Casseroles.

Her father had laughed at her concern, saying a single man enjoyed a home cooked meal once in awhile.

Well, he could eat one every day for a month and still have leftovers.

So could she, for that matter. Yeah, she probably wouldn’t starve to death, though she couldn’t vouch for the condition of her arteries after all the heavy cuisine.

She dried her hands, grabbed some sterile water and the antiseptic, and headed toward her patient, who was clearly hurting big-time. Stone was lying on the examination table, eyes and mouth strained in spite of his attempt at a relaxed air.

With sympathy, she started with the gash through his left eyebrow, squirting the water over it, gently washing the blood free of the wound, probing, until he hissed out a pained breath.

“Easy, Doc.”

She was being easy. It was her job to be easy. “This is going to have to be stitched.”

TJ nodded.

“No, thanks.” Stone spoke lightly enough, but his words came through his teeth now, as if he was barely holding it together. “Seriously, just point me in the direction of those Band-Aids.”

“Seriously?” she mocked lightly. “Band-Aids aren’t going to do it.” She stepped in and blocked him from attempting to get up when TJ might have let him. Her hands were on his shoulders, which were tense and strained belying his easy-going nature. “We need to sterilize, scrape, x-ray, and then assess, Stone. No way around it.”

“That was a mouthful.” He flashed another one of those potent Wilder smiles. “How about we just slow down, relax, maybe take a deep breath. I’m just a little scrapped up, that’s all.”

“You need stitches,” TJ told him. “And you know it.” Inside his pocket, his cell phone began to vibrate. He pulled it out, took one look at the ID and shot Stone an annoyed glance. “You forwarded all the office calls to my cell.”

“It was your turn.”

“No, it’s your turn. It’s always your turn.”

“Exactly,” Stone said. “Take the call, it might be important. Maybe it’s a client, his pockets flush with cash coming our way. Or maybe it’s just another woman dumping your sorry ass.” Gritting his teeth, he lay back, looking pale and clammy. “Yeah, that might be fun. Put it on speaker.”

“It can wait,” TJ insisted. “I need to make sure you behave for the pretty doctor.”

“Just get the damn phone. I’ll behave.”

TJ looked at Emma. He’d been clearly antagonizing his brother in order to distract Stone. Sweet. Level-headed. Yeah, TJ was definitely her favorite Wilder. “I’ve got him. It’s fine.”

TJ looked doubtful. “He’s a handful.”

“I mastered in handfuls.”

TJ laughed appreciatively, and Stone sighed. “I’m right here.”

Emma hadn’t stopped examining Stone during this exchange. She’d found no other head injuries, which was good. He did have a nasty bruise along his jaw, the first of many she suspected, but nothing life threatening. “He’s not in any immediate danger,” she assured TJ, then slanted a look at Stone when he muttered something beneath his breath about the damned Band-Aids. “Unless I sew his mouth shut.”

TJ nodded in amused sympathy, and with worry still in his eyes left the room to answer his phone.

“I thought he’d never leave.”

Emma ignored him and went to work on his shirt, which was a short-sleeved performance jersey. Staring at the hem, she lifted it up over a set of defined abs.

Here he was void of mud but not blood. He’d obviously tumbled along either asphalt or dirt, because he was covered in road rash. It had to hurt like hell.

He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and she raised her gaze to his. California surfer meets angel, she thought. It was the killer combo of that easygoing air and gorgeousness. Maybe also that light brown hair, streaked gold by the sun, wind-tousled and wild and inviting enough that a woman would want to run her fingers through it. Maybe it was his strong, lean, unshaved jaw. Or maybe it was his fathomless green eyes that made a person-or in this case, one grumpy doctor-feel as if he could see her soul.

And the way he looked at her.

Yeah. It was most definitely that, and she knew right then and there-as if she hadn’t already known-that he was trouble.

Crazy, big, bad trouble.

“No need to fuss,” he told her. “I heal fast.”

She could believe that. His body was in prime shape, sinewy and hard. Given what he did for a living-play basically-she knew that body wasn’t gym-made but the real deal, born of actual outdoor activity. She got to his ribs and he winced. “Did you fall?”

“Falling is a way of life for a guy like me.”

“A guy like you?”

He sucked in a hard breath as she probed her way over his torso. “Yeah. A mountain bum.”

He was long and lean, not an extra ounce of fat on him, so she had no trouble accessing the ribs. Unfortunately, she had to use her fingers, and as she did, his flat, ridged belly rose and fell with his agitated breathing. “Stone?”

