Page 113 of Broken Trust

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I slide the stool back and stand. “Stay here.”

“You got it, Doc.”

A few minutes later, I’m wheeling the portable X-ray machine behind the wall.

He groans. “It’s a bruised rib, Jovie.”

“We don’t know that.”

“I know that.”

I position the machine. “You aren’t diagnosing yourself.”

“I’ve had enough broken ribs to know when I have a broken rib.”

I stop and stare at him. “That isn’t reassuring.”

“It should be.”

Ten minutes later, the images confirm exactly what I suspected. A fracture.

Not a clean break, but still serious. And one very angry contusion.

I wheel the machine away and return with an ice pack and wrap.

“Good news.”

“Told you.”

“It’s only a hairline fracture.”

The smug smile dies on his lips.

I place the ice pack against his side, and he sucks in a breath.

“Fuck, that’s cold.”

“Funnily enough, that’s how ice works.” I move behind him with the wrap. “Hold this.”

He obeys, and I begin wrapping the compression band around his back.

And suddenly, I realize just how close we are.

Chest to chest.

The smell of sweat and soap fills my nostrils. Beneath it, I notice the familiar cologne I caught on cool evenings when we sat on one of our decks, talking beneath the stars.

My pulse stutters.

I reach around him again. The wrap slides through my fingers as I repeat the motion. He’s so … big.

His arm comes up, and his hand settles on my waist.

My breath catches as I glance up.

Big mistake.

His eyes are on me, watching intensely, and my heart starts racing.

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