Page 12 of Leave a Mark
Wren glanced back and forth between him and the two holes in her front. She didn’t like the sense of powerlessness that came from looking at them.
“You had a ruptured cyst in your right ovary. Either the rupture itself or the hemorrhaging that followed caused your ovary to twist, cutting off circulation. It was pretty serious,” he said, frowning now. “I was glad we were able to save your ovary.”
“Holy crap,” she whispered, her eyes going wide. Knowing the facts, a couple of tiny scars weren’t so bad after all. “Me, too.”
He smiled again. Dr. Hawthorne had a nice smile. He already seemed pretty young, but his smile — and the way his front curl in his dark hair swooped up — made him look even younger.
“You can go ahead and cover up. I’ll have a nurse show you how to clean your incisions and change the dressing before you go home.
She folded over the bandages and pressed the tapes back into place before pulling down her gown. Dr. Hawthorne glanced at her untouched lunch tray with the plates still hidden under plastic covers.
“Have you eaten anything today?” he asked, arching a brow at her.
“Um… no.” As if on cue, her stomach growled wildly. Wren clutched her middle, and Dr. Hawthorne walked around her bed, but, again, she got the distinct impression that he was trying not to laugh at her.
When he reached her lunch tray, he lifted the lid off the center plate. A pork chop floated in a gelatinous ooze of gravy. Grayish green peas and a heap of dried-out mashed potatoes rounded out the meal. With a look of disapproval, Dr. Hawthorne touched the rim of the plate before replacing the lid.
“That’s ice cold. It’s probably been sitting here for hours.” He looked back at her. “You’re not allowed to eat that.”
“Trust me, dude. There isn’t enough money in the world to make me to eat that.”
This time, he did laugh, and it was a laugh like classic rock. Comfortable. Familiar. But steely, too.
“Here,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He handed her a Kind bar. “They don’t serve dinner until 5:30, and I’m hoping to get you out of here by then, but you need to eat something.”
She hesitated a moment, but, when her stomach growled again, Wren reached for the granola bar.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome, Ms. Blanchard,” he said easily.
She shook her head. “It’s Wren.”
He nodded, and the edges of his eyes crinkled with a smile. “Yeah, you said that before.”
“I did?” Wren felt a jolt. “I probably said a lot of things.”
Dr. Hawthorne laughed again.
Oh shit. What did I say?Her cheeks grew hot.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” she muttered. But it was a lie. She did like the sound of his laugh.
“Everybody gets a free pass in the ER,” he said.
“Phew.” She mimed wiping imaginary sweat from her brow. At the gesture, she noticed her pits were heating up. She clamped her arms to her sides and realized that it had been more than twenty-four hours since she’d showered or brushed her teeth.
So what?He’s your doctor. He’s not flirting. And if he were, ew!
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Wren,” he said then, giving her a little bow. “I wish you a full recovery.”
“Thanks, doc.”
He stuck out his hand then, and she shook it, remembering a flash from the night before. Had she held his hand? At the thought, she released him first, but she saw that his eyes lingered on the blackbirds at her wrist.
Dr. Hawthorne stepped back into the open doorway of her room, and he rested a hand on the doorframe. “Take care.”
And then he was gone.
