I chuckle gently as her words wash through me—a smooth, soothing, healing balm.
“And I don’t want us to be apart anymore. Not ever again.”
I hold Abby closer, brushing my lips against her forehead.
“Then we won’t be. Not ever again. I swear to God.”
Tears streak down her sooty cheeks as she nods, smiling and crying at the same time as she nuzzles into my arms. The shriek of the ambulance sirens gets louder, closer, until paramedics arrive and I have to force myself to let Abby go so they can tend to her.
There are more things to discuss and plans to make.
But for now, this is enough.
This is everything.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Abby
A WEEK LATER, I’M IN my flat at the dining room table, hunched over a red grape that’s stabilized with forceps, painstakingly suturing the delicate split skin back together with a needle and thread in my left hand.
Because I was wrong. Doctors actually do make the worst patients. And a surgeon with extra time on her hands runs the risk of being especially petulant.
In addition to a smattering of minor cuts and contusions, the accident left me with a concussion and a Grade 2 strain of the scapholunate ligament of my right wrist—which means I’m home from the hospital for two weeks and banned from the operating room for a month.
There was a time when such a delay would’ve caused my whole world to fall apart.
But my world is bigger now.
And having a gorgeous man with a devilish smile taking extra good care of me—who enjoys being naked more often than not—has definitely pillowed the blow.
That doesn’t mean I can’t put my recovery time to productive use, however.
That’s where the grape comes in.
I’ve been working on developing the dexterity and skill in my nondominant hand. My right forearm is encased in a black stabilizing splint, but I’m able to use my fingers to tie off the thread in the now stitched grape. The sutures aren’t pretty—the grape looks like the fruit incarnation of Frankenstein, but still . . .
“Not bad,” I say out loud to myself.
But a moment later when Tommy walks through the door, it’s not just myself in the flat.
I feel my skin grow warm as I watch him approach—how the lines of his impressive physique stand out as he moves and his hair falls over his forehead in that careless way that makes my fingers twitch to run through the thick strands.
Then that warmth penetrates deep, turning to a swelling tenderness inside my chest that always comes when I’m gazing at him.
Because I love him.
And I’m so grateful, so happy that he’s here and mine and I’m his.
He stands beside me, the heat of his thigh against my arm, glancing down at my handiwork.
“How’s the patient, Dr. Abby?”
“He’ll live.” I smile.
“Excellent.” Tommy plucks a grape off the vine from the bag on the table, tosses it in the air and catches it in his mouth with a smooth, effortless grace. “Then I came home just in time.”
He gave notice on the lease of his place and moved in here with me—not just to take care of me while I recuperate, but for good.
“You deserve a reward,” he says in a teasing tone. “And so do I.”
Then he proceeds to unbutton his black shirt. Slowly.
And I put down the suture needle.
“Since you were so generous with the stripteases when I was on the mend, I thought it was time I return the favor. If you’re feeling up to it.”
He strips his shirt off his arms—revealing deliciously warm, tan muscles—leaving him in black trousers that cling in all the best places.
“I’m feeling all sorts of things at the moment.”
His grin is wicked and his voice is a low, decadent promise.
“Don’t get too worked up, lass. We’re going to have to go extra slow—I’m even thinking about tying you down . . . just to be sure you don’t hurt yourself.”
My head goes pleasantly light—drunk on him—and my breasts are heavy and tingling for his touch.
Tommy scoops me up, cradling me against the smooth heat of his chest, my hair swinging long and loose behind me in a way I know he adores.
“You are a dirty, dirty man. And I am a lucky, lucky girl.”
He dips his head, his mouth drifting close.
“And you love me.”
It’s not a question, but a declaration, because he adores that too—saying the words, hearing the confirmation out loud of all that we feel for each other.
I lean in, kissing him softly and tracing his bottom lip with my tongue.
“I really, really do.”
* * *
The following Sunday afternoon, we’re at Tommy’s parents’ house to celebrate his niece Matilda’s second birthday. The house and back garden are filled to the brim with his loud and plentiful family and I sit on a blanket on the grass beside Tommy’s youngest sister, Fiona, and the birthday girl herself.