Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
Her mouth works silently, like she wants to argue, but the words won't form. I've seen her like this before, usually with Ryan, or when Sandra tries to tell her a banana counts as junk food. Usually, she'll snort, roll her eyes, and then steamroll right through the conversation instead of losing her mind. My girl has the patience of a saint.
Today, she just keeps staring, shoulders hunched, looking about as dangerous as a kitten. And about as guilty as a puppy who just shit in a shoe.
There's a machine by my head, beeping like a Morse code distress signal, and every time it chirps, she jumps a little. She keeps looking at it, then at me, like the number might count down to my last breath.
"How bad does it hurt?" she asks, her voice soft.
"Honestly? I'm fine," I lie with the confidence of a man who has told every team doc he's good to go while actively bleeding from somewhere important. "It's just a little itchy."
She eyes me, not buying my bullshit for a second. "You scratched yourself so hard you drew blood."
Shit. Did I? I sneak a peek at my left forearm. There are three bright red welts with a faint trickle of dried blood. Dammit.
"Fine. Maybe a six out of ten. But only because I want to see if you'll give me a sticker for being brave."
"Trent."
There it is. My real name. The one she uses when she forgets she's supposed to maintain that infuriating line between us.
I swear to Christ, I hear her whispering it in my dreams. Usually, right before I wake up to find my cock already in my hand. It's impressive how often that's happened since she signed on as our physical therapist.
I've never cared much about dating. Women in this world can be vipers. But Dani is different, and I'm not above admitting that I'm goddamn obsessed.
I don't even need therapy. My back is fine. Does that stop me from finagling my way onto her schedule at least twice a week? Absolutely not.
I can't help but grin at her when she glares at me. "Are you going to take away my fudge privileges?"
That, at least, earns me an exhale instead of a glower. A laugh almost escapes, but it's still stuck somewhere under her guilt.
"You're the worst patient." She perches on the edge of the plastic visitor chair, like she's afraid she'll break it, which is nuts because she's maybe a third my size. But I know how self-conscious she gets.
She's fucking perfect, in my opinion. Her thick, curvy body drives me wild. But she's always fidgeting with her scrubs like she wants to hide her beautiful body from the world. It pisses me off because she's a literal goddess, all soft and lush.
"I'm so sorry." She looks down at her hands, fiddling with the elastic hairband on her wrist. "I should've remembered your allergy. You even mentioned it a few weeks ago when Karsen brought in that beeswax skate polish."
"It's not your fault, Dani. Bees are just spicy bugs that want to ruin my life. And Christmas."
She shakes her head, her eyes welling with tears. Jesus. The first time Dani Frost cries in front of me, I want it to be because she's overwhelmed with pleasure, not because she thinks she nearly murdered me with baked goods.
"Hey." I reach out, patting her wrist with a hand that still vaguely resembles a pufferfish. "Seriously, I'm okay. I'm on drugs now."
"You're always on drugs," she mutters, but her smile starts to peek through.
"Ibuprofen doesn't count." I grin again. "These ones damn sure do, though. I'm basically high as a kite. You could probably draw dicks on me right now, and I wouldn't even care."
Her gaze flicks down my arms, which are currently red and covered in hives.
"I think your tattoos are enough artwork," she says. This time, her smile sticks.
There's a long pause where the only sound is the monitor, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights, and the soft murmur of voices from out in the hall. It's the kind of silence that makes me uncomfortable lately, because silence means thinking, and thinking means remembering that Dani Frost isn't mine.
Yet.
I peek over at her to find her studying me like she's trying to solve a puzzle no one else has ever finished. Honestly, she's probably closer than anyone else has ever been. I don't do up close and personal. I like people at a distance, not under my skin or in my business. Dani is different. I want her to know all my secrets. I damn sure want to know all of hers.
With the drugs running through my system, I have to remind myself that I'm not allowed to reach over and pull her down next to me to see if the hives make me more or less sensitive.