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“Fine,” he echoes, pointing at the seat next to me, and reluctantly, but gladly, I sit, because my knee is honestly stinging like it took a shot from a bionic bumble bee. “Scrubs. Off.”

“Excuse me?” Heat explodes across my cheeks and down my chest.

“How am I going to get at that knee with those pants in the way?”

It takes me a moment. Then it dawns on me. “No.” I’m on my feet again. “Absolutely not. I’ll deal with the cut when I get home and—”

“Sit. The fuck. Down.” His voice sucks the rest of the argument from my throat .

My butt hits the chair again, my thumbs hook into the elastic waistband of my scrubs while I say a silent prayer that I don’t spontaneously combust and burn this nice little cabin to the ground with us inside.

“Good girl,” he rumbles as he lowers himself into a man crouch in front of me, eyes fixed between my legs as I wiggle my pants down just below my knees and press my thighs together, trying to hide the wet spot on the front of my practical beige panties.

And I swear his nostrils flare on a solid inhale, like he’s just caught the scent of breakfast in the morning.

He takes his time, cleaning the wound with a care I’d never have expected from a man like Colt. He grumbles a few times, muttering something about fucking gravel, and making plans to replace the whole path with the paving stones.

Then he’s done, his jaw is set hard, nodding toward my pants gathered at the tops of my calves.

“You can pull those up.” He slow glances upward, catching mine for an impossibly long pause before finishing with, “If you want.”

What I want is to climb this man like he’s got a tree fort filled with snacks at the top, but instead, I tug my lips into a tight smile and pull my dignity back up around my waist. He pushes back up, standing straight, stepping back to the kitchen as I exhale toward the ceiling.

He puts the first aid kit back, then immediately before I can fully recover, shrugs out of his flannel and tosses it aside.

Jesus, that chest. It’s a freakin’ religion.

A cult.

I’d drink that Kool-aid any day of the week and three times on Sunday. I don’t have the strength nor the will to tell him he didn’t have to take off his shirt.

His biceps are a study in perfect male anatomy. Bulging, but in that ‘I’ve been chopping wood and carrying Oak trees since I was five’ sort of way. And don’t even get me started on his chest.

I note the scars. More than three, less than ten that I can see. One is distinctive. A burn. Deep, too, which darkens the moment as I push away the crackling memory of something I wish I could forget.

But there, among the wreckage of the scars, is a heart. Inked over his left pec with a ragged crack down the middle.

Did a woman inspire that? And why does that thought give me a pang of jealousy?

“Problem?” he asks as he closes the space between us.

He knows exactly what I’m looking at.

“No,” I lie, tugging on a pair of blue latex gloves with a snap, snap. “Where can you lay down?” I glance around the warm, masculine space. “Face down, I need to get to…the wound.”

He nods on a silent snort. “Right.”

He takes three long strides to a brown leather couch.

With his back to me, his arms bend, hands working in front of him, then God, he tugs down his jeans exposing plaid cotton boxers.

Lumberboxers I think because he may be the sheriff but every fantasy I’m entertaining has him swinging an ax and showing me all the ways he works with hard wood.

I’m zero chill as he stretches out on his stomach, long, masculine fingers hook into the elastic of the boxers and tug.

“You got enough room to work?” He turns his head, slowly blinking until I nod using all my willpower to keep my tongue inside my mouth. “Well, I’m waiting.”

“Right.” I stretch out my fingers in the latex gloves, grabbing the tape, scissors, gauze and bottle of saline. The bullet wound is on his right glute. Bandage peeling at the edges.

The skin around the wound is warm and solid and a little more toward red than I’d like but not bad just a little neglected.

His ass is like flexed steel, and I battle the urge to just take a handful of it and tuck it in my bag for later.

He tenses as I work some saline around the wound. It’s healing, a clean exit, and I wonder what happened.

“When’s the last time this was cleaned?”

Silence.

“Sheriff?”

“Couple days.”

I pause. “Couple? That doesn’t mean two, does it?”

“Hard to reach. You ever try bandaging your own ass?”

My lips twitch, but I focus on the dressing. “Can’t say I have. If you have to take a bullet, the butt is a pretty safe place really. Considering. How’d it happen? Bad guy get you from behind?”

“Not exactly. Not unless I’m the bad guy shot his own ass.”

“Your own ass? You shot yourself?”

“Long story.”

