Going Under (Wildfire Lake Book 2) Read online

She bends to look into the compartment. “How did you even get your arm in there?”

  I lean my shoulder against the deck and use my free hand to point. “Hold this lever up, please. But be careful. I’d rather not have both of us stuck in here.”

  While Laiyla reaches in and presses against the metal lever that’s trapping my arm, I use my other hand to help maneuver my injured arm from the compartment. When I’m free, I sit back on my heels and inspect my arm, and shit, it’s worse than I thought. A long, deep cut bleeds along my forearm. My first thought is that when I go into the emergency room, they’re going to think I was trying to commit suicide.

  “Well, shit,” I mutter.

  “Oh my God.” Laiyla pulls out her phone. “I’m calling 9-1-1.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Chloe is suddenly beside me, silent on bare feet. “You need stitches.”

  “Just what I want to do tonight.”

  Headlights appear in the parking lot.

  “That’s Levi,” Laiyla says, standing. “Come on, we’ll take you.”

  “I’ll finished getting dressed,” Chloe says, “and meet you there.”

  I hate all the fuss, but I’ve learned it’s easier to just accept it than to try to stop it.

  “Grab me one of those rags,” I tell Laiyla, who can’t take her eyes off the wound. Even under the colored lights, I see her face go pale. “Stop looking, or you’ll puke.”

  She picks up several rags I have lying nearby. “These can’t be clean.”

  “I just pulled them from the wash. They’re just stained.”

  “If they’re stained, by definition they can’t be clean.”

  I roll my eyes and grab the one she’s inspecting with a scowl.

  “Don’t bitch to me when you get tetanus,” she says.

  When I stand, I’m surprised by light-headedness. I’ve certainly been through worse. A few more stitches in me should be a walk in the park. I’m grateful when Laiyla takes me by the arm and leads me toward Levi’s truck.

  “She needs to go to the ER,” Laiyla tells Levi.

  He assesses me. “The ER? On Christmas Eve? You have shit timing, Rivers.”

  “Suck it, Asher.” Levi’s become like a big brother to me. He’s the contractor on the renovation, and I’m handling all the mechanical issues in the marina, so we’re always in each other’s space. Luckily, we get along. Mostly.

  Once we’re on the road to the ER, Levi looks across Laiyla to me. “I bet you heard Santa’s gonna be at the hospital tonight. You just want to scope out the presents.”

  I huff a laugh. “Maybe he’ll have some common sense for me this year.”

  “I’m thinking you’re more likely to get lockjaw from that disgusting towel,” Laiyla says.

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Levi says, “and she’ll get both.”

  “Ha,” I say.

  Levi drops us at the doors to the emergency room and heads to the parking lot to leave the truck. The ER is quiet, thank goodness. I check in at the desk, and I’m taken straight back.

  On my way past the nursing station, someone laughs, and the deep, rich sound of it replaces my spine with a hot spear. I scan the people behind the desk and spot the owner of that laugh. He’s wearing blue scrubs, and I sum him up in seconds. Golden-blond hair with a nice cut, tanned biceps, wide chest, flat abs. No telling whether he’s a nurse, a doctor, or some kind of technician, but I’ve never seen him in town, which is a very big tick in the pro column. After six months here, I’ve met all the regulars. The fact that I don’t know who he is means he doesn’t circulate much, and that means he could be a good candidate for extracurricular activities.

  I pull one of Chloe’s millions of prayers out of my back pocket and send it silently toward heaven.

  Archangel Chamuel, I could use a mini miracle in the sex department. We can totally skip right over the romance. No sense in taxing yourself any more than necessary.

  I watch my prey as I pass, hoping to get a look at his full face, although his profile and the way he wears those shapeless scrubs is enough for me. Then bam, right before I follow the nurse into a glass-walled room, he turns his head and looks at me.

  When our eyes meet, I suffer a solid sucker punch. He’s fucking gorgeous. And so totally not my type.

  I deflate a little and look away. In my experience, guys that pretty are either insecure or arrogant. Generally, they’re tedious pains in the ass. I don’t need sex that badly.

