Craving Her Rough Diamond Doc

The first stitch seemed to take forever. Imogen realized she was wincing in tandem with Wyatt’s frowns. She tried to relax her forehead, a tension headache brewing between her eyes. “Looks straight.” A slight tug tested the give, and when it looked decent she allowed herself another deep breath, “One down. How many do I need to do?”

After looking at the cut again, he asked, “How many do you think?”

“Six? Seven?”

“Sounds about right.” He smiled, a gentle but encouraging light in his eyes. The man didn’t trust her to haul logs but he trusted her to sew up his body. Very strange. “You’re doing great. Just do that a few more times.”

She moved on to the second stitch, ignoring the warmth tickling her belly from his praise and his faith in her.

If this was a glimpse into what the coming month had for her, she wouldn’t be bored.

But she should probably invest in a big bottle of aspirin.

Wyatt unlocked Amanda’s back door and stepped into the mud room between the back porch and the kitchen. Amanda and her mother, Jolene, had twin cottages two hills down from the mountain. It was normal business for him to invade and use the shower whenever he pleased. Normal enough he’d forgotten to mention it to Imogen after she’d stitched his arm last night.

He didn’t want to be impressed with the way she’d handled his little test. She had skills and, more importantly, she had the touch. Soothing. And at odds with the chemistry that roused urges in him he should ignore.

His thoughts had swung between irritated attraction and worry about how she would be with the patients. At best, she was someone they’d get used to and come to care about who’d quickly abandon them. Like all the times Josh had been passed from one transitory doctor to another. Sometimes they’d changed every visit. It kept things impersonal. A revolving door that left people not knowing who to trust. He didn’t want that for his patients.

A few lights burned inside the cottage, enough that it looked like Imogen was awake, but when he knocked on the glass no one came. As tired as she’d been, there was a real chance she was still asleep, which would throw a wrench into their schedule. Wyatt waited another minute then let himself inside.

A quick check of the bedrooms assured him she was awake. The eventual sound of the shower told him where she was. He backtracked to the sofa and sat, mental images of her in the shower turning his thoughts back where he’d been fighting them since yesterday.

As pushy and stubborn as anyone he’d ever met, Wyatt couldn’t put his finger on precisely what kept her in his mind—other than her appearance. He’d only really ever dated stereotypical Southern women. Sweet, though sometimes he knew it to be an act. But not too challenging. Easy to understand, and because of that easy to be around. Easy on the eyes. Imogen may have that last bit, but there was nothing else easy about her. To be fair, she was a good nurse, so if she could handle the PR aspect of the position, she might be easy to work with.

The bathroom door opened and she came out, wrapped in a towel and swathed in billowing steam. Wyatt stared.

His presence caused her to gasp and clutch at the top of her towel, her hand folding over the place where one corner was tucked in, keeping it on. The action drew his gaze to her breasts, but the look on her face had him looking up again.

“You’re here. What are you doing here?” She checked the front seam of her towel, making sure she was decently covered.

“No shower on the mountain yet.”

When she didn’t say anything else, he added, “I knocked. Then I used my key.”

She frowned and nodded, turning toward the room she was sleeping in.

“Done in there?” Wyatt called after her.

“Yes.” She stopped and looked from the bathroom to him. “The water. There’s probably not much hot.”

She hurt. He could tell by the way she moved, stiffly and slowly. She’d been trying to steam the soreness out of her body. It hadn’t been a shower for cleanliness. Her hair was mostly dry, and secured in a fancy braid. Not a trace of the pink remained in the pale tresses. The baby-fine tendrils forming a halo around her clean face were damp and curling. A hot flush colored her skin, from the shower or her attire, he couldn’t be sure. Not that he really cared. His body appreciated the result.

Wyatt cleared his throat. “It’s fine. Be ready in half an hour.”

He tried not to watch as she walked to the future nursery where she slept, wanting to see every inch on display and not wanting it at the same time. Guilt won and he dragged himself to the bathroom. She was in for a long day and it had already started on the wrong foot, sore from the logs he’d practically dared her to move.

