Page 39 of Villainous Summer

The image of that nail in his foot, the grayish pallor of his skin when he pulled it out. It was too much. Normally, a little blood didn’t worry me. I was a woman, after all. But seeing Van hurt shook me.

He finished the paperwork, set the clipboard aside, leaned back against the fake leather couch, and closed his eyes.

His complexion looked wrong, too pale. Had he lost too much blood? The nail was big, but I thought the wound had stopped bleeding.

Van placed a hand over mine. “It’s okay. You don’t need to be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

He squeezed my hand. “You’re doing that thing with your thumb and nails.”

I blinked at him.

I hadn’t ever realized I was doing it, but he saw it. Never in my twenty-five years had someone pointed it out to me, but this man spends a few days with me and picks up on it?

“I’ll be okay, Sunshine. Nothing to worry over.”

Smoothing my hands in my lap, I gave him a placid smile. “Like I said, I’m not nervous.”

Closing his eyes again, he said nothing, but the weight of his hand on mine was comforting.

As I savored the sensation, he slid his fingers over mine, flipping my hand over until we were palm to palm. He opened one eye and gave me a half smile. “I was pretty sure I was going to die of old age before I’d succumb to sepsis, but thanks for driving.”

I huffed, trying to pull my hand away, but he held it tight. “When I’m calm, I am a perfectly adequate driver. I’ve never been in an accident or had a ticket in my life.”

“Not even for impeding traffic?”

Scowling, I shook my head. “I got us here, didn’t I?”

“Barely.”

I opened my mouth to say something else, but a young woman in scrubs approached us.

“Donovan Logan?” she asked, checking her file.

“That’s me.” He stood, bearing all his weight on his left foot.

I grabbed the clipboard, rising to them and handing the medical assistant the paperwork.

Van took a shaky step forward, then stopped and glanced at me. “You coming?”

It wasn’t quite an invitation, but somewhat knowing Van, I know he wouldn’t want to ask me outright.

“Of course.” After gathering my things, I walked behind him down the hall to the exam room.

Once there, he collapsed onto the table with a groan, and I sat in a small chair in the corner.

The medical assistant took his vitals, asked about the injury, and inspected the area. After taking notes, she assured him the nurse practitioner would be in shortly.

The door was barely shut before his gaze darted to mine.

“Do you think”—he furrowed his brow—“they’re going to make me get a shot?”

“A shot?” I leaned back and crossed my arms. “Maybe? But after getting a nail through your foot, a shot seems like the least of your worries.”

“I’ve never liked getting shots,” he retorted, a pink flush climbing up his cheeks.

With narrowed eyes, I studied him. “Are you—no.”

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