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“Cal?” I scratched out, trying to sit up. Was I dreaming? What was he doing here?

His watch beeped, and with practiced ease, he lowered the earbuds from the stethoscope and looped it around his neck. He released the pressure on the cuff. Feeling returned to my fingers in a prickly rush. “Oh, good, you’re awake,” he said with a sarcastic pull of his lips. He unlatched the Velcro from the cuff,freeing my upper arm. “If you’re conscious, I have to ask for your consent to treat you. That should go over well.”

I blinked, thoroughly confused. “Is this real?”

“Unfortunately, Dr. Coldwell,” he said, and his expression took on a hard glint, “it is. Believe me, I wish it wasn’t.” Cal had on a light gray dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his dark bronze hair looked a little more disheveled than usual. Although that faded buzz along the bottom kept it neat, the longer top had been swept away from his forehead like he’d been running his hands through it.

If he was here, then… “Gemma?” I asked. Why did my voice sound like radio static?

“Gemma asked me to check on you, yes.” Cal dropped the blood pressure cuff into a leather bag on the floor next to his knee. “Do I have your consent to treat you, Ruth?”

“Uh,” I tried to force my brain to work again. It was like pedaling a bike with the chain off the gears. Gemma had asked Cal to look in on me, which meant she’d told him about the spare key I kept out back. And that meant he was looking at me… right now… in my long nightshirt with no bra. I sucked in a breath. “No. Oh my God.” I put a hand to my scalding forehead. “Oh no.”

Cal’s handsome features fell in irritation. “Is this because you don’t want to be treated or because it’s me doing the treating?”

“Both?” I tried to sit up, but his hands held me back with gentle pressure.

“Ordinarily, I’d say that coercive consent is a no-go, but yourfever is out of control, Ruth. Your knee is badly infected, and if you don’t get it treated—by me or someone else—then you’re running the risk of that infection entering your bloodstream. Do you know what that is?”

“No.” My voice sounded small, strained. I couldn’t stop looking at him, at the intensity in his expression and the fascinating way his neck moved when he tightened his jaw in anger.

“It’s called sepsis. You could die,” he added slowly. His dark brown eyebrows tilted up with concern. “Let me help you, Shortstop. Please?”

I lowered my hand, letting my head fall back against the pillow. I held those bright green eyes as they skipped over my face in concern, and I swallowed hard. My fever felt unbearably hot and achy, and I would have gleefully sawed my own leg off if it would have made the pain stop. Yes, my embarrassment might actually kill me after Cal fixed my infection, but at the moment, it took a back seat to the agony my body was in. Sighing, I closed my eyes. “Alright.”

Cal reached behind him and brought an enormous, black utility bag over to sit next to his smaller leather satchel. “Okay, give me the quick and dirty of your medical history. Anything of note from your parents?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I mumbled, lifting my eyes to the ceiling and wanting to just melt into a puddle of misery. Why did I have to see him again like this? It wasn’t fair. And he was in my house.Wait, I have dishes in the sink. Shit, my underwear is on the bathroom floor!

“I relate,” he said as he unzipped the bag. “Any medical conditions? Medications you take?”

“No,” I eked out.This has to be a nightmare. Did I remember to take out the trash?I sniffed the air. It did smell a little stale.Fuck me.

“Allergies?” Cal pulled a bunch of plastic and paper packages out of the bag.

“No.” I forced myself to rise onto my elbow. “Wait, Cal, what are you doing? Can’t I just take some Tylenol and get you to pull the stupid splinter out?”

Cal paused, and his eyes bounced to the wound on my knee, which lay exposed below the hem of my nightshirt. “It’s a splinter?”

“Yeah, from the boardwalk.”

He looked silently horrified. “You… got that because ofme?”

“It wasn’t your fault,” I clarified. “It wasn’t a big deal until like… a few days ago maybe.”

“You’ve had this sinceFriday?” he asked. He looked mutinous. “It’s Wednesday.”

“And tomorrow is Thursday,” I agreed.

“Ruth.” Cal tossed packets of supplies onto the couch between my hip and the back of the couch. He’d gone from sympathetic and worried to flat-out furious. “Even if you didn’t want to see me specifically, how could you walk around with a wound like that for days?”

“Not very well,” I admitted with a bad attempt at humor.

He glared. “If it’s a sliver, then yes, I need to get it out. First,we need to address the infection before it goes septic.”

I spied the IV bag in his hand and covered my eyes again. “This is humiliating.”

“Good,” he replied heartlessly. “Serves you right for ignoring medical care. I told you my practice makes house calls. Even if you don’t like doctors’ offices—”