Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
I kick the golf ball at a gnome. “You really think you’re doing me a favor?”
It takes him a hot second, but he admits, “No.” He curls a piece of hair behind his ears. “I think my hand is sliced open from a rusted sheet of metal. And I’d prefer not to be stitched up by the guy who hates me. Nor the guy who hates you.”
Okay.
Okay. I’m here and more than capable of helping this tool, and he needs to suck up his fucking pride like I’m about to do. “I have a med kit on my bike,” I tell Thatcher. “Do you really want to wait five hours in an emergency room when I could do it right now?”
“Rowin is still on his way,” Jane reminds me.
“I’m better at suturing,” I say. It’s just a fact.
Thatcher rolls his eyes and just shakes his head. But the words out of his mouth are, “Go get it.”
Thank you.
It takes me three minutes to jog back down the staircase, grab the med kit and then return to the roof. And when I arrive, Thatcher has changed seats to a picnic table bench.
Jane is on the phone, chatting to someone. Hushed and serious. She paces up and down the makeshift putt-putt course.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask Maximoff, who calls Rowin again—that’s it, I steal his phone, and he glares.
“Farrow.”
“It’s fine. He’s coming here. Don’t worry about him, wolf scout.” Once I finish my residency, I’ll be working with Rowin Hart on the newly named med team, and I haven’t been imagining what that’ll be like. It’ll happen when it happens. In three years time. So there’s no point in obsessing.
But Maximoff—I wonder if he’s been overthinking. He hasn’t mentioned anything about my ex and medicine and me.
I look him up and down, more concerned. “Are you okay with him—”
“Yeah,” he cuts me off, definitely knowing where this is headed. “It doesn’t bother me.” He drops his putter off his shoulder.
I’m not sure I believe him. “If it does—”
“It doesn’t,” he says, voice firm.
I let it go. It’s not a talk that has to happen tonight. I return his phone to him, and he slips his cell in his back pocket.
Maximoff glances briefly at Jane and then tells me, “Your father called her back. She messaged Dr. Keene earlier asking for tips on how to treat a cut from a sheet of metal.”
“Sheet of metal?” I repeat, and he points to the rusted metal shaped like a mushroom.
“That was on top of a Grinch statue,” he explains. “It fell and almost hit Jane. Thatcher caught it.”
Thatcher is a good bodyguard, and I wouldn’t deny that just because I dislike the guy.
“Let’s get this over with,” I say and we head over to Moretti. Dropping the trauma bag on the picnic table, I rummage for gloves and other supplies.
Thatcher watches tentatively.
And as Maximoff leaves to go speak to Jane, I’m left alone with him. We don’t talk. I rest my knee on the bench next to Thatcher, hovering slightly over him.
I snap my gloves on and take his hand. He’s already removed the plaid flannel shirt. The air pulls taut every time our narrowed eyes meet, and believe me, I’ve thought about punching Thatcher plenty of times. But digging a needle in further while I’m treating him, just to hurt him—I would never.
That’s not who I am, and since he’s let me stitch him, he at least believes that.
I inspect the wound. A deep gash slices diagonally across his palm. It missed his thumb and fingers. He’s lucky.
“You have all your fingers,” I tell him, cleaning and disinfecting the wound.
Thatcher doesn’t wince. Or blink. He looks over at Jane and Maximoff, but I can’t read his gaze that well.
With a needle and syringe, I pierce his skin to numb the gash. Gentle and precise. He takes his eyes off his client and watches me work.
“I want stability for these families,” Thatcher tells me. “It’s why I voted to keep you as his bodyguard. Maximoff needed you to stick around. And if you planned to quit, I just wanted you to fucking do it—and I was pissed when you finally did. Because you just proved me right, and I wanted to be wrong.”
I suture his cut. “Well, you are wrong.” I don’t look up at him while I stitch. “I’m going to be honest, I don’t know a lot about you, Moretti. We don’t talk about personal shit, and I’m okay with that. But for you to act like you know me inside-and-out and for you to presume all of my intentions…that’s annoying.”
He opens his mouth, closes it, and in his silence, I lift my gaze more. He shuts down, staring impassively at me. Expression hard like reinforced steel. I recognize that look.