Deputy Washington nods, “Sounds like a plan. We have to go to the hospital. Kind of on a time crunch.”
Her lips purse, not pleased. She would rather work miracles and heal everything that came through those doors. But everything takes time.
The pink-haired assistant, or receptionist — probably both — walks in carrying an electronic chart.
“Who do I bill, Dr. Beth?”
“This one’s on us.” Pointing to the ceiling she adds, “And God. Though I doubt I can get a nickel out of him.”
Wyatt surprises everyone. “Her.”
The vet’s head tilts. “Excuse me?”
“God’s a Her.”
A short laugh ends her debate, and she vanishes.
Without gathering the ducklings.
Her assistant hurries to get them, and we all help. “This way.”
Wyatt flicks me a glance, still carrying the one duckling. “If you’re lying about your leg, I won’t forgive you.”
His teasing tone makes me grin, “I never lie.”
Except about you.
And to you, by saying I never.
Why do you have that affect?
He opens his mouth to say something, and thinks better of it, following his partner into the room as the big guy murmurs to two baby birds like a father would his own children. It’s a pretty adorable sight I probably won’t forget for years.
We tuck all six ducklings into a kennel meant for small dogs. There’s a fuzzy, blue blanket lining it, plus a full water dish.
As we go to leave, I nearly melt into a puddle of take-me-now as Wyatt leans toward my ear, his voice almost deeper than my resolve to keep my dinner commitment to Eddie. “Let’s get you to a doctor.”
“I’m fine. Really. If you could just take me home, that’d be great.”
“Much as I’d like to, this is protocol. It’s time to check you out.”
“Aren’t you already doing that?”
His partner chuckles, throwing over his shoulder, “She’s got your number, Wyatt!”
“She hasn’t asked for it, yet.”
My heart beats faster.
Is he flirting with me?
For-real flirting?
Trying not to limp, I smirk, “Please! I’m from the South. I would never ask a man for his number.”
“And if you were from the North?”
“We’ll never know, will we.”
Like a dozen paparazzi wait outside, the glass doors light up, thunder not far behind.
Wyatt chuckles, “Normally I’d say ladies first, but not today.”
I whisper, “Jerk.”
He laughs and grabs the handle. “Here we go.”
CHAPTER 12
DIANA
I groan, “Now I feel guilty.”
From the radio we learned the storm isn’t classified an official hurricane, but it sure looks like one hit the people in here. To keep from gagging at gruesome injuries, I avert my gaze and focus on the line we’re about to get stuck in.
I realize from the unaffected expressions of my chaperones that police officers are used to seeing terrible things. I should’ve taken that for granted, but it’s something I’ve never given any thought to until now.
Under my breath I say, more to myself than them, “I’ll take an empty animal hospital over this any day.”
Wyatt glances to me. “Can’t handle the excitement, huh?”
“Is that what you call this?” I slide a grimace around the wounded humanity waiting in a starkly-lit room, two silent television screens playing, of all things, the news. “This is excitement?”
“This is life.”
“A harsh side of it.”
“Most of life is harsh.”
“I don’t agree with that at all.”
“These people will heal. Now they have a story.” He walks away, ignoring the line to follow his partner to the front.
Deputy Washington leans over to the reception nurse as if he knows her.
Wyatt crosses bulging arms, watchful and patient. After a few moments, he glances right behind him, and does a double-take at my absence. Twisting his body, he scans the room for me.
Fully turning around, Wyatt stomps his feet in a subconscious release of tension. Is he convinced I went home and didn’t tell them?
He spots me standing at the back of the line where I belong.
I shift my weight, crossing my arms on a sharp inhale.
His expression shifts to annoyance. He motions for me to join them, jabbing his index finger toward the linoleum.
I shake my head.
He points again.
I frown. Shake my head.
He jabs it once more.
I don’t move.
He starts to repeat the ineffective summons, but realizes I might be as stubborn as he is. He marches up with everyone watching him since they have nothing better to do, and he’s so damn easy on the eyes.
Oblivious to them, he demands, “What do you think you’re doing?”
My voice is as hushed as his, which isn’t very. “These people are more hurt than I am. I have a bruise.”
“You keep saying that.”
“You keep not hearing it!”
The woman standing right in front of me peers over her shoulder with curious irritation now that she realizes what’s going on. The gash on her clavicle clearly agrees with me and not him.
He notices the condition she’s in, and his eyes soften to almost sheepish. But lowering his tone doesn’t hide his growing determination to win. “Diana, do you think I’m a cruel person?”
You were holding a wounded duck in your hands like a superhero on a slow day.
Even still, I’m frustrated, too.
I hate bad manners.
“I don’t know. I just met you. These people were here first, is all I’m saying. I don’t want to be a jerk. Walking up there feels wrong!”
If steam could blow out of his nose, it’d be warming my face right now. “Did it ever occur to you that we have things we should be doing right now that might take precedence over your bruise — if that’s all you have — and that is why we are cutting the line?”
My tight jaw relaxes as I blink, helpless to give a snappy retort to such
