Page 14 of One Last Rodeo

His jaw flexes, tightening as he leans back. “You never asked me why I got into bull riding.”

“I don't need to know that. I don’t care.”

His eyes narrow, and he rolls his tongue slowly over his teeth. It’s infuriating that he hasn’t left yet. And distracting when he does that. He has a nice mouth. I'll give him that. Even if the shit that comes out of it is ridiculous.

“I have literally held your heart in my hands, Jensen,” I say, voice softer. “I know what it’s capable of. And the data says that after heart surgery, you take things easy. You’re at higher risk for stroke. For—”

He lifts a hand. “I don’t need to hear this shit again. I know the risks. I’ve been informed. I'm choosing not to focus on that. And therefore,I don’t care.”He tosses my words directly back in my face.

I sigh. “And I can’t make you care. All I can do is tell you I repaired your heart perfectly. But perfect doesn’t mean invincible, and if something happens while you're out there riding, well, now you've become my responsibility to save. Again.”

“I know,” he says it quieter this time.

I take another sip of my wine, feeling my spine shift uncomfortably against the stool. Maybe I am being too harsh. Maybe I’ve crossed over from concerned into rude. This whole situation is strange. I’ve dealt with so many patients over the years but never have I had them come back to me after their surgery to let me know they don't care about their life. Never have I been put in a situation where I might have to watch them die from something other than complications related to the surgery.

My mind flashes to the teenager I performed heart surgery on a year ago. It was the last surgery before I quit and moved to Whitewood Creek to take a temporary role at the community hospital there with Chief Hayes Walker. The young girl had been so grateful for her second chance, she said she was going to become a doctor when she went to college. People like that are why people like Jensen make me angry.

Jensen is wild. Reckless. Chaotic. Everything I’d classify as a walking red flag in a human and man.

“So,” I say, clearing my throat. “Let's get back on topic. Your shoulder. How did it feel after this last ride?”

He ignores the topic change. Instead, he looks directly at me, something new and raw in his hazel eyes, something unsettling in its clarity.

“I like you.” He says it so seriously, it surprises me.

“You shouldn’t. You should trust that I’ll do what’s best for your health while you're riding, and that’s it. You're a body to me. A job. We're not here to become friends.”

He smiles like he's full of mischief and zero sense before slowly shaking his head. “No. Ilikeyou.”

I tap my foot on the stool. “Well, I don’t like you.”It’s a lie.

“I know.”

And for a second—just one, blink-and-miss-it second—I swear something flickers across his face. Something that almost looks like sadness. But just as quickly it's gone, and in its place, I feel guilt.

“Come to my hotel room tonight.”

I choke, a quiet, humiliating sound that has me setting my glass down before I drop it. I’m rarely caught off guard. Okay, I’m nevercaught off guard. But him saying he likes me and then asking me to come back to his hotel room has officially caught me off guard.

“For what? To look at your shoulder?”

His mouth cracks wide in that too-big smile again. He definitely had braces as a kid. Probably an expander too. The man’s got a jawline that could slice marble. And I bet he sleeps silently—no snoring, no mouth-breathing, no future CPAP machine humming next to the bed.

God, that was the most annoying part about living with Davis. The freaking hum of that machine when I was desperate for rest after being on my feet for eighteen straight hours. And trust me, as a heart doctor, I know the importance of proper oxygen while resting. He needed it. Butfucksometimes I just wanted to rent a hotel room so I could be alone with my thoughts.

“No,” he says, blinking at me, enjoying this far too much.

“Then… what?”

“Come test out just how good the heart you fixed still ticks so you can stop worrying so much about it.”

I blink at him, deadpan. “I'm not worried. And I knowhow it ticks. I touched it.”

“Then why don’t you hold it once more?”

I lean forward, placing my hand delicately on his thigh. It’s solid. Powerful. And all I can think—because apparently my brain hates me—is how strong his hips must be when he fucks.

Nope. Don’t think about that. Focus on the professional strength in his body.