Page 3 of Six Month Wife
He glances down at his tablet, eyebrows raised, then back at me. “You know this is an ER, right? We probably have a few more serious things to deal with than a sprained ankle. Someone will be with you as soon as possible."
He looks over at the bed, where Jenna waves sheepishly.
“Well, I said broken, not sprained,” I reply. “If you could take a look, we can get out of your hair, Dr. Matthews.” I glance down at his chest to make sure I’ve got his name right.
His face softens, and he looks back at Jenna’s ankle—the one swelling to the size of a purple golf ball.
“What exactly happened?"
“She fell on uneven pavement near the marina,” I answer for her.
"I don’t think it’s serious. I’m pretty sure she’ll make her flight.”
His tone is way too casual. Like she twisted an earring, not a critical joint.
“She can’t put weight on it, and she’s in a lot of pain,” I interject, before he can brush us off entirely.
He sighs, barely glancing at her foot. “It’s likely a sprain. Happens all the time. Some rest, maybe ice, and she’ll be fine.”
He turns to walk out, like he has better things to do. Which he probably does. But, I don't care how hot he is, now he's pissing me off.
Nobody dismisses me, no matter how engaging their eyes are.
I glance at Jenna, who’s biting her lip, clearly in morepain than she wants to admit. My irritation spikes. Not because he’s wrong, but because he’s blowing her like she doesn’t matter.
“With all due respect, Doctor,” I say in the tone I reserve for people I don’t respect.
He turns to face me.
“You haven’t even looked at her ankle. How can you say it’s not broken?”
His gaze flicks to mine. There’s a glint there. It's amusement, maybe even curiosity, like I’m a more interesting kind of problem for him to solve than the man crashing out in the next room.
“And what medical degree do you have, Miss…?”
“Carpenter,” I say, chin lifting. “Adair Carpenter.”
Something shifts. A shadow crosses his face for a brief second. That smug expression falters, and his eyes sharpen like he’s suddenly paying attention.
“Adair?” he repeats, slower this time.
“Mm-hmm,” I say, holding back the smartass comment I want to say back. But there's something in the way he says my name that stops me. Maybe he’s been into Citrine. Something about him is so familiar.
I study him. That face, those eyes. God, he’s hot.Toohot. But there’s something else, something I can’t place.
“Do I know you?” I ask before I can stop myself, my eyes squinting as I search my archives.
Jenna shifts beside me and whines loudly, reminding us that she’s the patient here.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he lets out the smallest smile. It's half challenge and half secret, and moves to Jenna’s side. Whatever happened, it got Dr. McHotty back in.
I'll take the win.
“Fine,” he says, pulling up a round, adjustable stooland sitting beside Jenna's ankle. His shoulder muscles ripple under his thin scrubs, and I force my eyes from staring.
“Let’s take a look, Adair.” He drags out the “r” in my name extra long, like he’s humoring me, and looks up at me as if I’m the patient.
He smells like cedar and clean linen, and my body betrays me, tingling everywhere.
