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.”