Page 28 of Five Stolen Rings
He’s still a smirking pain in my behind.
“Did you really go get changed?” I say, gesturing to his clothes—scrubs and Crocs now, instead of the jeans and shirt he wore to drive me over here.
“Sure did,” he says with a twitch of his lips—one that clearly shocks the nurse, I might add. She’s standing by the sink, looking bored, but Jack’s almost-smile causes her to do a double take.
I bet he just storms around this place with a giant frown.
He doesn’t seem to notice the nurse, though. “If I’m stapling that cut”—he gestures to the side of my head—“I have to be official.”
“Now hang on just one minute,” I say, my hand flying to where my hair is sticky and gross with drying blood. “Let’s talk about this rationally.” I clear my throat. “I don’t think staples will be necessary.”
His almost-grin vanishes, and in its place appears a brisk, no-nonsense expression. “It’s staples or stitches, Miss Partridge,” he says flatly. “I’d recommend staples.”
I swallow and try not to think about the logistics of a giant stapler driving metal into my skull. “I won’t insult your intelligence by asking for a second opinion?—”
“That means,” Jack cuts me off, pinching the bridge of his nose, “thatyoudon’t get to offer an opinion, either.”
“Fine,” I say as something dies inside of me. “Staples is fine.”
Jack nods. “Stephanie,” he says to the nurse.
“Yes,” she says, and then she bustles out of the room—getting supplies, I guess.
“An ER doctor, huh?” I say under my breath once she’s gone.
“Yep,” he says, settling himself on a rolling stool and scooting to the side of the bed they’ve got me on. He places a gentle hand on my chin and tilts it away from him, so he can see the cut.
That stupid tree. I’ve got bruises and scrapes everywhere, but it was a branch I hit on the way down that did this damage.
“Three or four should do it,” he says, his fingers moving from my chin to my hair. “But good grief, Princess.” He lets his hand drop, shaking his head and looking at me with exasperation. “What am I going to do with you? You can’t go five minutes withoutan injury.”
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. I don’t mean for the words to escape—they just do.
Jack’s dark eyebrows twitch in surprise. “For what?” he says. “Cutting your head open?”
“No.” It’s a miserable whisper now; I’m too ashamed to hold his gaze, so I let my eyes drop to my hands in my lap. “For calling you a thief. For saying—that stuff. About how I expected you’d turn out, or whatever.” I swallow past the tangled knot of guilt and regret in my throat. “I shouldn’t have said those things.”
For several seconds, Jack doesn’t speak; when he does, there’s no anger in his voice. “You already apologized for that, Princess,” he murmurs.
“I know,” I say quickly. “I just—” I break off. “I still feel bad.” I force myself to look up, because there are some things you can’t be a coward about, and apologizing is one of them.
But something happens then, when my gaze clashes with his—a jolt of adrenaline, a spike of anxious excitement, spurred by the intensity in his dark eyes, the way they search my face so intently.
“Yeah, well,” he says slowly, shrugging. “Maybe youshouldfeel bad. It was a mean thing to say.”
I nod as my heart somehow manages to sinkandflutter at the same time.
What on earth is wrong with me?
“But,” he goes on, and now his gaze flickers with something I can’t identify, “I think after I put a few staples in your head, I might feel better.”
Little panic bubbles form in my gut, fizzing like a shaken soda. “So…about that.” I bite my lip. “How bad is it going to hurt?”
Jack snorts and pushes his rolling stool over to the sink, that soft look gone; he’s back to his normal self once more.
Good thing, too. I don’t know if I can handle soft looks and murmured words from him.
“Depends who you ask,” he says, standing up. “Since you have the pain tolerance of a jellyfish?—”
