Lover Unleashed (Black Dagger Brotherhood #9)(137)

Which made his reaction to this request from the board a surprise. He actually wasn’t all that upset. He felt . . . unplugged somehow, as if it were happening to someone he’d once known, but had long since lost touch with: Yeah, it was a big deal, but . . . whatever.

“Well—” The sound of his phone ringing cut him off. And the clue as to what really mattered to him was in the way he scrambled like his fleece had caught fire to get the thing out.

It wasn’t Payne, however. It was the vet.

“I have to take this,” he said to Goldberg. “Two secs. Yeah, Doc, how is—” Manny frowned. “Really. Uh-huh. Yeah . . . yeah . . . uh-huh . . .” A slow grin grabbed traction on his face and took over, until he was probably beaming like a headlight. “Yeah. I know, right? It’s a f*ckin’ miracle.”

When he hung up the phone, he looked across the table. Goldberg’s eyebrows were scaling the heights of his forehead.

“Good news. About my horse.”

And that pair of brows went even higher. “I didn’t know you had one.”

“Her name’s Glory. She’s a Thoroughbred.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“I’m into racing.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah.”

And that was about it for the personal convo. Which gave Manny a sense of how much they talked about work. At the hospital, he and Goldberg had gone for hours talking about patients and staff issues and the running of the department. Now? They didn’t have much to say to each other.

Still, he was sitting across from a very good man . . . one who was probably going to be the next chief of surgery at St. Francis. The board of directors was going to do a nationwide search, of course, but Goldberg would be chosen, because the other surgeons, who spooked easily and thrived on stability, knew and trusted him. And they should. Goldberg was technically brilliant in the OR, administratively proficient and way more even-tempered than Manny had ever been.

“You’re going to do a great job,” Manny said.

“What—oh. It’s just temporary until you . . . you know, come back.”

The guy seemed to believe it, which was testament to his kind nature. “Yeah.”

Manny shifted in his chair, and as he recrossed his legs, he glanced around . . . and saw three girls across the way. They were probably eighteen or so, and the instant he made eye contact, they giggled and put their heads together like they were pretending that they hadn’t been staring at him.

Feeling like he was back in the gym again, he double-checked himself. Nope. Still very much not naked. What the hell—

When he looked up, one of them had gotten to her feet and come over. “Hi. My friend thinks you’re hot.”

Um . . . “Ah, thanks.”

“Here’s her number—”

“Oh, no—nope.” He took the piece of paper she put on the table and forced it back in her hand. “I’m flattered, but—”

“She’s eighteen—”

“And I’m forty-five.”

At this, the girl’s jaw dropped. “No. Way.”

“Yes. Way.” He pulled a hand through his hair, wondering when he’d decided to channel Gossip Girl or some shit. “And I have a girlfriend.”

“Oh.” The chippie smiled. “That’s cool—but ya coulda just said. You don’t have to lie about being an old fart.”

With that she sauntered off, and as she sat back down, there was a collective groan. And then he got a couple of winks.

Manny looked over at Goldberg. “Kids. I mean, honestly.”

“Um. Yeah.”

Okay, it was time to end this awkwardness. Looking out the window, Manny started to plan his exit—

In the glass, he saw the reflection of his face. Same high cheekbones. Same square jaw. Same lip-and-nose combo. Same black hair. But there was something different.

Leaning in, he thought . . . his eyes were . . .

“Hey,” he said calmly. “I’m going to hit the loo. Will you watch my coffee before we leave?”

“Of course.” Goldberg smiled in relief, as if he were glad to have both a departure strategy and a job. “Take your time.”

Manny got up and went over to the single unisex bathroom. After knocking and getting no response, he opened the door, and turned on the light. As he locked himself in and the overhead fan came on, he stepped up to the mirror with its little EMPLOYEES MUST WASH THEIR HANDS sign.

The light was directly over the sink he was in front of. So by all that was right and proper, he should have looked like shit, all holloweyed from exhaustion, with bags you could pack for a week away, and skin the color of hummus.

That was not what the mirror was showing. Even with the pisspoor fluorescent light shining down on him, he looked ten years younger than he remembered. He was positively glowing with health, like someone had Photoshopped an earlier version of his head onto his current body.

Stepping back, he stretched his arms out in front of his chest and sank down into a squat, giving his hip an opportunity to stand up and holler. Or his thighs, which he’d run hard less than an hour ago. Or his back.

No pain. No stiffness. No aches.

His body was raring to go.

He thought about what the head vet had said to him just now over the phone, the man’s voice confused and thrilled at the same time: She’s regenerated the bone and the hoof has spontaneously healed itself. It’s as if the injury never occurred at all.