LITMIR.BIZ

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of care, I need to take a look at you.”

      “You’re looking at me.”

      She shook her head. “I mean I have to check your abrasions for infection. Examine the stitches. Etcetera.”

      “I don’t like the sound of etcetera. Will it hurt?”

      “No more than and-so-on-and-so-forth.”

      His blue eyes narrowed as he fixed her with a skeptical look. “You’re lying. It’s going to hurt. And me without a stick to bite on.”

      “I never lie. But I also didn’t define how much discomfort is associated with and-so-on-and-so-forth.”

      “Okay. Lay it on me.”

      “I need to change the bandages. That will probably hurt some if there was oozing and they stuck. I’ll have to clean the wounds again and put on ointment—as gently as I possibly can. Look on the bright side. I don’t have to dig out the gravel.”

      “Lucky me. Do you always look on the bright side?”

      “There’s a reason my last name is Brightwell.”

      “Has anyone ever told you you’re too perky?”

      His twitching lips said he was teasing and took the sting from his words as surely as topical anesthetic. She was amused and charmed in equal parts. And there it was again. Heat. It started in her cheeks and gained intensity, turning into a fireball that shot straight to her toes.

      She cleared her throat and turned to her bag. “After wound inspection, I need to take your vitals. A veteran like yourself probably already knows that means temperature, pulse and blood pressure.”

      “Okay. Then what?”

      “If everything checks out, I plan to do some range-of-motion exercises on that injured leg.”

      “Whoa. Motion equals pain. No one said anything about intentional infliction of bodily harm. I called for a nurse because it’s hard to flip a burger and stay upright on crutches at the same time.”

      She put her hands on her hips. “If you wanted a butler, you should have called Servants R Us. I’m a health-care professional. On my watch, you’ll get expert health care. That includes making sure your nutritional intake is sufficient to support life for a man your size.”

      “Does that mean you’ll do double duty as a cook?”

      “Yes. But smile when you call me that.” She allowed herself a quick, appreciative study of him and his impressive size. “It’ll take a lot of food to keep you alive. But I will cheerfully provide it since my primary function is to restore your health to pre-trauma status as quickly as possible. No pain, no gain.”

      “I’ll take the gain part and pass on the pain.”

      “Unfortunately, they sometimes go hand in hand. Don’t be a wimp,” she challenged.

      “It’s not the pain I’m worried about.”

      “Then what is it?” she asked, unable to keep up the stern tone when his face took on a haggard look. She had a feeling he was no stranger to pain, and she wasn’t thinking the physical kind. What was his story? No, she thought. Don’t go there. Bonding wasn’t her job. Nursing was—his body, not his soul.

      But he was quiet for so long, she thought he might just tell her whatever it was that was bothering him. Instead, he looked at her and asked, “How did your daughter’s appointment go?”

      “What?”

      “You told me last night you weren’t available this morning because she had an ophthalmology appointment.”

      The man might have scrambled his brains less than twenty-four hours ago, but his powers of recall were annoyingly impressive.

      “I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. You’re not fooling me, mister. You’re trying to distract me.”

      “Is it working?” he asked.

      “What do you think?” She half turned and reached into her medical bag for the blood pressure cuff and her stethoscope.

      “I think I’m on a roll.”

      “Since when are you a glass-is-half-full kind of guy?”

      “Since I’m interested in what the doctor had to say about Bayleigh’s eyes.”

      “He said they’re progressing normally.”

      He frowned. “What does that mean?”

      A slip of the tongue. She hadn’t meant to phrase it like that. Because she had no intention of telling him her daughter was a walking, talking, seeing medical miracle. That she’d had a cornea transplant and her progress was more than anyone had hoped for. That there was always the chance of rejection and every successful checkup was a blessed gift and a result of another family’s devastating loss and incredibly generous, courageous sacrifice.

      Simon Reynolds had his own demons to wrestle. He didn’t need, or really want, she suspected, to know the latent anxiety Megan and Bayleigh lived with on a daily basis.

      “The doctor said that everything is fine.”

      “Isn’t she a little young for eye doctor exams?”

      Megan shook her head. “She started kindergarten this year. It’s for my peace of mind. I wear contacts and struggled with seeing the board in school and too shy to say anything.”

      “You? Shy?” The corners of his mouth curved up.

      “What can I say? I’ve blossomed. Anyway, I wanted her to have a baseline guide so that if she begins to have problems in school, we can eliminate vision as the culprit.”

      “What a dedicated mom.”

      “And how would you know that she’s on the young side for an eye exam?”

      “I know a little something about kids.”

      Which was all Simon intended to say on the subject. Anything more would open up a painful wound that all her cleaning and ointment and taking vitals wouldn’t help.

      How he envied her. He also knew there was more to her story. Her phrasing, quick backpedaling and the shadows in her blue eyes told him so. He guessed something about her daughter’s health had sent her bonehead boyfriend running for cover. The idiot didn’t know what he’d given up.

      Simon would trade his own life if it would bring Marcus back. He would face health challenges or anything else for another chance to look into his son’s smiling face, his sparkling, intelligent blue eyes.

      But at the moment, another pair of big, beautiful blue eyes regarded him seriously. Megan. She was wearing shapeless pink cotton pants and a matching top that he knew were called scrubs. They looked more like pajamas. The idea gave him thoughts an injured man shouldn’t be entertaining. How could she make the shapeless, sexless outfit look so damn sexy?

      Megan cleared her throat. He’d noticed that was a habit of hers to get his attention. And a good thing for him that she did it. His train of thought was not only counterproductive, it was dangerous. He didn’t want to care about anyone again. Caring and loss hurt more than anything he’d endured at the business end of Megan’s healing hands.

      “I’m going to take your temperature.”

      She sat down beside him and he could smell the sweet perfume of flowers, the innocence of a blooming meadow. Her hair was up, twisted into some sort of complicated braid. That left her long graceful neck bare. It was a beautiful neck.

      “Open wide.” She stuck the thermometer into his mouth. “Keep it under your tongue. It has to stay there for about a minute.” She gave him a wry look. “In the hospital, they’ve got fancy gizmos that can do this in the blink of an eye.”

      He wasn’t worried about time or inconvenience as much as he

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