  Okay, maybe I do, but I don’t have the patience for high maintenance. And I’ve been with enough guys to know the best-looking ones are always the highest maintenance.

  Laiyla sits in a side chair while the nurse takes my basic information and looks at the wound. She sucks air through her teeth before meeting my gaze again. “You’re in luck. Our new physician happens to be extremely skilled with a needle and thread.”

  I smirk. “Lucky. That’s my middle name.”

  “He’ll be right in.” The nurse exits and walks behind the counter to enter information into a computer.

  The only “he” I’ve seen in this department so far is Pretty Boy. At least this happened when I was dressed to go out and not when I’m wearing the torn pajamas I normally use to lounge around the boat. I mean, these are my one pair of good jeans, knee-high leather boots Chloe and Laiyla talked me into buying on a shopping trip in Santa Barbara, and the new flannel button-down Laiyla gave me for Christmas, open over a fitted white tank. I even straightened my hair. Seriously, this is as good as it gets in my world. Of course, no one but Laiyla, Chloe, and Levi could appreciate my current blinged-out state, but it still gives me a little boost of confidence.

  Laiyla pulls out her phone. “I’m going to tell Levi to go ahead without me.”

  “No, don’t do that,” I tell her. “I’ve had so many stitches, I could put them in myself.”

  An aide comes in and offers a clipboard with forms. Laiyla takes it, and I try to steal it away. When she gives me a what-the-hell look, I hold out my good hand and lift my chin toward the door. “Give them to me. I’ve got this, you can go. Don’t mess up your evening with Levi’s family.”

  “But—”

  “And tell Chloe to wait for me in the lobby.”

  “Why?”

  I give a little side-eye toward the hub of activity. “Chloe’s got her hot cop. I want my hot doc.”

  Laiyla glances toward the nurse’s station, then narrows her eyes on me. “Isn’t he a little too pretty for you?”

  “Absolutely. But he’s not bad fantasy material.”

  She smirks and lays the forms on the gurney beside me. “Whatever you say. You know how to find me if you need me.”

  Laiyla turns and almost runs into Pretty Boy, whose name I upgrade to Doctor Delicious, stopping just short.

  “Sorry,” he tells her. “I don’t mean to run you out. You’re welcome to stay.”

  “Nope. She says she’s good, so I’m getting out of the way. Thanks.” She’s shaking her head as she walks toward the exit.

  I refocus as the doctor enters the room.

  “Hi, I’m Doctor Latham.”

  “KT.”

  “KT,” he says, arms crossed over the tablet pressed to his chest. “Is that an abbreviation of first and middle names, or your given name?”

  “Given,” I lie.

  “Interesting,” he says. “Different.”

  I shrug.

  “Can I take a look at your arm?”

  I lower my arm and carefully peel back the blood-soaked towel. This time, I avoid looking at it because the adrenaline has burned off, leaving me hurting. It’s far more pleasant to think about Latham. So as he assesses the wound, I assess him.

  He’s older than me, but I’m not sure by how much. He’s got laugh lines bracketing his mouth and smile crinkles at the corners of his eyes. There are threads of gray woven into the dark-blond strands at his temples. Damn, but he is so pretty. And he smells incredible—sandalwood, citrus, and man.
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  “You got yourself good.” His gaze flicks to mine, making me realize how close we are. I meet his gaze openly, almost defiantly. I’m impressed when he doesn’t look away. God, his eyes are the deepest, prettiest shade of blue ever. They remind me of the pool at the base of Rainbow Falls, a little treasure hidden on Laiyla’s property. “What were you doing?”

  He has a nice middle-of-the-road presence, confident but not cocky, professional but not cold. I’d bet good money those ocean-blue eyes have melted dozens of hearts, but there’s no risk of that happening with me.

  “I had my arm somewhere it didn’t belong without enough light,” I tell him.

  “Cryptic.” He straightens, lowers the tablet, and taps the face. One of his wrists is adorned with three friendship bracelets, the kind you weave with embroidery thread, but there’s no wedding ring and no tan line where a ring would lie. “I’m just going to get some basic information, and then I can get to work on that arm.”

