Page 68 of Nice Guys Don't Kiss Like That At Christmas
Prognosis: cautiously optimistic.
Chapter twenty-one
ADAM
Itakeonelastbite of the gingerbread man Eve left me yesterday as I enter the B&B.After a particularly challenging night with Mama Bear and her kittens followed by an emergency at the Marshall farm, I drag myself up the stairs to our room early morning.Dr.Chen’s finalizing her move to Pine Creek, which means double shifts and emergencies fall to me.Three more weeks of this, then the clinic is fully hers.
I’m muddy, bloody, and operating on fumes.My body aches in places I didn’t realize could ache.The kind of exhaustion that makes your vision blur at the edges.
When I open the door, the scene in front of me hits like a shot of pure adrenaline straight to my chest.
Eve Foster, swaying her hips as she sings (terribly) to Taylor Swift’s latest album while playing with the dogs.Then she stops singing and starts telling them a story.A fairytale?LoverBoy prances around her feet like he’s performing for the queen herself, Dorothy joins in with a series of yips that almost sound in tune, and even Blanche watches from her bed with what can only be described as canine adoration.
Eve stops dancing and spins, addressing the dogs with complete seriousness.“And this is when the princess said...”She whirls around, jumping and letting out a startled screech when she notices me leaning against the doorframe.
“I’m sorry...I...I...”Her hands flutter nervously, like she’s been caught doing something inappropriate instead of...being herself.
I stride toward her, muddy boots and all, unable to stop myself.My hand tilts her chin up, and I should be more careful, more measured, but twenty hours without sleep has demolished my filters.
“Sorry for what, Foster?”My voice comes out low, rough with exhaustion and something darker.“For being the only damn good thing I’ve seen all day?For looking so good in that sweater I can’t remember why we agreed to one night?For making me forget I’m dead on my feet?”
Her lips part, eyes widening as she registers my state.The hunger in her gaze shifts instantly to professional concern.
“You’re bleeding,” she says, all traces of embarrassment gone as she steps closer, fingers already reaching for my torn sleeve.“What happened?”
“Mama Bear expressed her artistic opinion about my stitching technique.”I try for humor, but it falls flat as the adrenaline that carried me home starts to fade.“Got my arm between her and one of her kittens at the wrong moment.My hands are clean though.Disinfected at the clinic.”
She guides me toward the chair by the window with that efficient nurse’s touch that somehow manages to be both clinical and gentle.“Sit.Let me look at that.”
I do as I’m told, too tired to argue, watching as she transforms from the woman dancing with dogs into Nurse Foster: competent, focused, all business.Except...there’s a softness around her eyes, a carefulness to her touch that reads far from professional concern.
“How long have you been awake?”she asks, carefully easing my jacket off my shoulders.
“What day is it?”I attempt another joke, but she gives me that look.The one that says she’s cataloging my symptoms and doesn’t like what she’s finding.
“Twenty hours, give or take,” I admit.
Her fingers pause on my arm, eyes meeting mine with a mixture of exasperation and something that might be tenderness.“Really?That’s not great,” she murmurs, but there’s no heat in it.
“So,” I say, my filter completely dismantled by exhaustion, “what was the princess going to say?Before I interrupted your royal court?”
The blush that spreads across her cheeks has me captivated.“You saw that?”
“You telling stories to the dogs?Yeah.”I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips despite the bone-deep fatigue.“Highlight of the week.”
Across the room, Dorothy barks as if agreeing, prancing around with her stolen sock, while Blanche hesitates between getting up and getting comfier.LoverBoy, meanwhile, has already claimed a spot on my pillow, looking entirely too comfortable.
“It’s so embarrassing.”She busies herself examining my arm.“Julie, my writer friend?She creates actual books with plots and character development.I ramble whatever pops into my head to animals.”
“I liked it,” I tell her, watching her eyes dart up to mine before focusing back on my wound.“Same way I liked your dancing.”
“My dancing?”She snorts, dabbing antiseptic that stings less than it should.“You mean my full-body spasm?I have zero grace, zero rhythm.Chuck used to say I looked like I was having a seizure.”
The casual way she says it makes something fierce and protective rear up in me.“Chuck was a special kind of asshole, wasn’t he?”
She doesn’t respond, but her shoulders loosen slightly, like she’s let go of something heavy.
“You hungry?”She asks.
