Stella MacLean - Sweet On Peggy

“A what?” Rory asked. Feeling anxious, he glanced from Dr. Brandon to the nurse.

“The nurse will explain everything,” Dr. Brandon said, his glance swerving to the digital clock on the wall. “I have to go. The nurse will give you an appointment to see me back here in two days. I’ll check your arm, see how it’s doing. Using an electric saw can be dangerous. You were lucky.”

Rory didn’t want to know any more than he had to. Medical things weren’t his strong suit. He’d discovered that about himself when he was ten and fell out of a tree, breaking his leg, requiring surgery, bandages and, of course, needles. He figured he wouldn’t have to deal with that stuff anymore until he went to volunteer in Haiti for two years as a carpenter. There, he saw men working with him experience serious injuries. “Thanks, doc,” Rory said, alarmed at how weak his voice sounded.

The nurse applied a dressing then picked up a syringe from the tray.

“Is that needle for me?”

“Yes. It’s a tetanus shot.”

“Where are you going to put it?” he asked, holding his injured arm close to his chest.

“Can you roll up the sleeve on your other arm?”

“Sure, I guess so,” Rory said, complying with her request. He looked away as she gave the shot.

“Okay, here’s your requisition. The phlebotomy clinic is just down the hall to your right. Once you’ve had your blood taken you can go.” She passed him the slip of paper, a smile dimpling her cheeks.

Rory stood. Yep, his legs were holding. He took a deep breath.

“Remember to keep your arm up as much as possible and keep your bandage clean until the doctor sees you again.”

Would this injury affect his ability to do his job as a carpenter? He hoped not. “Thank you.” Rory made his way out of the room, the requisition in his good hand, his pride intact.

He reached the entrance to the clinic and approached the desk. There was no one there. He was about to sit down and wait when he heard voices from a room just beyond the desk.

He approached the door. Just as he did he heard a child’s anxious voice telling someone he didn’t want a needle. A child after his own heart, he thought, risking a glance into the room. A woman knelt in front of the boy, who was huddled on his mother’s lap. The woman dressed in pink scrubs touched the little boy’s arm, her voice so soothing he wanted to keep standing there and be soothed a little himself. It had been a rough day, made worse when he’d let his attention slip and cut his arm on the saw he’d been using to fix a client’s back steps.

The woman was speaking softly to the child. Slowly the little boy held out his arm and let her put the needle in. Rory blinked to block the sight. When he opened his eyes again, the woman was watching him with the brownest eyes he’d ever seen. Her face was alight with interest and awareness.

In that instant he felt a connection he’d never ever experienced. Did he know her? Did she know him? It was as if they’d met before, but he was pretty sure they hadn’t. He would have remembered this woman. She was totally unforgettable.

He stood there feeling a bit like an idiot. Yet he couldn’t seem to move, to break the connection. He wanted to go to her, take her hands and simply be with her. How nuts was that? He’d never felt that way before about any woman. Even though there’d been many opportunities to hook up, this was different. Maybe it had something to do with the tetanus shot.

“Are you here to have your blood taken?” she asked, returning her attention to the child and his mother.

Suddenly the room around him seemed less welcoming. “I am.”

“If you’d like to take a seat in the waiting area in front of the desk—” her gaze returned to him, one eyebrow raised in question “—I’ll be there as soon as I finish here.”

“Sure,” he said, aware of how the single pearl on the end of a gold chain she wore nestled into the V of her throat. Imagining what her skin would feel like under his fingers, how her heart would pound to his touch, made his blood run hot.

More like how his heart would pound when she put the needle into his arm.

Feeling awkward and a little strange, he went back and sat down. He struggled to divert his thoughts away from her and how she made him feel, focusing instead on a flu shot poster.

In a few minutes, the woman came out with the mother and her son. Rory watched as she walked with them to the entrance, still speaking in soothing tones. He couldn’t help but notice how her top fit her body, how the loose fit of the pants couldn’t completely hide the smooth thighs beneath the fabric.

She didn’t glance at him as she went to her desk, and he felt...deprived, left out of some special secret. He followed her, resting his good arm on the raised counter.

She sat down at the computer and tapped a couple of keys. She turned her full attention to him, her eyes focused on his. Suddenly he couldn’t remember what he was doing here. Think!

“Do you have a requisition you’d like to give me?” she asked, a tiny smile tilting one corner of her lips, the corner where she had a small beauty spot he noted despite his state of confusion.

What was happening? He felt so...so something. Was this how love felt? So hot? So weird? He’d never felt this way before, but that didn’t mean it was love. He hadn’t been in a relationship for a long while, hadn’t felt anything for anyone since his return from Haiti—until this moment. That had to be what was going on here. He needed to get back into the dating game, back to his old life of enjoying every opportunity to meet a woman. And this was the perfect moment. “Yes.” He rushed the word. “Right here.” He passed the requisition to her, nearly hitting her in the face in his eagerness to comply with her request.

She looked it over, keyed in the information and placed the requisition on the top of a pile already on her desk. Behind her a printer groaned to life, disgorging a narrow strip of paper. She tore it off and stood up. “Please follow me,” she said with a backward glance over her shoulder, that smile making him feel like a fifth grader.

Rory followed her, all the while his mind going over the possibilities. She wasn’t wearing a wedding band, and her name tag said her first name was Peggy. He sat down in the chair she pointed to, resting his injured arm on the armrest while he watched her efficient movements. So efficient, in fact, that she was suddenly standing beside him with a bunch of tubes and a needle.

“Hold out your right arm, please,” she said, whipping a tourniquet from her pocket as she laid the other supplies on a steel tray next to his chair.

The scent of her hair, the gentleness of her touch distracted him so much he nearly missed what she’d said. Hastily, he straightened out his arm. She swabbed the bend in his elbow. She pressed her fingers into the space she’d swabbed, holding her needle angled toward his arm. “Make a fist.”

Oh, no. His stomach rolled. He gasped.

She stopped, the needle poised over his arm. “Are you all right?”

He sucked in a chest full of air. When was he going to outgrow this childish fear of needles?

It’s now or never unless you want this gorgeous woman to know you’re a complete wimp. “Yes. Of course.” He made a fist.

She bent her head in concentration. Her presence filled his senses. He wanted to reach out with his injured arm and stroke her short-cropped brown hair, run his fingers along her neck...

“Just a little pinprick.” The needle entered his arm.

He watched in nervous fascination as she put each of the tubes into the sleeve attached to the needle, watching in horror as the blood flowed in.

“Open your fist,” she said as she continued to withdraw his blood.