Jill Shalvis - Instant Gratification

“I don’t need that,” he said.

That’s what they all claimed. She drew Lidocaine into the syringe. “When did you last have a tetanus shot?”

Still staring at the needle, he shook his head. “I don’t remember, but I’m good. On both counts.”

She put a hand on her hip and studied him, all long, lean, sinewy, bleeding grace. The man was six-two, maybe six-three, and as already noted, every one of those inches was hard, toned muscle. She knew that when he wasn’t hurt, he moved with an easiness that spoke of great confidence. Hell, she’d personally seen him ski right off a cliff without a twinge of nerves.

Yet he was afraid of a needle.

It might have amused her, if she wasn’t genuinely worried about getting him taken care of properly, and that involved a shot. “Close your eyes.”

“No.”

She wondered just how hard he would be to hold down. She was pretty damn good at immobilizing people, having cut her teeth on drug addicts in the ER, but he was just big enough to worry her. “I promise to be quick.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” Accompanying this, he scooted backwards, a mean feat given what his ribs must feel like.

“Stone-”

“Really,” he said, sweating, pupils dilated now. “I don’t need it.”

She put a hand in the middle of his chest to keep track of him. And to hold him still. “Don’t make me call your brother back in here to help me hold you down.”

“Ah, now you’re just being mean.”

She smiled. “Stop dragging this out.”

“Wow.”

“Wow what?”

“You do own a smile,” he said, giving her one of his own, pain-tinged as it was.

It took her aback for the briefest moment, but it was hard to be insulted by the truth. Irritation and Grumpy had been her two closest friends lately, she could admit that much.

“It’s a pretty one, too,” he murmured. “You ought to use it more often.

“Flattery will get you nowhere.” She flicked her finger at the syringe, shaking out the excess air. “You’re still getting the shot.”

Stone sat straight up on the examination table, a table he shouldn’t even be at, but his stupid brother had insisted.

“You’re hurt and you know it,” TJ had said, up on the mountain. “I can’t bring you home without x-rays, Annie’ll kill me.”

Their aunt was the least of Stone’s worries at the moment, with the pretty, mean doc waving that needle around. He gave a brief thought to making a run for it, but he didn’t like to move fast unless he was on skis or a mountain bike.

The deciding factor was simple-just thinking about running made him queasy. Especially since sitting up had nearly killed him dead right there on the spot. “Oh, fuck,” he gasped, clutching his ribs as fire torched its way through his insides. “Fuck.”

“I’ve got you.”

Hard to believe that sweet-as-honey voice belonged to the razor tongued, cool-as-a-cucumber snooty doctor still waving that damn needle in one hand, supporting him with her other.

Old man Doc had warned him that his daughter was tough, edgy, and abrupt, and he hadn’t been kidding. During the time she’d been in Wishful, she’d both turned him down for a get-to-know-you drink, and then again when she’d kicked his ass on Wilder’s Run back when they’d still had snow. Since he’d been skiing since he could walk, that one had hurt, but his binding had been loose, a fact she refused to believe, and…

And, hell.

He liked her and he didn’t even know why, especially since it wasn’t reciprocated.

Not even close. Not only that, she was cold, and…and smart and funny and hot. So damn hot in those fancy trousers and those fitted silk button downs and fancy doctor coat, like she was still in New York instead of the wild, remote Sierra Mountains. It didn’t hurt that she was five-foot-seven-ish, curvy, an auburn-haired beauty who looked like Barbie’s mean sister.

Dr. Barbie.

“Keep breathing,” she said, cool, calm and collected.

Stone was cool, too. Cool and calm, and possibly maybe getting a little turned on despite the fact that he hurt like hell.

It wasn’t her slight New York accent, he decided. It wasn’t the elegant, sophisticated clothes she wore that had probably cost more than his Jeep. It wasn’t that she was stacked and far too pretty for one so tough, or that she moved with quick efficiency, wasting not a single movement.

He actually didn’t know what drew him, and that bugged the hell out of him, too.

So did the fact that he couldn’t take a breath without wanting to whimper like a baby. If he’d ever been in more freaking pain, he couldn’t remember it.

Pathetic.

“Keep breathing,” she reminded him.

Yeah, easy for her to say. Breathing burned like fire.

“Need a smelling salt?” Her eyes were baby blue, and as cool as the rest of her.

“Your dad’s better at the bedside manners.”

