She throws me a heated glare, saying nothing. My smile stretches wider, its edges threatening to pierce my cheeks. Angry Holly. My eyes travel down her face, tracing the contours of her cheeks and the taut line of her clenched jaw. They linger on her neck for about three seconds, on a spot just below her ear where the tendrils of her hair curl on the nape of her neck, before descending down the rest of her body over her scrubs. “So tell me, Dr. Moore. How does it feel killing someone?”
Her expression hardens instantly. “Excuse me?”
“Your patient. How did it feel killing someone?”
“Devastating. Want me to show you?”
“Ouch, love. You wound me.”
She stares at me, the intensity in her gaze almost physical. Her lips press into a thin, furious line, and her hands curl into fists at her sides. I can practically see her weighing the consequences of launching herself at me right here, in the middle of the ward. And oh, how I love it.
Holly Moore. Always so tightly wound. So precise and utterly untouchable. Except for when I needle her like this — when I manage to find the cracks in her armour — it’s like watching ice fracture under pressure. I fuckinglivefor it. I love riling her up,pushing her to the edge just to see how far I can go before she finally starts pushing back.
I wonder what she’d look like once she finally gives in. Once she finally stops trying so hard to stay above it all and just shoves me right back.
“No, but I’m tempted,” she snaps and reaches for her phone, a flicker of something else crossing her expression for a fleeting moment before she shoves it back into her pocket. Then, with a determined glint in her eye, she pushes past me, the brief touch sending a jolt of electricity coursing through my veins. I step forward and block her path.
She exhales in annoyance and glances up.
“Do you need a ride home?”
“Why? Are you offering?”
“Are you saying yes?”
“I would rather walk into traffic with a blindfold on.”
A soft chuckle leaves my mouth.Funny Holly. I set the coffee mug down. “Has anybody ever told you how incredibly rude you are?”
“Maybe you’re just easily offended.”
“Men are more attracted to women who are mean to them.”
She scoffs. “Thank you for that completely random and untrue fact. Nowmove.”
“It’s not untrue. You’re mean to me all the time.”
“I’m not mean, I’m honest. And if you’re attracted to my honesty, then maybe I’m not being honest enough.”
“Maybe not. Where’re you headed after this?”
“To dive headfirst into the Hudson. Wanna come?”
“Sure, but if weareplanning on going skinny dipping tonight, might I recommend the pool at my flat? It’s arguably better than the Hudson.” I lean in closer, savouring her sweet, lavender scent. “Cleaner too.”
“Are you inviting me?”
“Why? Are you saying yes?”
The anger in her gaze increases tenfold. “I would rather ingest a bucket full of radioactive waste than go anywhere with a man like you.”
“There aren’t any men like me.”
“Really? Raging narcissists with the emotional depth of a single petri dish arethathard to find? Who would’ve thought?”
Despite my efforts to contain it, my smile widens further. My palms, as if possessed by a will of their own, slide against the cool counter, caging her in, my fingers aching to trace the curve of her waist. She remains composed, but I detect a subtle hitch in her breath and a darting glance between my hand and my face. “See? So fucking rude.”
I watch as she swallows hard. My eyes trace her throat, and I feel the stupidest need to wrap my fingers around it to see if it’s as soft as I imagined. My fingers trace the edge of the counter, a fleeting touch against her side, and I lean in closer. Her gaze involuntarily drifts to my lips, and when she looks up again, I give her a knowing wink.
