Page 3 of The Wrong Husband (The Davenports #6)

Phoenix

Tall. Commanding. He hijacks my attention like he’s a force of nature.

I take in the battered leather jacket that clings to the breadth of his shoulders, the T-shirt which strains the width of his chest.

His blue jeans, too, have seen better days. Worn at the knees, pulled apart over those powerful thighs, between which is the unmissable outline of his dick. Inappropriate. Don’t stare at his crotch. So, what if he’s packing? Guess that explains the confidence radiating from him.

He has scuffed leather boots—big boots. Size thirteen? Maybe fourteen? My gaze, once again, swings back to the space between his thighs. The zipper is tight and stretched and, surely, that tent is more substantial than before?

My breathing grows rough. My nipples under my T-shirt tighten into points of need.

I’m aware, I’m close to panting, and I can’t understand it.

Sure, he’s good-looking. More than good-looking.

And yes, there’s something about him that’s vital.

And real. And commands attention. And he's charismatic. But he’s only a man.

A man who moves so fast his feet don’t seem to touch the ground.

He reaches the tree, jumps up and grabs a branch which must be at least seven feet above.

A gasp runs through the crowd.

He pulls himself up with a flex of his biceps and deltoids that would do an anatomy chart proud. The kinetic coordination is flawless—pectorals, latissimus dorsi, and core engaging in a fluid motion. Like a real-life vigilante sprung straight from a comic book panel.

Sweat breaks out on my brow. Moisture springs to life between my legs. I squeeze my thighs, not that it has any effect on the yawning emptiness I’m suddenly aware of between them.

Someone calls out, “Careful,” but he doesn’t hesitate.

He climbs with unhurried strength, scaling the limbs of the tree like he’s done it a hundred times. The cat hisses, tail fluffed, her tiny body braced and trembling.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. He grasps the trunk of the tree and extends a hand, slowly, palm-up.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he rumbles. Then, quieter, like a promise, “Good girl.”

His voice rakes over me like silk over gravel. It’s low. Rough. Heat-soaked. The kind of voice that curls around the base of your spine and plants roots.

I shiver. Something sparks low in my belly. Something wild and feminine and completely irrational. Because… Why is my body responding to those words like they were meant for me?

Ding-ding-ding. New level of pathetic, unlocked.

He reaches for the cat. She freezes—then lets him lift her into the crook of his arm, nuzzling into his chest with a final, plaintive mew.

He climbs down just as smoothly—one-handed, if you can believe it! This man defies gravity; he bends it to his will, as if it’s a mere inconvenience. It has no effect on his mission.

His boots land on the ground with a thud. The crowd claps. The woman rushes forward, tears in her eyes, and takes the cat from his arms. “Thank you, thank you—she’s never done that before.”

He nods. No flourish. No smugness.

And then he turns.

He wears sunglasses and a black baseball cap pulled low, casting half his face in shadow—but there’s no hiding the hard lines beneath. A stubbled jaw cut from stone. Lips unsmiling. The cords of his neck stand out in relief, tension shearing through the tissue like taut surgical wire.

His shoulders are massive—broad enough to carry the weight of the world without flinching. And that jacket, scuffed and worn, clings to a body built not just to break rules, but to break through walls. To break hearts.

Something in my chest tightens. My heartbeat speeds up.

Diagnosis: acute emotional arrhythmia. Elevated pulse, shallow breathing, catastrophic loss of rational thought. Prognosis: not good.

I step toward him—the sound of his voice still vibrating through me like a low-frequency hum—like gravity itself just shifted toward him.

His spine straightens. His shoulders lock. All of his muscles seem to freeze.

I lean forward to take another step—when a hand lands on my shoulder. I spin around.

“Phe! Thank God, I’m not the only one late.” Emma pants as she rushes up beside me. “Took my daughter to the zoo on my day off—I need another day just to recover. Oh, did you hear about more staff cuts?” Her brow furrows. “I really hope I don’t lose my job. I’ve got rent, student loans, daycare…”

Typical Emma—an open book. The complete opposite of me. Maybe, that’s why we click.

She pauses, then frowns. “Wait—aren’t you off today? Why are you here?”

Because I’ll do anything not to be home while Drew's there. Because the place which used to feel like a refuge feels suffocating with him in it.

Before I can think of an answer, she barrels on, “Let me guess. They called you in, short-staffed again. You really need to stop saying yes. You deserve a break.”

I let her voice fade into the background and glance back toward the man who rescued the kitten—but he’s gone.

The crowd has already dispersed. The woman with the cat walks past me, fussing over her pet.

I pocket my earphones. Where did he come from? And when he praised the cat… “Good girl…” I shiver again—the sentiment in those words resonating with a hidden part of me. A very secret, very forbidden part of me. One I didn’t even know existed. Until today.

“What did you say?”

“What?” I glance sideways to find Emma frowning at me.

Ugh. Did she hear me mumble, good girl? “I said, good morning.” I curve my lips into what I hope looks like a smile and not a grimace.

“Oh, right, good morning.” She accepts my explanation without question. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

It does not stay that way. Things go downhill from there. My shoe falls apart. It literally comes apart at the seams. Guess I wore them out.