  While he verifies everything the nurse asked and tosses in a few new questions, the nurse returns with a suture tray. Yes, I know what a suture tray looks like. I’ve seen them far too often. She removes the outer packaging, careful not to contaminate the sterile field, and adds a variety of supplies to the tray, then lays a pair of sterile gloves off to the side. She then uses her own sterile gloves to draw up the lidocaine and leaves the readied syringe on the tray.

  By the time the nurse leaves again, Dr. Delicious knows I’m on birth control, that I have no STDs, no mental illness, and I’m not married. All important facts to know for the purpose of safe casual sex. I can assume as much for him, being a doctor and all. Well, aside from the married or not-married part, though I’m betting on the latter, even though it seems inconceivable that he doesn’t have a significant other. Then again, I’ve had men say the same thing about me.

  “Great.” He sets the tablet aside, and I catch a glimpse of something purple on his finger. The smudge of leftover polish, I’m pretty sure. But he turns toward the sink to wash his hands before I can do a double take. And, wow, I’m completely distracted by his ass. A really nice, high, muscular ass. An ass that could put a punch behind a thrust and feel incredible in my hands.

  That’s a nice visual clip to have available to run in my head while he’s digging into stitches.

  He pulls paper towels from the dispenser, and the muscles of his back pull against the cotton scrubs, making me sigh. Actually, audibly sigh. I’m glad there are a dozen different legit reasons to sigh in this situation.

  He moves the metal tray closer. “You can rest your arm here.”

  When he reaches for the sterile gloves, I hyperfocus on his hands again. Yep, two nails with remnants of polish.

  He pulls on the gloves and repositions several items in the tray the same way I arrange parts of an engine. “I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone smile just before I open a suture tray.”

  “I’ve done this a few times,” I tell him, “but I was smiling at the nail polish. You must have a daughter.”

  He gives me a blank stare before he looks at his hands. Even through the gloves, the polish shows. “Ah, heck.” Then he shrugs and grins. His smile is quick and bright and makes me glad I’m already on my ass. “I do, have a daughter, I mean. Three, actually. I’m always walking around with something pink or sparkly on me.”

  “Three? Jeez. You’ve got glitter on your cheek and a spot reserved in heaven.”

  He chuckles, pulls out gauze squares, and pours saline on them. Then he uses them to gently wipe the blood from my arm. It stings, and my teeth clench. “I’ll have to do a better job of cleaning up before I come to work.”

  “You must be a single dad.”

  His gaze flicks to mine, then back to his work. “It’s that obvious?”

  “Probably not to others, but I was raised by a single dad. He was a mechanic, but he always had the best manicure in three states. I made sure of it.”

  Latham laughs. Man, that sound. There’s just nothing like it. And one of the quickest aphrodisiacs in existence.

  “I’m sorry you have to work Christmas Eve,” I say. “I remember it as a magical time. My dad and I used to drive around and look at Christmas lights. We created this whole scoring system with categories like music, light variety, lawn ornamentation, and we’d rate each house from one to ten. It was a production.” I smile at the memory. “Good times.”

  “Sounds fun.” He picks up the syringe. “As you know, this is the worst part.”

  I nod, acknowledging the next step, then ask, “Will you be off tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, I will.” He does what any good doctor would do, continues making small talk while he numbs the wound. But he takes one little extra step that makes all the difference—he lets lidocaine spill from the needle into the wound before sticking me, and that really takes the edge off the pain.

  “All parents should have Christmas off,” I say.

  “Will you be able to see your dad?” he asks.

  “No.” I exhale. The pain is fading, and my muscles loosen from their coiled state. “He passed away ten years ago, now.”

  “Oh, heck.” The sympathy in his eyes is real and appreciated. “I’m sorry.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t be. We had a lot of good years together, and I cherish those memories. I’m always happy to relive them.” But my heart still feels heavy, so I change the subject. “I’m going to guess nine stitches.” I chance a glance at the wound, now mostly numb. “Make that twelve.”

  “Pretty good guess. Why have you had so many stitches?”

