Page 3 of A Spark of Luck
Hunt shifted his head. “I don’t think so. You don’t look like a Mike to me. Doc will work, though.”
“Fine.” She went back to her quest, disappointed not to hear a more personal name on his lips. His black hair was plastered to his skull, probably because he’d come in from the field, but she wanted to touch it, muss it, rub her fingers through it. With a scar above his eyebrow, a crooked nose, and the asymmetrical nature of his bow-shaped lips, he shouldn’t have been attractive, but he was. She wasn’t a Spec Ops groupie, so it made her reaction to him all the more puzzling.
Easing herself into deeper concentration, she played with the edge of the metal, talking quietly asshe went. “I’m gonna have to make a minor cut to force the metal out of its position and move it to the surface.”
“I already sustained a major cut. What’s a minor one in comparison?”
“Yeah, there is that.”
“I presume you’ve done this before.”
“Worked on a tendon? Yes. I’ve taken a lot of shrapnel out, same principal.”
Hunt grimaced. “Good to know.”
The metal piece shifted, and she used the tip of the scalpel to corner it, dropping into silence. Putting her forceps under the edge of the piece, she slowly maneuvered the tip of the knife free, leaving a not too bad space in the tendon.
“Tell me the truth, Hunt. I stitch you up, are you going to try to go back out in the field?”
“I’ll do whatever you say, Doc.”
She raised a brow, not able to wipe the skepticism off her face.
Hunt sighed. “Look, it’s dangerous to be out there in anything but top form unless you have to. I’ll do whatever you say. I may not like it, but I’ll do it.”
“Well, I think I’ve gotten your recovery down to two or three weeks instead of four to six. But I need you to follow to the letter what I tell you to do. No messing with what I’m about to say. No taking thestitches out yourself. No working out until I say so.”
The man’s green eyes should have come with a dangerous label – his laser gaze as bad as the electrical zap from his touch. She lost control of the tingles.
“Agreed.”
She froze, sucked into the power of intelligence in his eyes. Finally, she found her voice. “I’m going to flush this, then I’m going to put a subcutaneous layer of stitches to stabilize the cut, then do the top layer. Might be seventy stitches, maybe more, depending. If you let the stitches do the work, the cut should heal, then use physical therapy to regain your performance levels. Am I clear?”
“Yeah, Doc. I hear you.”
Lecturing herself, she forced a bubble of concentration and started stitching, determined not to say another inappropriate word to the SEAL. But God, she wanted to keep touching him in any way possible.
“It’s okay, you know, Doc. People get around men they know are SEALs and they go a bit off character. Happens all the time.”
She didn’t answer. She wasn’t off character. She was off the grid, the map, the god damn planet. It wasn’t the SEAL. It was the man. But she grasped at the excuse and nodded at him. Hecontinued to stare at her with his head twisted on his arms so he could watch her work.
Stitches bored most doctors, but never her. Probably because she cross-stitched as a hobby, and the line of straight work always kept her engaged, striving for perfection. She never achieved it, but she prided herself on delivering a solid line that left a small scar. She had enough seniority to not be doing the stitching part, but if the Navy could pay a couple million to train this man, she could spend a bit of her experience gained from the US Army to deliver a higher quality product.
“Close to finished,” she finally uttered, suddenly aware how long she’d been silent.
“What are you up to?”
“Eighty-four. I have about six more. Put more underneath than I thought. I want the nick in this tendon supported, and I want the entire thing so stable, there’s no chance of it tearing if you decide to run – or need to.” She looked over at him for acknowledgement.
The respect in his eyes stunned her.
“Thanks, Doc. I’ll be careful.”
She finished the last six and set aside her tools. She shifted her chair and scooted closer to his face. “Off your feet for three days. Use the restroom and that’s it. No showers. Don’t put any pressure on it. Let the mending start. Listen to your body. If thereis pain, it’s not ready. Then gradually add your weight and see how you come out. No working out. See me in seven to ten days, and I’ll evaluate whether the stitches can be removed. Don’t take them out yourself even if you feel them itching and pulling. Every single one you take out yourself, you’ll owe me fifty bucks.”
Hunt’s eyebrows rose. “You’re strict.”
“Yep, especially after all this work. Do I need to say stay out of the field?”
