Page 95 of Tangled with the Tight End

“No. You definitely wouldn’t. You’d put … one with a tutu.”

I nod. “Exactly.”

His eyes meet mine and he gives me another one of his smiles. My chest tightens, a warmth flooding me.

Inconvenient crush.

I look away from Declan—or try to. My eyes make it about three inches before they drift back. He's watching me in a way I had gotten used to over the past three weeks, only this time it’s like I'm a problem he's working through.

“Have a seat and put your leg up before we head out,” I say, getting us back on track. “I want to look at your foot.”

“Now there's a line a guy doesn't hear every day.” He chuckles, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

He maneuvers to the couch, and I make the mistake of watching the shift of his shoulders, the controlled way he lowers himself, despite the crutches. He moves with athletic grace, even here in his house, despite his injury.

Declan props his leg on the cushion and I crouch down, repeating a little mantra I haven’t had to use in a while: Patient, nurse. Patient, nurse. Patient, nurse.

I check for swelling and discoloration—any sign of residual inflammation.

I try to ignore the way he's gone very still while I examine him.

The air feels heavy.

Too heavy.

Too much unspoken.

Too many realities just outside this bubble we’re living in.

So, I poke his baby toe. It curls reflexively and I gaze up, past his foot and his leg, up across the snug T-shirt that’s molding to his upper body, showing off every rock-hard muscle he’s honed to perfection over the years.

My stomach flutters. Is this what they mean in romance novels when the heroine gets butterflies? The sensation almost tickles, making me momentarily light-headed.

My eyes land on the amused grin on Declan’s face.

“Well?” he says.

“You look good,” I say. “And still ticklish.”

“Is that your professional opinion?” he asks.

“Completely professional,” I say with a smile.

He studies me with something careful in his expression, something I’ve occasionally imagined I saw in his lingering gaze, something I can't afford to name. Something possibly utterly unprofessional.

My face goes warm and I drop my eyes back to his foot even though I’ve already finished assessing his condition.

“You're in a mood today,” I say, pulling myself back so I’m sitting on my heels.

“A good mood,” he echoes.

I stare at him and he holds my eye contact. For a moment, it’s just the two of us—Declan, this guy I’ve been getting to know, and me, Winona, a woman who comes to spend time with him.

I shake my head slightly, looking over at the coffee table to break the spell.

“It's the goose,” I say. “Admit it. It’s hard to be around her without smiling.”

He laughs softly. “It's definitely the goose.”