“Unfortunately for you, he’s not here.”

“That’s okay. You’re nicer to look at.” Everyone in Wishful loved and adored old man Doc, who for the past forty years had patched and stitched the entire population of Wishful, day or night, without complaint. Stone missed him. “But he’d have just given me the damn Band-Aids.”

“Well, then maybe you should have waited until he was back at work to…what did you say happened?” She slanted him a long, droll look. “Got beat up by three women?”

“Uh huh.” But his attention was now on her hands as she set down the needle-thank you, Jesus-and picked up a gauze.

A gauze he could deal with. A gauze he could be friends with. A gauze wouldn’t make him want to pass out. “Last I heard, you were working in New York,” he said, desperately trying to distract himself. “Running an ER.”

She hesitated briefly, then poured antiseptic onto the gauze, brushing the wound at his temple. Her blouse was smooth and silky. She had a crease down the center of her pants leg, and she wore heels that clicked on the linoleum floor. She was careful, organized, and obsessively focused. Maybe a bit anal to boot. It should have turned him off.

It didn’t.

The opposite actually, and he had no idea what that said about him. Her lab coat added a serious sexy factor to the ensemble. Her fiery hair was shiny and straight, and pulled back at the nape of her neck, held there by a pretty silver clip. The silky strands smelled good, too. God, he loved it when women smelled good. “Never noticed you coming back this way to visit.”

“My dad’s busy.”

“Not that busy.”

“Okay, I’ve been busy.” She paused. “We’ve seen each other. He occasionally came to New York to visit me.”

Ah, there it was. The war between pride and censure. She didn’t like the idea of Stone thinking she didn’t care.

Stone had one parent who’d walked. The other was dead so he wasn’t one to judge a parent/child relationship. He loved Doc, but there was no doubt the guy had made mistakes with his daughter, and he knew Doc would be the first to admit it to anyone who asked. “It’s nice to see you here,” he said. “Taking care of this place for him.”

“Just until he’s back on his feet. Then I’m going home.”

He studied her face. She was a good doctor. He knew because Doc had followed her career and bragged about her often, but something about the way she was taking care of him so efficiently and professionally made him want to ruffle her up and show her how much more fun being even a little relaxed could be. “Once upon a time this place was your home.”

“A very long time ago.”

True enough. Twenty-four years ago, her mother had left Doc Sinclair and the California Sierras, taking their six-year-old daughter with her, never to return. They’d gone big city, complete with the attitude that went with, apparently-

Whoa. There she went, picking up that big ass needle again. As she came close with it, sweat beaded on his forehead. “Yeah, I don’t-”

Her hand, gentle but firm, pressed on an uninjured portion of his chest and pushed him flat to the table, and in the next second, she stuck him.

“Ouch!”

“Hold still.”

He didn’t have a choice. She wasn’t a big woman by any means, but she had strength. Sturdy as a rock, she managed to both hold him down and shoot him full of the stuff that was supposed to make him numb. Picturing the needle going into his head, nausea rolled through him.

“You’re doing fine.” She promptly pulled the needle out and poked him again.

He saw spots.

“Stay with me,” she said.

“He’s a wuss with needles.” This from TJ, who’d apparently finally finished on the phone and was getting his ass back in the room. “They make him faint.”

“They do not,” Stone grated out, sweat pouring down his back.

Emma’s baby blues met his. “If you’re good, I’ll”-she paused to move the goddamn needle around-in his head!-“give you a sticker when we’re done here.”

TJ snickered.

Yeah. His brother was going to have to die.

Then TJ leaned over him, peering closely at the cut on Stone’s forehead. “That’s nasty.”

“Thanks, man.”

“You probably shouldn’t have tried to stop yourself with your face.” He shook his head. “Rookie mistake.”

“Again,” Stone said tightly. “Thanks, man.”

TJ looked up at Emma. “So what do you think, Doc? Four stitches? Five? Twenty?”

“Oh, God,” Stone muttered, sweating profusely.

“Maybe we should just amputate at the neck, what do you think?” his soon-to-be dead brother asked with a crooked grin. “I could sit on him for you.”

“Seven.” Emma looked at Stone. “Just seven stitches. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

Stone closed his eyes as she began. TJ wasn’t sitting on him, but he was holding him down just in case, though just in case of what, Stone had no idea. The bones in his legs were imitating overcooked noodles and he wasn’t going anywhere.