Page 139 of The Clinch
“No, Doc.”
Her mouth curves again. Then she lets go of my hand and steps back.
“Don’t move.” She turns to the stove. “The macros should be close enough. I just gave it a little thyme, lime, and scotch bonnet so it tastes a bit different.”
I lean one forearm on the counter and watch her work. She plates the food and sets it in front of me. Salmon. Potatoes. Roasted broccoli. Exactly the kind of meal I’d usually shovel down without noticing.
Now I notice.
Because she made it.
Because she’s here.
Because her fingers were on my ribs ten seconds ago, and I can still feel the outline of them there.
She sets a fork beside the plate and glances at me once more, brisk again.
“Eat. Then I’ll decide what needs fixing.”
I laugh and pick up the fork.
Usually, after camp, I want silence. Protein. Water. A shower hot enough to strip the day off me. I don’t want questions. I don’t want anyone looking too closely at what training took.
Tonight, I sit on a stool in my own kitchen with a plate in front of me and Liz moving around barefoot in my shirt, and for the first time all day, my body starts to believe it’s allowed to come down from the ledge.
She leans into the freezer, comes up with an ice pack, wraps it in a dish towel, and sets it on the counter beside me.
“Don’t even think about refusing,” she says.
I finish chewing. “You always this bossy with patients?”
“Only the difficult ones.”
“So all of them.”
“Pretty much.”
She almost smiles. I nearly give one back.
Then she picks up the ice pack and steps between my knees, holding it out.
“I’m nicer to the ones I’m invested in. Hold this.”
I take it and press it against my ribs with a hiss. My hand tightens around the ice pack.
There are a hundred ways a woman can stand close to a man. Flirtation. Teasing. Invitation.
This is none of those.
This is worse.
This is care.
Her face is serious, all focus and quiet assessment. Her hair falls over one shoulder. My shirt brushes the tops of her thighs. She smells like soap and coffee, and I notice her nails are dark red.
“You’re going to bruise like hell,” she murmurs.
“Good thing I’m pretty.”
