He pulls out his phone and taps the screen a couple of times. “Yes. Thank you. I need to have Dr. Bentley come out to my place right away. My girl—my friend has a small head injury, but it’s bled quite a lot.”
After he hangs up, he goes to the almost wall-sized fridge and pulls out a couple of bottles of water. The dog is right behind him, tail wagging like mad. Jack cracks the lids and sets them on the counter in front of me.
I take one of the offered drinks. “Thank you. I appreciate your taking such good care of me. You really didn’t have to.”
He brushes my cheek with his knuckle. “Well, I couldn’t exactly leave you there, bleeding out on the tennis court.”
Jack’s tenderness seeps into my skin and soaks into my heart. It’s unexpected, but in a good way.
“No holiday decorations?”
He shrugs. “It’s just me and Bull. Kind of seems like a waste of energy to put up a tree and everything.”
I nod. “Yeah. I put up the tree at Shay’s. She said we should skip it. But it reminds me of home.”
By the time we finish our water, the doorbell peals through the house, and the dog gallops from the kitchen, sounding the alarm that an invasion is imminent. But he circles back before Jack even gets to his feet.
Jackson drops a kiss on my cheek. “Be right back. Doc will have you fixed up in no time.”
As Jackson exits the room my nasal passages are assaulted by a fetid smell. Did Jack fart and leave? That rude—wait…
Bull stands there looking at me, tail wagging, tongue lolling. A high-pitched squeak sounds, and the whites of Bull’s eyes show and he jumps as if he’s been shocked. He sniffs his own ass and takes off into the other room, like the hounds of hell are on his heels.
They aren’t. He left them in here with me. Another onslaught of rotten egg odor wafts in the air.
Oh, good gracious. The reek is going to stick to my clothes, my hair...it might seep into my very pores.
I move to the far end of the room, waiving the air.
Oh, Lord, that’s rank.
Jack comes into the kitchen, leading a distinguished gentleman with the proverbial black bag in his hand. The dog’s right behind the elderly gent, completely obliterating his dignity by shoving his nose up the man’s ass. The doctor does a sidestep-hop combo, pushing at the enormous face, trying to keep the dog from molesting him.
Jacks face changes from that gorgeous smile to one of pure disgust.
“Aw, Bull! C’mon. You could’ve at least waited until the second time Ronnie visited to christen her with your eau de’ Bull.” He pushes up a window. “Damn dog. Sorry about that.”
He stands by the window, using his arm as a fan, trying to move the stench. “Doc, this is Ronnie Fitz. She tripped and hit her head on the tennis court. Ronnie, this is Doc Bentley. He’s been my doctor for the last three or four years.”
The doctor tips my head toward him, gently poking at the sore spot as he asks me a hundred and one questions. Family and health history, current living situation—maybe that last part is because he’s nosy and wants to see if I’m shacking up with Jack. Maybe not.
“I’m afraid it needs a few stitches, dear girl.” He pats my shoulder and turns to dig in his bag.
I close my eyes and take in a deep breath. “I’ve never had stitches. Will it hurt?”
Jackson coughs. “You’ve never had stitches? Ever?”
That is what never usually means. No. Let it go. Don’t be rude. He’s being so sweet.
I shake my head.
He’s probably had stitches more—
“I’ve had stitches so many times, I’ve lost count. There was this one time…”
Jackson walks Doctor Bentley to the door, leaving me on the sofa.
The stitches weren’t that bad, a couple of pinches from the Lidocaine shots and that was that. Four stitches and done. No facial reconstruction as Jack feared.
I take a magazine from below the side table. Let’s see what Jackson reads. A science journal. Nah, what else is down here? I flip up the edges of several periodicals, subject matter ranging from medical breakthroughs to racing. There’s even a ladies’ quarterly. I pull it from the middle of the stack.
Bull sits at my feet, his brown eyes trying to tell me something. His brow wrinkles, and he looks from me to the sofa and back again.
“Sorry, boy, I don’t speak Bull. And I don’t have any goodies for you.”
He stares at me as though he’s trying to give me a telepathic message. I have a feeling he wants on the sofa. Specifically, my spot.
“Fine. If Jack lets you on the furniture, that’s his business.” I move to the other end.
Bull jumps up onto the cushion, somehow managing to turn three circles, his feet almost tangling beneath him, before he plops down. He lays his head on the arm of the sofa and lets out a deep sigh. As long as that’s the only thing that comes whooshing out of him, we’re all right.