Wait With Me (Wait With Me, #1)(79)

“They can’t come in here,” the redhead says. I turn back to catch her watching me. Her brows are knit together in sympathy beneath a pair of large cheetah-print glasses.

Disturbed by her perceptiveness and a little by those ridiculous glasses, I narrow my eyes and murmur, “I don’t care.”

She purses her lips, clearly unconvinced by my response. “It was kind of a mess out there, so we brought you to the ICU. Only doctors and patients are allowed in the exam rooms.”

Hearing her say ICU and patients sounds ominous. A sudden burst of panic grips my chest over what all of this could mean for me.

I’m not ready for it. I’m not ready to have a screwed up knee for the rest of my life. I’m not ready to admit this could be the end of my career. I’m not ready for change. I want to be Camden Harris, footballing star and sex god to women. That’s the life I signed up for. That’s the goal I want. Pun intended.

I refuse to feel differently. I refuse to let this injury take over everything I am and everything I represent.

I need a distraction. Now.

I turn back to take in the doctor more fully as she moves toward me. She’s dressed in blue scrubs and bright neon green trainers. Inch by inch, I assess that she’s a shorter frame, probably no more than five foot four. Since I can’t get a good read on her body beneath those annoying scrubs, I focus more intently above her neck as she pushes buttons on the monitor near my bed.

Her face is sweet and innocent, but not necessarily na?ve. Her brown eyes are too sharp and confident to be completely clueless. They definitely contradict her cherubic facial features that make me feel a bit soft and funny on the inside. I don’t typically have this reaction to women’s faces. Normally, I’m more interested in their body stats.

Large arse.

Large tits.

Small waist.

Down for a shag.

That’s my checklist when I roll into a club. The logic behind it is that any average-looking girl can look hot with loads of makeup and dark lighting. I’m more concerned about how they look naked and spread out on a bed as I drive into them. I’m not ashamed of my taste and preference in women. Appreciating a soft, luscious bounce beneath my touch is my rite of passage as a bloke.

But this girl before me has little to no makeup on, yet I find my body instinctively reacting to the soft curves of her face. Truthfully, I can’t remember the last time I picked up a girl in broad daylight, so this all feels a bit strange to me. Then again, nothing about what’s happening to me today is typical.

Suddenly, I see a rosy hue crawl up her cheeks as she catches me watching her. My brows lift in a “what’d you expect” sort of expression. Her gaze narrows in contemplation, and I swear I see a tiny spark that tells me she’s not all together put off by my perusal.

The side of my mouth tilts up.

Camden Harris, you’ve just found the perfect distraction.

Maybe if I lie still and let this pretty, bare-faced girl invade all of my thoughts and senses, I won’t turn into an emotional ninny over what’s happening to my knee.

I wonder where else she’s bare? I think to myself, desperate to be reminded that I am still me somewhere beneath this mess of a body.

She shuffles closer to my bed and reaches over top of me for something on the wall. The scent of lemons, toothpaste, and fresh rain fan over me in her close proximity. It’s a mouth-watering combination. In the past, I’ve tried to steer clear of redheads because they’re usually the crazy ones. But lord, between this one’s scent and her pretty face, I’m quite certain that won’t be necessary.

She sets a blood pressure cuff on the bed beside me. Then her cool hand touches my bicep to shove up the sleeve of my jersey. A nurse had toweled off some of the mud earlier, but I remain wet and uncomfortable in my kit.

A chill ripples over me from her delicate touch. It could be from the fact that I’m soaked head to foot in muddy rainwater. Or it could be that this bird is affecting me more than I care to admit. I choose the former.

When her eyes zero in on the half sleeve of black ink that covers the area from my elbow up to my shoulder, I wish I could crawl into her head to know what she’s thinking. Is she as intrigued by me as I am by her? Does she want me? Do I make her nervous? Have I ever cared what a girl thought of me before?

I begin to notice the throbbing in my knee once again, so I willfully focus on the female before me. Her nose is small and points slightly upward, and I have a hard time not staring at her pouty lips that seem too heavy to stay closed.

Christ, she’s gorgeous.

She wraps the cuff around my arm and, biting her lip, she turns away to push some buttons on the machine. I take this opportunity to check out her backside. It’s difficult to tell, but I think she might be sporting a seriously sexy arse.

When the cuff begins to automatically tighten, her focus shifts and she catches my lowered gaze on her. Quirking a brow, she steps over to me and grabs my opposite wrist. “Feeling better already?” she inquires while staring at her wristwatch to register my pulse.

My brows arch. “I buggered up my knee. Not my eyes.”

This conversation forces my mind back to the real issue at hand. I glare down at my knee, hot anger coursing through my veins at the seemingly normal-looking limb. On the outside, it looks perfect. On the inside, it’s a stormy mess. Not dissimilar to how my entire body looks and feels.