Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 131916 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131916 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Otto was behind me, trying to hide his chuckle. “Don’t worry, Little Dude. You can’t chew, I’ll buy you all the milkshakes you want.”
Nolan perked right up at that, grinning with all that blood gushing down his chin. “I like that idea!”
I cut Otto a look before I returned my attention to Nolan. “Do you hurt anywhere else?”
He flopped his arms out and wiggled his legs. “Nope. Not one little bit.”
Relief pummeled me, and I murmured, “That’s good, that’s good.”
I carefully scooped him into my arms and carried him into the kitchen where, one-handed, I filled a zippy bag with ice, wrapped it in a hand towel, and pressed it to his mouth since Otto had gone into the guest bathroom to get a rag and was currently wiping up blood from the floor.
“You hold that right there, yeah?” I told Nolan.
“I got it, Daddy-O. Don’t you worry one bit,” he mumbled around the cloth, now the one consoling me.
“Going to get him checked out just in case. Lock up, would you?” I called to Otto.
He gave me a salute. “Sure thing, boss. Text me and give me an update.”
“Yup,” I told him, then I was storming down the hallway and out the garage door and buckling Nolan into the backseat of my SUV.
“Where we goin’, Dad?” he asked, the tears already melted away.
“Think we should have the doc take a look at that.”
EIGHT
CHARLEIGH
I pushed out the door to the lobby, my head downturned and my focus on the chart in my hand as I called for my next patient, a five-year-old little boy named Nolan Tayte.
My heart clenched in a rush of sorrow. A thousand regrets and what might have beens passed in that blink of a second, and the ink hidden on my inner arm burned like a brand, though I somehow felt comforted by it.
I had it controlled by the time the child’s name rolled off my lips, though I swore the air shifted when I began to lift my gaze. Something dense and dark pounded through the atmosphere and hammered into me in a stark awareness.
In an instant, my throat closed off.
Still, I was blinking and trying to make sense of the sight in front of me as the man sitting on the far side of the lobby slowly rose from a chair.
A shockwave of intensity cut across the room.
A battering of energy that whipped and lashed.
I felt stuck.
Speared.
Staring at that vicious beauty that I hadn’t been able to get off my mind in more than a week, like maybe he’d been inscribed in my being after I’d let him mark me, just like I’d worried he might.
Even from across the lobby, I could see the way his strong, carved jaw clenched and those stormy eyes toiled with unfound, violent things.
Attraction and greed spun like a tornado through the space.
Making me lose ground.
But it was the little boy in his arms that felt like I’d been delivered a sucker punch straight into my gut.
What knocked the air from my lungs.
Oxygen lost.
My knees wobbled, but somehow, I managed to get myself together enough to put on a form of professionalism. My reaction was absurd. I had no right to jealousy. No right to surprise. No right to anything.
But the last thing I’d expected was to see the man who’d been plaguing my thoughts and dreams holding the most adorable little boy that I’d ever seen in his massive arms.
A boy with dark brown curls that framed his cherub face. I struggled to remain upright as they crossed the room, and I leaned against the door for support.
My reaction was ridiculous, and I gave it my all to beat back the effect the man held over me. To lift my chin and act as if I’d left his shop and had never thought of him again.
Still, my gaze devoured him as he crossed the room. Again, he wore black jeans and a plain black tee, though this one was looser with a wide neck, showing off the swirls of color that curled up from his chest and climbed his throat. Heavy motorcycle boots ate up the floor as he took long, confident strides, though I still felt his approach as if he were moving in slow motion.
“Nolan Tayte?” I forced out when they got within two feet of me.
The little boy pulled the hand towel away from his mouth. His big, blue eyes were wide and eager as he sang, “Hey, that’s me, right here!”
Dried blood was caked on his bottom lip and left cheek, and my spirit clutched as I took in the sweetest face.
There was a part of me that wanted to reach out and take him into my arms, carry him into the restroom so I could clean him up, soothe him, and whisper that he was going to be okay.