Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 89093 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89093 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
It only took seven minutes and thirty-three seconds for him to clean up the mess I made. I plan to get over Cedric’s betrayal even quicker than that. You can’t be heartbroken when the person you’re mourning didn’t own a single piece of your heart, much less all of it.
Forever curious—and sick of commiserating over someone not worthy of my time—I bob down to take in the detail in the wood I’m sure is a knot.
Shock isn’t the only thing that takes hold when I realize the indents are a set of initials. Excitement takes hold as well.
“JR…” I mumble to myself as my thumb traces the cursive J at the front of the short two-letter carving.
With my mind more focused on the craftmanship of the initials than how they were placed into the wood, the rough edge grates the tender skin on my thumb. Expletives rip from my throat when the collision awards me with a nasty splinter.
I stand to stomp out my frustration, forgetting that my foot is more damaged than my thumb. It buckles under my weight, and the pressure of its fold pops the last couple of stitches holding the torn skin together.
“It’s okay. I’m fine. I just…” Before I can finish my reply, the man who’s been eyeing me from afar the past several hours scoops me into his arms and marches us into the kitchen.
After plonking my backside onto the thick chunk of wood that makes up the dining table, he hands me the unripe banana I refused to eat earlier before he searches for something in a set of drawers next to the empty kitchen sink.
I should be endeavoring to remove the splinter from my thumb, but my curiosity is too high to discount. My thoughts were so focused on myself the past several hours, I missed several indicators as to the stranger’s identity.
Although faint, JR is carved in the far-right corner of the dining table, the leg of the rocking chair, and in the wave of the wooden counter in the kitchen. His name is everywhere, but just like Where’s Wally, it didn’t stick out like a sore thumb until I found the very first one.
Now I can’t miss it.
It’s everywhere I look.
The stranger stops cleaning the dust off a sewing needle with his shirt when I murmur, “JR?” I wait for his eyes to lock with mine before asking, “Are you JR?”
When his brows stitch, confused as to how I unearthed his identity, I nudge my head to the faded engraving etched into the kitchen counter. “It’s on the counter, the rocking chair, and under the windowsill.” A second unexpected giggle bubbles in my chest when I blabber out, “And now that the fog in my head is clearing, I’m reasonably sure it was engraved in the vanity sink in the bathroom as well.” Since he doesn’t deny my claim, I whisper, “That’s you, isn’t it? You’re JR?”
His expression is gruff, but no number of fine lines can hide the truth in his eyes. “Is JR your nickname or your actual name?” Niceties are a thing of the past when he breathes heavily out of his nose before he snatches up my hand and careens the needle toward my thumb. “Whoa. Hold up! You can’t just jab a rusty needle into someone’s skin. You need to sterilize it before mentally preparing the patient for the operation they’re about to face.”
JR’s scoff is silent, but I’m aware of its existence since the hot breath it’s delivered with hits my exposed knees. I’m back to wearing a shirt as a dress since I slipped out of my damp-from-the-snow clothes within a minute of JR stacking the fire. He built up the flames so well clothes are more an option than a necessity.
“Scoff all you like, JR…” his nostrils flare when I refer to him by his name, “… but splinters hurt like a bitch, so until you give me some form of pain relief, the shard of wood is staying in my thumb.”
Blood doesn’t bother me, but I hate pain. I have no tolerance for it whatsoever.
When JR slants his head before dropping his eyes to my feet dangling over the edge of the table, I swallow the brick that suddenly lodged itself in my throat. Even a novice medic can tell the once-again gaping wound in my foot will need more than half a dozen stitches to close it. The dissection of a splinter will seem like child’s play compared to the help my foot needs.
After taking a couple of moments to think up a better plan, then surrendering to the idea that I’m at JR’s mercy, I say, “Pass me my medical bag. There could be something in there that’ll take the edge of the pain.”
I haven’t practiced medicine on patients for almost two years now, but with my private cell on Isaac’s speed dial list and his wife and four children his number one priority, I have a range of goodies in my bag—even a drug patent that’s set to hit the market at the end of this year.