Page 44 of Her Broken Biker
He says it casually. Like the claim slips out before he thinks to stop it.
I should correct him.
I don’t.
I finish cleaning the wound and cover it with a fresh sterile pad. “You need to be careful today.”
“I’m always careful.”
I stare at him.
He stares back.
We both know that is a lie.
I tape the bandage down. “No fighting. No lifting. No pretending being stubborn counts as medical care.”
His hands settle on my hips.
My breath catches.
“Ace.”
“What?”
“I’m trying to work.”
“You’re done.”
“I am not.”
“You are.” His thumbs move once, gentle through the hem of his shirt. “Bandage is clean. Nurse face is gone.”
My pulse jumps. “I have a nurse face?”
“You do.”
“What does it look like?”
“Like you want to boss me and touch me at the same time.”
My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
His smile deepens, but his eyes stay hot and focused.
“You’re thinking hard again,” he says.
“I’m thinking you’re impossible.”
“Liar.”
His hands slide around my waist, and before I can decide whether I should protest, he pulls me onto his lap.
I gasp, catching his shoulders, careful of the wound.
“Ace, your shoulder.”