The cold shower, surprisingly timely and bracing, sluiced over him with a wave of painful shivers. Wyatt placed both hands against the wall of the shower and stayed still until he could stand no more.

Any other day, he would’ve said the sight of an attractive woman wasn’t enough to send his thoughts spiraling out of control. Any other day, he would’ve believed himself in control of his body.

It figured this would all happen on a week they were scheduled in towns with the dinkiest motels in history. He’d grown accustomed to sharing a double room with Amanda. It worked fine with cousins sharing; Amanda was as close as a sibling. As far as he could tell, the further along in her pregnancy she’d gotten, the more she liked having someone close by. But with Imogen…could that be a bad idea?

Nah. Well, probably not. They were adults. And after her first day deep in the mountains Wyatt doubted either of them would be feeling particularly lustful. Sometimes he felt almost as sensitive to the behavior and opinions of non-locals as his patients were, and he already knew what they’d think of Imogen. If only he’d managed to get a temp hired yesterday. The option of firing her spectacularly, distasteful as it was, might be just what had to happen.

“Imogen, we’re almost there.”

The voice, a low, manly rumble, distracted her into wakefulness. And his scent…She’d thought she’d dreamed it. He smelled good, the whole front of the bus smelled like him. Her sleep-addled brain mixed with hormones surged in response to his extremely appealing pheromones. She didn’t figure out what he’d said until she’d blinked away all that fog from her brain. “How long?”

“You’ve been asleep about two hours, and we’re about half an hour out. We probably won’t see as many patients today—the Trout Derby is on—but just in case, I want you prepared,” Wyatt answered, while steering the big silver bus slowly down yet another winding country road—both doctor and driver of this practice on wheels. “I need to go over what’s expected of you first, so wake up. Have some coffee.” He handed her a thermos so she could refill her cup and drink herself sentient.

While she was waking up, he went through a list of common-sense expectations any nurse fresh out of school could have anticipated. Imogen only really felt awake when he got to the weird stuff.

“Wait…What?”

“Someone, probably an older lady, will come early and bring us something she made—food, usually baked goods of some description. Take some, even if it’s just a little, and eat it. Thank her. If you’re feeling conversational, ask for the recipe. Be courteous, be nice, even if it seems weird. Most of our patients are children, who you probably can’t offend, or the elderly who you can. Treat them like you would your grandparents.”

“I never knew my grandparents, Wyatt, but I would never be rude to a patient.” She really did need to wake up if she was going to maintain a professional attitude with him. All about family, right out of the gate. “And just so you know, I’m great with kids. And I don’t run around hitting those of voting age with sticks and telling people they have ugly babies.” Although after yesterday it might be unsurprising he thought the worst of her. She’d hoped her agreement to stitch him up would have negated their earlier interaction.

“Don’t be dramatic. I’m not saying you’re going to be rude, what I’m saying is that your definition of rude and the local definition will be different. Polite, distant professionalism is worse than rude here.” He glanced at her long enough to establish eye contact and nodded once, then took his eyes back to the winding road.

“They want to treat us like family—and it won’t be that way off the bat, but it’s the goal. They’ll listen to and respect care instructions if they think of you as family—someone here for the long haul. When they feel comfortable, they’ll talk us up to their friends and families, and the number of patients will increase—which is crucial to getting the funding approved.”

His dark eyes had been warmer yesterday, when he had been walking her through the stitches. Where had that guy gone? “Won’t that kind of behavior from a stranger seem fake?”

“Not if you do it right. Try to be Amanda,” Wyatt suggested, glancing her way again.

Message received. You’re not good enough.

She could read between the lines. Why can’t you be like Amanda? My last nurse was better.

My last girlfriend was prettier.

My last girlfriend knew how to make jam.

Imogen rubbed her head and drank more coffee. Coffee, good for more than waking you up. Also a great scapegoat to blame when your hands trembled.

