Page 10 of One Last Rodeo

“I have a question for you. About an injury,” I blurt out. “That’s why I want to have a drink.”

Her brows lift sharply. “You’re injured? That wasn’t in the last doctor’s notes that he left.”

Of course it wasn’t. Ofcourse,she’s already memorized the last doctor’s files after being on the job for—what—a few days total?

“It’s my shoulder,” I say with a casual shrug I immediately regret because her brows just keep raising higher. I’m not downplaying this like I wanted to. She isn’t going to let this go now. “Just tweaked it a bit. Nothing important enough to write down anyway.”

Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “So, you want to have a drink with me, in private, to talk about your injury?”

“Yes.”

She exhales through her nose, unhooks her arms from where they’d been crossed tight over her chest.

“Fine. One drink. Next door. Let’s go.”

Catalina takes off through the crowded restaurant like she’s trained for urban obstacle courses, weaving between servers and chairs with surgical precision. I’m jogging just to keep up with her.

“Damn, Doc. Do you always walk this fast?” I ask as the heat from the Austin night air presses against us when we reach the outside of the hotel.

“I trained myself to walk fast when I was in residency.” She says it like she’s answering the time of day—flat, matter of fact, cutting right through me. There's zero humor or playfulness in her response.

Have I always liked straightforward women? I'm not sure. But I sure as hell like it now. Maybe it's because I know exactly where I stand with Catalina. There are no games. No mixed signals. She's unapologetically herself, even when it comes off a little brusque.

It's exhausting being around women who expect you to read their minds. With Catalina, there's no guessing. I know exactly what she wants: to do her job, keep her head down, and stay as far away from me as possible.

Which, unfortunately for her, only makes me want to be around her more.

I watch her from the corner of my eye as she heads toward the bar next door. Cute nose. Full lips that look capable of driving a man completely insane. Not a trace of makeup. Doesn't need it.

Her dark hair has fallen into soft curls that brush her shoulders, loose and inviting. I shouldn't be thinking about what they'd feel like wrapped around my wrist, but my mind seems determined to do whatever the hell it wants tonight.

My eyes lower and that’s when they snag on the curve of her ass. Thick. No other way to explain it. If she weren’t the surgeon who had her hands in my chest and a woman who’s acting like she hates my existence and wishes she hadn't saved me, I’d be thinking about how good it’d feel to palm her wide hips.

My gaze moves to her hands. That’s where my footsteps falter. Small, tense fists at her sides, like she’s bracing for impact or preparing for a fight. I know those hands. Those hands save lives. Those hands were covered by sterile gloves the last time that I saw them. Her fingers are long and slender. And they look soft as silk.

She pushes through the door of the bar, some upscale fancy place that we probably have no business being in dressed like this, but Catalina doesn't seem to notice the dress code or care, and beelines for the bar counter, claiming a stool and motioning sharply to the one beside it before I’ve even entered the place.

“Sit. Now, what’s the problem with your shoulder?” she asks.

“Damn,” I chuckle as I drop into the chair. “Can’t even get a warm-up question?”

“No.”

I smile at her and lean an elbow on the bar. “How are you doing tonight?”

“I’m not here for small talk.”

I lean back a little, assessing her. “Are you uncomfortable?”

She lets out a laugh. It's dry and humorless, and so honest it startles me. “Of course I’m uncomfortable with this.”

That has me pausing. I don’t make women uncomfortable. Ever. Usually, I make them way too comfortable. Comfortable enough that they want to follow me from city to city, series to series, hoping something will stick. It never does, but they sure like to try.

Most women on the circuit want the version of me that they see in the arena. The guy who wins the buckles, the friendly smile, the name on the back of the vest. Catalina looks at me like she’salready seen all that and doesn’t find it impressive. I’m not sure if I’ve ever found anything more attractive.

I’m a nice guy. I’d consider myself agoodguy. I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable around me.

“Why?” I ask. “Is it me?”