He opened his eyes.

“Tell me what happened,” she said, looking at his pupils, which were the same size and reactive.

“It’s complicated.”

She’d been born here, but raised in New York by a tough-as-nails woman who’d taken no bullshit. As a result, Emma had either heard or seen it all, and nothing surprised her. Nothing. “I think I can handle it.”

He let out another hard breath when she pressed on his ribs. “It’s all a little fuzzy.”

She frowned and eyed the bump on his head again. “Fuzzy? Are you dizzy? Spots?”

“No.”

She checked his pupils again. “You can’t remember what happened?”

“Well…” He smiled faintly. “There were these three crazy women.”

Her eyes flew to his in time to see his mouth quirk slightly. “Three women,” she repeated.

“Uh huh.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And?”

“They jumped me at Moody’s.”

The single bar and grill in town, where the only nightlife for thirty miles happened. Emma once again took in the road rash all over him. “Bar fight, my ass.”

He laughed, then sucked in a harsh breath. “Oh, Jesus. Laughing isn’t good. Laughing is bad.”

“So save your breath.” His jersey was snug, fitted for outdoor activity such as mountain biking or hiking. She wasn’t going to be able to pull it off him without causing him considerable pain, and besides it was already torn and destroyed, so she grabbed her scissors.

“Hey-”

And cut it up the center of his chest, spreading it wide, revealing more road rash, bleeding sullenly and clogged with dirt wherever his shirt had torn.

A huge infection waiting to happen.

She set about checking his upper ribs. “Not broken, I don’t think,” she murmured, feeling the one giving him trouble as he held his breath. “Wait-”

“Christ.”

“Yeah, that one’s probably cracked,” she said as he went green and closed his eyes again. “We’ll x-ray it along with the rest of you. Head injury first. I’m going to give you a shot to numb the area. Then stitches.”

His eyes popped open, sharp and deep, deep jade. “With a needle?”

“That’s usually how stitches become stitches.”

“I vote for super glue. I used it last year on a gash right here…” He gestured to his chin with a bloody hand. “Worked like a charm.”

“And you have the scar to prove it,” she noted, leaning over him to check it out. “Don’t worry, I’m good. Damn good. You won’t scar from my work.”

“I don’t mind the scar.”

“Ah, but there’s no need to mess up that pretty face of yours.” She waved the gown at him. “So, back to that stripping.”

“You going to have to buy me dinner first.”

She gave him a long look that was wasted on him because his eyes were closed again, his mouth white and tight, his face green, and she sighed. “You want me to get TJ to help you?”

“I’ve got it.” Grimacing, he sat up. With a shrug, he let the cut shirt fall off shoulders that were approximately as broad as a mountain. He grabbed the gown from her, which was what she’d expected. In her experience, men rarely wanted help, even when dripping DNA all over her floor.

She moved to her station to gather what she’d need, hearing some rustling behind her, and then a low, heartfelt, rough oath. When she turned back, he was struggling to remove his biker cleats, and she did mean struggling. Bent over, his shoulders hunched as the ties on the cleats eluded his bloody fingers. She moved in to assist, eyeing that horrific road rash, some of which vanished up beneath the only thing left on him-his biker shorts.

She’d seen countless nude bodies, young, old, and halfway in between, and never, not once, had she felt even a fraction of a sexual awareness while in her doctor’s coat.

Her best friend and fellow ER-mate, and sometimes friends-with-benefits buddy Dr. Spencer Jenks didn’t believe her, but it was true. She simply wasn’t attracted to a person in need of medical help.

Fascinated, yes.

Excited to dig in, always.

Attracted?

Never.

Until now.

It wasn’t the sun-kissed hair, or those green eyes, or even that tough and rugged physique.

In truth, she didn’t know what attracted her exactly. But she knew what bothered her-he wasn’t her type. Not even close. He was laid-back and easygoing, and had one of those lackadaisical attitudes about life. One that said he was all play and no substance.

Hell, he skied and biked for a living.

Bottom line, she wasn’t into guys like him. So why she felt that frisson of awareness-lust-skitter up her spine, was one of the biological, maybe also chemical, mysteries of attraction, and she shoved it aside as completely inappropriate as Stone fumbled with the gown, wincing at every movement.

She shook her head and moved closer. “Forget it for now, it’ll just stick to your wounds.” She pulled out the needle encasement, and he went still, eyes locked on her fingers.