LITMIR.BIZ

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do about it. Until the doctor assessed his tests and the extent of the damage, she couldn’t give him pain meds.

      But he was stoic. She couldn’t help admiring that. And he was edgy. The cc or two of humor he’d injected into their short conversation gave her hope that his tests would come back negative, proving what she’d already observed. Simon Reynolds was strong and healthy. And handsome in a rough-and-tumble, rugged sort of way.

      That was not a professional observation. It was purely personal, and she couldn’t help it. She was a woman; she was breathing.

      Short, wavy dark hair framed his face. His eyes were a vivid blue, a shade more intense than she’d ever seen before on anyone—man or woman. The thick, dark lashes were sinfully long and totally wasted on a man.

      He looked like a fighter—lean and muscular. Now that he’d passed the golden hour, that precious sixty minutes when medical intervention made the difference between life and death, she could observe more details about him. Her haphazard surgery on his clothes had revealed a pretty impressive chest and strong legs dusted with a masculine covering of hair.

      “So you think I’m an idiot, Nurse Nancy?”

      She met his gaze, which, surprisingly, held humor. “I told you—my name is Megan. And while you weren’t supposed to hear what I said, yes, I think you’re an idiot. Kids know better than to ride a bike without a helmet. Unless you’re a superhero I have to conclude that you don’t have the common sense of a gnat.”

      “I hate helmet hair.”

      “Ah,” she said, nodding. “So you’re a vain idiot.”

      “Is it part of your job to insult your patients?”

      “Nope. Just one of the perks.”

      “Are all the ER nurses like you?”

      “Nope. They’re worse. But then I’m fresh out of school. A newbie just filling in. I do four or five shifts a month to keep up my emergency room certification.”

      “Why’s that?”

      “I work for a home health-care company while I’m getting experience and waiting for a full-time position to open up here in the ER.”

      “Why?”

      “I have a child. Emergency room nursing is highly skilled. The pay is better.”

      He flinched, then his face froze into an expressionless mask. As she observed him, the feeling hit her again that, in addition to his physical pain, he was stoic about his emotions.

      Why did she keep doing that? Emotions had no place in ER medicine. Feelings were part of long-term recovery. For that matter, why had she just shared so many details about herself? She usually chatted with patients when she could, but didn’t share personal information. What was so different about this particular patient?

      “Megan?”

      She looked over her shoulder and saw the ER unit secretary in the doorway. “Yes?”

      “Dr. Sullivan said to show you this.” The tall, thin, mid-fortyish woman handed her a computer printout. “He said to put it in the chart,” she added before hurrying from the room.

      Megan’s eyebrows went up as she scanned the information. “Well, this is interesting.”

      “What’s that?” he asked.

      “It’s procedure to check the computer for previous data on every admit.”

      “So I’m an admit.” His gaze narrowed on her. “Would you like to share the information with me?”

      “I suspect you already know what it says.” She met his gaze squarely. “We saw you the first time a year and a half ago.”

      His forehead furrowed. “Broken ankle?”

      “Skydiving,” she confirmed. “Next was a shoulder separation.”

      “I think that was hang gliding. That tree came out of nowhere.”

      “Last but not least,” she said, “a ruptured spleen—resulting in surgery.”

      “Waterskiing. I took the jump, and I remember soaring through the air with the greatest of ease. After that it gets a little hazy. I think one of the skis torpedoed me.”

      “It appears you’re something of a regular here.”

      She studied his pupils, watching for classic signs of concussion. The heart monitor would tell her his vitals, but she touched two fingers to the pulse in his wrist. For some reason, she felt the need to touch him.

      “You have some dangerous hobbies, Simon.” She met his gaze. “Motorcycles? Hang gliders? Water skis, oh my. I’d say that makes you one of those guys who lives on the edge.”

      “It’s not a bad place to be.”

      “Why?”

      “It’s the only safe place to feel anything.”

      The words stunned Megan, but before she could respond, the doctor shoved aside the privacy curtain. The tall, balding, bespectacled physician had X-ray films in his hand.

      “I see you’re wide-awake now, Mr. Reynolds.” He stood on the other side of the gurney.

      “Thanks to Megan. She’s keeping me on my toes—so to speak.”

      Dr. Sullivan nodded knowingly. “Megan’s one of the good guys. I just wish she was full-time staff.” He flipped through the pages of the chart in his hands, then looked at the man in the bed. “Good news. Nothing’s broken. But the paramedics who brought you in said witnesses told them you tried to get up after the accident and had trouble walking.”

      “Yeah.” His brow furrowed as he thought. “I stood up and felt pain rip through my leg.”

      “Where specifically?”

      “Calf and thigh.”

      “Since there are no broken bones, that would indicate soft tissue damage.”

      “You want to give it to me in English?”

      “Sounds like muscles, ligaments or tendons. You’ll wish it was a broken bone.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Bones knit fast. For everything else, recovery is painful and slow.”

      The patient nodded his head and started to sit up. “Okay. Thanks, Doc. Now I’ll get the heck out of here so someone who really needs this bed can have it.”

      “Whoa.” The doctor put a hand on Simon’s chest and applied gentle but firm pressure, urging him back onto the bed.

      Dr. Sullivan moved from the side to the foot of the gurney. “You’re not seriously planning to walk out of here? And I use the term walk loosely, because if you’ve got the kind of damage I think you do, you’re not going anywhere without crutches for a while. And the CT scan shows a possible concussion.”

      “Two-dimensional pictures of the goose egg,” Megan translated, in case he didn’t know the term from his other visits.

      “You said possible concussion.” He ignored her and directed the question to the ER doc.

      “Yes. We need to watch you for signs of deterioration.” The doctor looked at Megan. “Has he complained of nausea?”

      “He hasn’t complained about anything,” she admitted.

      Simon glanced back and forth between the two of them. “So we all agree I’m fine. It’s been fun. I appreciate everything.”

      Megan slipped into a state of readiness when he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the gurney. He’d regained consciousness quickly, and his snappy verbal responses told her he was firing on all cylinders mentally. But the rest of him had taken a beating. At the very least, he had to be wobbly.

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