone fumbled with the gown, wincing at every movement.

She shook her head and moved closer. “Forget it for now, it’ll just stick to your wounds.” She pulled out the needle encasement, and he went still, eyes locked on her fingers.

“I don’t need that,” he said.

That’s what they all claimed. She drew Lidocaine into the syringe. “When did you last have a tetanus shot?”

Still staring at the needle, he shook his head. “I don’t remember, but I’m good. On both counts.”

She put a hand on her hip and studied him, all long, lean, sinewy, bleeding grace. The man was six-two, maybe six-three, and as already noted, every one of those inches was hard, toned muscle. She knew that when he wasn’t hurt, he moved with an easiness that spoke of great confidence. Hell, she’d personally seen him ski right off a cliff without a twinge of nerves.

Yet he was afraid of a needle.

It might have amused her, if she wasn’t genuinely worried about getting him taken care of properly, and that involved a shot. “Close your eyes.”

“No.”

She wondered just how hard he would be to hold down. She was pretty damn good at immobilizing people, having cut her teeth on drug addicts in the ER, but he was just big enough to worry her. “I promise to be quick.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” Accompanying this, he scooted backwards, a mean feat given what his ribs must feel like.

“Stone-”

“Really,” he said, sweating, pupils dilated now. “I don’t need it.”

She put a hand in the middle of his chest to keep track of him. And to hold him still. “Don’t make me call your brother back in here to help me hold you down.”

“Ah, now you’re just being mean.”

She smiled. “Stop dragging this out.”

“Wow.”

“Wow what?”

“You do own a smile,” he said, giving her one of his own, pain-tinged as it was.

It took her aback for the briefest moment, but it was hard to be insulted by the truth. Irritation and Grumpy had been her two closest friends lately, she could admit that much.

“It’s a pretty one, too,” he murmured. “You ought to use it more often.

“Flattery will get you nowhere.” She flicked her finger at the syringe, shaking out the excess air. “You’re still getting the shot.”

Stone sat straight up on the examination table, a table he shouldn’t even be at, but his stupid brother had insisted.

“You’re hurt and you know it,” TJ had said, up on the mountain. “I can’t bring you home without x-rays, Annie’ll kill me.”

Their aunt was the least of Stone’s worries at the moment, with the pretty, mean doc waving that needle around. He gave a brief thought to making a run for it, but he didn’t like to move fast unless he was on skis or a mountain bike.

The deciding factor was simple-just thinking about running made him queasy. Especially since sitting up had nearly killed him dead right there on the spot. “Oh, fuck,” he gasped, clutching his ribs as fire torched its way through his insides. “Fuck.”

“I’ve got you.”

Hard to believe that sweet-as-honey voice belonged to the razor tongued, cool-as-a-cucumber snooty doctor still waving that damn needle in one hand, supporting him with her other.

Old man Doc had warned him that his daughter was tough, edgy, and abrupt, and he hadn’t been kidding. During the time she’d been in Wishful, she’d both turned him down for a get-to-know-you drink, and then again when she’d kicked his ass on Wilder’s Run back when they’d still had snow. Since he’d been skiing since he could walk, that one had hurt, but his binding had been loose, a fact she refused to believe, and…

And, hell.

He liked her and he didn’t even know why, especially since it wasn’t reciprocated.

Not even close. Not only that, she was cold, and…and smart and funny and hot. So damn hot in those fancy trousers and those fitted silk button downs and fancy doctor coat, like she was still in New York instead of the wild, remote Sierra Mountains. It didn’t hurt that she was five-foot-seven-ish, curvy, an auburn-haired beauty who looked like Barbie’s mean sister.

Dr. Barbie.

“Keep breathing,” she said, cool, calm and collected.

Stone was cool, too. Cool and calm, and possibly maybe getting a little turned on despite the fact that he hurt like hell.

It wasn’t her slight New York accent, he decided. It wasn’t the elegant, sophisticated clothes she wore that had probably cost more than his Jeep. It wasn’t that she was stacked and far too pretty for one so tough, or that she moved with quick efficiency, wasting not a single movement.

He actually didn’t know what drew him, and that bugged the hell out of him, too.

So did the fact that he couldn’t take a breath without wanting to whimper like a baby. If he’d ever been in more freaking pain, he couldn’t remember it.

Pathetic.

“Keep breathing,” she reminded him.

Yeah, easy for her to say. Breathing burned like fire.

“Need a smelling salt?” Her eyes were baby blue, and as cool as the rest of her.

“Your dad’s better at the bedside manners.”

“Unfortunately for you, he’s not here.”

“That’s okay. You’re nicer to look at.” Everyone in Wishful loved and adored old man Doc, who for the past forty years had patched and stitched the entire population of Wishful, day or night, without complaint. Stone missed him. “But he’d have just given me the damn Band-Aids.”

“Well, then maybe you should have waited until he was back at work to…what did you say happened?” She slanted him a long, droll look. “Got beat up by three women?”

“Uh huh.” But his attention was now on her hands as she set down the needle-thank you, Jesus-and picked up a gauze.