I don’t have a backup, so I change into a pair of borrowed clogs a size too big for me. Ugh! They’re also a hideous yellow color. But needs must…

I shove the curtain aside and step into the cubicle. The air reeks of antiseptic and adrenaline. A teenage boy clutches his abdomen; his tracksuit soaked in blood.

“Stabbing?” I ask the nurse who hovers at the foot of the bed.

She nods. “Lower right quadrant. BP’s dropping. Looks like internal bleeding.”

I turn to the boy. “I’m Dr. Hamilton. You’re safe now, okay? What’s your name?”

He barely murmurs it before his eyes roll back. I slap the call bell. “Get the trauma bay prepped. Now. ”

The nurse bolts. I press two fingers to his neck. His pulse is thready.

We wheel him through the swinging double doors, past cubicles spilling over with groaning patients, past a toddler screaming in his mother’s arms, past an elderly man vomiting into a plastic bowl.

The trauma bay is more chaos. Machines beep. Monitors flash. A woman with half her scalp torn open is mid-suture on one side. A cyclist with a shattered femur moans on the other. I slide the kid in between them and snap orders. “Cannula, fluids wide open, crossmatch six units. Page surgery, now.”

The surgical registrar arrives just as we stabilize him. I hand over, peel off my gloves, and toss them in the trash. My hands are shaking. I don’t have time to breathe.

Outside the trauma bay, another nurse flags me. “Dr. Hamilton, cubicle four’s asking for a doctor again—head injury, belligerent, tried to leave.”

Of course, he did. I hustle down the corridor, adrenaline pumping, pulse racing. On the way, a consultant I’ve worked with many times murmurs a sarcastic, “ Good morning,” as he passes, then leans into a registrar over a set of CT scans.

In cubicle four, a man in his forties sits shirtless, arms crossed, a gash over his left eyebrow oozing sluggishly. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” I flip open the chart. “Head injury protocol says we need to keep an eye on you. And from the look of that laceration?—”

“I’m fine.” He coughs. “I have to get to work.”

“You’re not going anywhere until I stitch that up and clear you.” I reach for the tray. “Or you’ll collapse and end up back here.”

He grumbles, but he lets me clean the wound.

That authoritative voice? Works every time.

Outside the cubicle, someone screams. Here we go. Not a moment’s rest. My pulse ratchets up into higher gear. My vision narrows. The comforting thud of the blood at my temples tells me I’m in the zone.

Thank God for the chaos of the ER.

It gives me the perfect excuse to not dwell on the mess I’ve left behind at home. I spend so much time here—even overnight sometimes—that the ER feels more like home than my own place.

Besides, everything I do here is for a good cause. I’m saving lives, aren’t I?

“Need a doctor here!” another nurse yells.

My feet don’t seem to touch the ground as I move in the direction of her voice.

A middle-aged woman is slumped on the examination table, one hand pressed to her side, her coat soaked with blood. Her face is gray, her breathing shallow. “I… Was mugged… Stabbed… Near the station,” she gasps. “Hurts to breathe…”

I grab the trauma trolley. “Get her on oxygen. Start a large-bore IV—wide open fluids. I want crossmatch blood sent to the lab and a trauma panel drawn.”

I press down on the wound with gauze, my gloves slick with blood. “Suspected internal bleeding. Alert the surgical registrar. And get a FAST scan in here, now.”

My voice stays steady, even though adrenaline surges through me.

The crash team arrives seconds later.

By the time the rush of patients slows, it’s past nine p.m. I’ve been on duty for more than twelve hours.

I’ve forgone my entitled breaks, barely pausing to grab a drink of water. My eyes are scratchy, and my throat hurts. The makings of a headache bang at the backs of my eyeballs. Someone page me a nap and an IV drip. I might have overdone it a tad.

I should have stopped for a bite to eat. My stomach feels so hollow, the walls of my intestines may have fused. Medically, an impossibility, I try to tell myself.

I stagger toward the changing room, too tired to do more than wash my hands and face. I grab my oversized bag and make my way out. Now that I have a moment to catch my breath, Emma's worries about the looming closure of the ER catch up with me.

The administration has been threatening to cut this department for months, but it's unclear whether they'll actually do it. I have to believe they won't, for the sake of the surrounding neighborhood that depends on it. And for my own sake.

I need the nonstop urgency of the ER to keep myself from examining too closely the disaster of my own life.

It's dark when I step past the main doors of the hospital.

I draw in deep breaths of the cool night air, take a few steps forward, then come to a stop at the site of where Mr. Hot & Mysterious rescued the cat this morning.

Interestingly, despite not having a second to spare all day, thoughts of his deep, dark voice have not completely faded from my mind.

That has never happened before.

I've never thought of Drew when I’m at work… Except when I run into him. But this unknown cat whisperer? I can’t stop thinking of him.

I’m too tired to even hook on my earbuds and listen to my podcast. Instead, I allow my body to lead as I trace my steps back home.

At least, I’m not dreading going home. I checked the rotation in the hospital to make sure Drew’s on shift. Fringe benefits of working in the same place, huh? I snicker. I won’t have to tiptoe around my own living room. Hopefully, he'll move on soon, and I won’t have to avoid my own home anymore.

By the time I reach the turn off to my lane, I’m ready for a hot shower and bed, when a noise reaches me.

The hair on the back of my neck rises. I jerk my chin up and stare in the direction of where the sound came from.

“Who’s there?”