Instant Gratification
Page 3

“That was a mouthful.” He flashed another one of those potent Wilder smiles. “How about we just slow down, relax, maybe take a deep breath. I’m just a little scrapped up, that’s all.”
“You need stitches,” TJ told him. “And you know it.” Inside his pocket, his cell phone began to vibrate. He pulled it out, took one look at the ID and shot Stone an annoyed glance. “You forwarded all the office calls to my cell.”
“It was your turn.”
“No, it’s your turn. It’s always your turn.”
“Exactly,” Stone said. “Take the call, it might be important. Maybe it’s a client, his pockets flush with cash coming our way. Or maybe it’s just another woman dumping your sorry ass.” Gritting his teeth, he lay back, looking pale and clammy. “Yeah, that might be fun. Put it on speaker.”
“It can wait,” TJ insisted. “I need to make sure you behave for the pretty doctor.”
“Just get the damn phone. I’ll behave.”
TJ looked at Emma. He’d been clearly antagonizing his brother in order to distract Stone. Sweet. Level-headed. Yeah, TJ was definitely her favorite Wilder. “I’ve got him. It’s fine.”
TJ looked doubtful. “He’s a handful.”
“I mastered in handfuls.”
TJ laughed appreciatively, and Stone sighed. “I’m right here.”
Emma hadn’t stopped examining Stone during this exchange. She’d found no other head injuries, which was good. He did have a nasty bruise along his jaw, the first of many she suspected, but nothing life threatening. “He’s not in any immediate danger,” she assured TJ, then slanted a look at Stone when he muttered something beneath his breath about the damned Band-Aids. “Unless I sew his mouth shut.”
TJ nodded in amused sympathy, and with worry still in his eyes left the room to answer his phone.
“I thought he’d never leave.”
Emma ignored him and went to work on his shirt, which was a short-sleeved performance jersey. Staring at the hem, she lifted it up over a set of defined abs.
Here he was void of mud but not blood. He’d obviously tumbled along either asphalt or dirt, because he was covered in road rash. It had to hurt like hell.
He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and she raised her gaze to his. California surfer meets angel, she thought. It was the killer combo of that easygoing air and gorgeousness. Maybe also that light brown hair, streaked gold by the sun, wind-tousled and wild and inviting enough that a woman would want to run her fingers through it. Maybe it was his strong, lean, unshaved jaw. Or maybe it was his fathomless green eyes that made a person—or in this case, one grumpy doctor—feel as if he could see her soul.
And the way he looked at her.
Yeah. It was most definitely that, and she knew right then and there—as if she hadn’t already known—that he was trouble.
Crazy, big, bad trouble.
“No need to fuss,” he told her. “I heal fast.”
She could believe that. His body was in prime shape, sinewy and hard. Given what he did for a living—play basically—she knew that body wasn’t gym-made but the real deal, born of actual outdoor activity. She got to his ribs and he winced. “Did you fall?”
“Falling is a way of life for a guy like me.”
“A guy like you?”
He sucked in a hard breath as she probed her way over his torso. “Yeah. A mountain bum.”
He was long and lean, not an extra ounce of fat on him, so she had no trouble accessing the ribs. Unfortunately, she had to use her fingers, and as she did, his flat, ridged belly rose and fell with his agitated breathing. “Stone?”
He opened his eyes.
“Tell me what happened,” she said, looking at his pupils, which were the same size and reactive.
“It’s complicated.”
She’d been born here, but raised in New York by a tough-as-nails woman who’d taken no bullshit. As a result, Emma had either heard or seen it all, and nothing surprised her. Nothing. “I think I can handle it.”
He let out another hard breath when she pressed on his ribs. “It’s all a little fuzzy.”
She frowned and eyed the bump on his head again. “Fuzzy? Are you dizzy? Spots?”
“No.”
She checked his pupils again. “You can’t remember what happened?”
“Well…” He smiled faintly. “There were these three crazy women.”
Her eyes flew to his in time to see his mouth quirk slightly. “Three women,” she repeated.
“Uh huh.”
She narrowed her eyes. “And?”
“They jumped me at Moody’s.”
The single bar and grill in town, where the only nightlife for thirty miles happened. Emma once again took in the road rash all over him. “Bar fight, my ass.”
He laughed, then sucked in a harsh breath. “Oh, Jesus. Laughing isn’t good. Laughing is bad.”
“So save your breath.” His jersey was snug, fitted for outdoor activity such as mountain biking or hiking. She wasn’t going to be able to pull it off him without causing him considerable pain, and besides it was already torn and destroyed, so she grabbed her scissors.
“Hey—”
And cut it up the center of his chest, spreading it wide, revealing more road rash, bleeding sullenly and clogged with dirt wherever his shirt had torn.
A huge infection waiting to happen.