Ignore it. He didn’t think she could do the job. Fine. She had a month to prove him wrong. This judgmental stuff wasn’t about her as a person.

He’s not Scott.

The little mantras calmed her enough to get her hand under control, but Imogen still couldn’t bring herself to look at him, knowing her eyes would be glassy and wet. Instead, she focused on the window. “Amanda is effusive with everyone.” As the landscape rolled past, her vision cleared and her mind followed. “She’d take candy from a stranger then invite him home after announcing she lived alone and the nearest neighbor was a mile away.”

“She’s not that bad.” Wyatt chuckled. Like any of this was funny. “But you had it right about the friendly-to-strangers bit. Not insanely trusting but friendly.”

“I don’t know how to be Southern and candy-sweet.” Distance. Keep distance. Keep calm. He didn’t know any better. His opinion didn’t matter. Do the job. Go home. Pretend to drink the Kool-Aid, just don’t swallow it.

“All I’m saying is be nice. Friendly. Think of something to say to personalize your interactions. Compliment patients, ask their advice, engage them somehow, and don’t use any of your annoying tricks.”

“Back to thinking I’ll purposefully antagonize the patients? I have some training, you know.” She took a deep breath, counted to ten and smiled past the lump in her throat. She could fake a smile. It was the least offensive mask she had, even if perhaps not the most healthy. “Anything else?”

Wyatt looked at her a little too long, but the road demanded his attention and, let off the hook, she looked back out the window.

“Two more things,” Wyatt said. “One: there isn’t much black and white out here—the law, and how stringently it’s followed, is fluid. Don’t get involved unless something is likely to harm the patient or someone else.”

“Like?”

“I’ve treated and not reported a hunting accident before,” Wyatt answered without hesitation, so matter-of-factly that he might have simply expressed his love of potatoes.

“A shooting?” That just seemed wrong. Dangerous.

“Shot himself in the leg, but missed any major trauma.”

“That’s…”

“Illegal. I know.” He didn’t seem fazed by it, though. “The patient was hunting in the off-season, which is to say: illegally. But the way I see it, and the way pretty much anyone in the area would see it, a man has a right to feed his family. Happened on his land. He’s not well off, but he’s making the most of what he has. I wouldn’t want him punished for making sure his kids didn’t go without.”

“That’s why you wanted me to stitch you up…” Imogen murmured, realization coming in a flash.

“That’s why I wanted you to stitch me up.”

“He could have lied about being the one to shoot him, you know.” People lied all the time.

“I know, but he wasn’t.” Wyatt still seemed unfazed, and so sure of himself. Ego.

She nodded, still processing this information. The idea of putting her license on the line didn’t appeal, but she could understand his logic. There was a certain kind of nobility to the decision, whether she would’ve made the same call or not. “At least it won’t be boring.”

“Last thing. If you have questions or concerns about one of my calls, make them in private—later, ideally. I need you to trust me and follow my orders without hesitation.”

“I’ll try,” Imogen murmured, mostly because she wasn’t ever sure exactly what she was going to do from moment to moment. And even if she’d never questioned a doctor’s call in front of a patient before, she wasn’t feeling too sure of anything. The job. Why she’d come. Him. Her worthiness as a nurse or a person. Amazing how fast all that could come rushing back. And she had thought she was past someone having the ability to make her feel so off. So small.

He turned the bus off the road and into a gravel lot beside a tiny white church, the kind quickie-wedding places and photographers liked to clone for ambiance.

“Do better than try.” He sounded distant suddenly, and more than a little icy. Dr. Beechum had just arrived. A new mask came down, and Imogen didn’t know which Wyatt was the real one—the one who walked her through stitches, the surly wild man on the mountain, or this icy man now walking to the back to start setting up.

Ditching her cup, she rubbed some warmth back into her suddenly chilled hands.

She hoped it was the last of his masks she’d have to watch out for.

She’d learned early on that when the masks came off, the monsters came out.

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