“Well, maybe you can tell me sometime.” When I smooth down the last piece of tape, I sit back. “Done. Keep it clean and dry. Change the dressing every—”

He pushes up until he’s standing there. Towering. Shirtless. Staring at me with heat in his eyes and absolutely no shame about the fact my eyes are exactly at cock level.

And, when I say this Sheriff is packing heat, I mean nuclear fission temperatures.

I start packing up, hands shaking, stupid wetness soaking into my panties. “Just make sure you change the dressing daily . Otherwise, when you end up in the ER, don’t expect sympathy.”

“You done being pissy?” He tugs his jeans back up and my knees fold. His eyes stay laser focused on mine as he reaches into his pants, shamelessly adjusts himself, then works the button and zipper closed on a frustrated grunt.

I snap the kit shut, swallowing hard. “I’m not pissy. I’m professional. I’ll be back in three days.”

I head toward the door, trying not to limp, trying to keep my pride intact, when his voice stops me.

“You’ll be back tomorrow.”

I turn slowly. “Excuse me?”

“Tomorrow. Before dark.”

“I just told you—”

“And I’m telling you different.”

He steps closer. Too close. I have to tilt my chin up to look at him and that just makes me feel small after a lifetime of feeling like my body doesn’t quite fit inside the lines people expect.

“You’re coming back to check the wound. And you’ll call me when you get home.”

He’s giving me whiplash. First, he doesn’t need a nurse, then he’s ordering me to come back to take care of him tomorrow.

“You don’t even know me.”

Something flickers in his face. “I know enough.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You don’t call, I’ll drive down this mountain and come looking.”

He’s not kidding. I consider the possibility he’s potentially psychotic. Because, his eyes are crazy.

Crazy gorgeous .

“Tomorrow,” he repeats, rubbing the back of his neck which only makes his bicep pop out. “Before dark. And you call the minute you get home. What’s the ETA to your place?”

I should tell him to mind his business but what comes out is, “Fine. Tomorrow and yes, I’ll call. ETA is about 20 minutes.”

His lips curve the slightest bit.

“Atta girl.”

I walk out fast, nearly stumble on the steps, and somehow manage to get back into my van without collapsing. He’s standing on his porch and oh God, he does that thing where enormous guys reach up and grab the top of the doorframe and just stretch and…watch you.

I count eight perfectly defined, abdominal squares before I swipe the back of my hand over my slack lips.

What sort of test is this, God? Because, Imma fail, I’ll tell you right now.

My hands are still shaking by the time I reach the main road. I should call Logan. I should tell him his patient is uncooperative and bossy and completely inappropriate and no way am I coming back to treat him.

Instead, I tap my phone screen and stare at the number he made me save. I make my way down the rest of the rugged mountain road, through town, pulling up to my house around eight o’clock, my heart still thumping and that twisting tension down low is begging for some self-care.

Not that I’ve ever had any real success in that department, but that’s an anti-climactic story for another day.

Snort.

I stare at the front door on the restored little cottage I painted Daffodil yellow the day I moved in. The house is quaint, as my grandmama said.

It’s more than enough for Legend and I to feel like it’s a home. The money my grandparents put in a trust for me has me free from a monthly payment, but working is still necessary and a condition of me continuing to receive the quarterly disbursements from their living trust.

I’m lucky. I’m not rich, but I’m not poor. I’ve made mistakes, but I’m working on building a life that feels authentic and safe. For me and my son.

I cover my face with a hard exhale, then peek through my fingers. The phone is taunting me from the passenger seat.

I reach over. My finger hovers. Then taps.

It barely gets in half a ring before he answers.

“Emery. It’s been twenty-four minutes.”

Not ‘hello’ or ‘what?’. My name and how long I’ve been driving.

He’s a ten but…a bit of a psycho.

“I made it down safe,” I force a weird cheerfulness into my voice as I roll my eyes at the gray fabric ceiling of the minivan.

“Good.” A beat. “How’s the knee feel?”

I glance at the dried blood on my scrubs. “Fine.”

“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “Take some Tylenol and ice it for thirty minutes before bed.”

“I know how to treat a scrape.”

“I know you do. Do it anyway.”

Silence stretches between us. Long enough for my pulse to start skipping again.

Then he speaks.

“See you tomorrow. Before dark.”

“I heard you the first time.”

“Good. Sweet dreams, baby girl.”

He clicks off I’m left sitting in the quiet of my very practical minivan with my pulse in my throat and the terrifying realization that I’m already looking forward to seeing him again.

I don’t know what tomorrow holds.

But I know one thing for sure.

I’m wearing different shoes.