  “I was a daredevil as a kid, an avid diver from age ten, and I’m a mechanic, so one way or another, I often seem to be at the wrong end of sharp objects.”

  He puts the syringe down. “We’ll just let that kick in before I start.”

  I nod and exhale, relieved the pain has eased.

  “A mechanic,” he says. “Followed in Dad’s footsteps, huh?”

  “Sort of. He was a car mechanic. I’m a marine engineer.”

  His expression shows real interest, and I’m still dazzled by the symmetry in his face, the shape of his eyes, the edge to his jaw, just shy of being square. It’s too damn easy to imagine how his expression would change during sex. The hunger that would tighten his jaw, the pleasure that would cloud his eyes.

  I shift in my seat to relieve the ache between my legs. It’s been way too long since I had sex.

  “I’ve never heard of that profession,” he says. “What does a marine engineer do?”

  “We maintain all kinds of ships, from aircraft carriers and tankers to sailboats. We work with internal systems, mostly—steering, propulsion, refrigeration, electrical, that kind of thing.”

  “That’s fascinating. Where do you do that kind of work around here?”

  “I recently left my job in the engine room on a cruise line to work on the boats in the lake’s marina.”

  “The one around the corner from Whisper Cove?”

  “That very one.”

  “We just bought a house there.”

  I grin. “Fancy.”

  He chuckles and picks up a prethreaded needle, testing the numbness of the wound’s edges before starting the stitches.

  “When I was in medical school,” he says, placing the first stitch, “we bought a tiny beach shack in San Diego. Eight hundred square feet. We were always on top of each other. All the girls shared one room, but we were steps from the beach.”

  “Sounds idyllic.”

  His gaze is intent on his work. “The idyllic part was that it sold for millions more than we paid and gave me the money to buy something nice here, where all the girls have their own room, plus added to their college funds.” He shakes his head. “Seriously, a fluke. I’m no wizard with money. It’s probably my greatest weakness.”

  “What did you get your girls for Christmas?” I ask.

  “Since it’s our first Christmas away from where they called home, I splurged more than I usually do. The oldes
t is getting the latest smart phone, the middle is getting an iPad, and the youngest is getting her dream bed.”

  “What is a dream bed?”

  “She’s starting to want sleepovers with friends, like her older sisters did where we used to live, so she asked for a bunk bed, and she picked out this elaborate bunk that’s dressed up like a playhouse. The things they make now, it’s incredible. That’s what I got her. But I still have to put it together before they wake at the crack of dawn.” He looks at his watch. “Once I get out of here, that gives me about eight hours.” He sucks air through his teeth and shakes his head. “I’ll be cutting it close.”

  His self-deprecation makes me laugh. He seems glad I find him funny.

  “It would take me an hour,” I say. “Okay, maybe two with these stitches.”

  “Oh, to have those mad skills.”

  “You’ve got plenty of mad skills,” I say, looking at his neat, almost artistic stitches. “Arguably more important skills than mine. So I’d guess your girls are somewhere around twelve, ten, and eight.”

  He pauses to smile at me. Oh, yeah, there’s definitely a spark happening here. “Close. Eleven, eight, and five.”

  I nod. “Fun ages.”

  “Do you have kids?”

  “No, but I encountered hundreds on the cruise ships. They seem fun for the most part, but then they’re not mine.”

  He laughs. “True enough.”

  “What brought you here?”

  “My mom and sister live here. Decided the kids were at ages where they could use some positive female role models.”

  So the girls’ mother is either not in the picture or she’s not a good role model. And the fact that he needs a female in the kids’ lives means he’s not involved with anyone. But the reason I haven’t met him isn’t because he’s a traveling doctor or lives below the radar, it’s because he’s new in town, and that doesn’t make him the disconnected type I was hoping for. Still, he’s not someone I’d run across often either. We live in very different worlds.

  By the time he finishes my stitches and snips the thread, we feel like old friends. Which is odd for me. Men who feel like old friends don’t usually turn me on—Levi, for example. And this guy has every box in the do-not-touch category ticked off—kids, local, likeable, and oh so pretty. Yet I’d jump at the opportunity to get naked with him. Even partially naked would do.