Second Chance With The Surgeon. Robin Gianna

talk, didn’t mean she should take it personally, the way she had before. That had to stop.

      “I...um...guess I’ll go to bed now.”

      “Good idea. I’ll show you your room. Mine’s at the end of the hall. If you need me for anything in the middle of the night, just yell.”

      “I’ll be okay.” And even if she wasn’t she wouldn’t call for him unless it was a dire emergency.

      He carried her small suitcase as he led her down a hallway covered with lush carpeting, then went through the door of yet another beautiful room with a different view of the city. Two chairs and a table formed a small sitting area in one corner, with a large bed in the center, and another door that doubtless led to a bathroom.

      He set her suitcase on a folding thing obviously designed for that purpose. “Okay if I get your things out? I want you to take the pain pills right now, so they’re working when the plexus block starts to wear off. Then I’ll help you undress.”

      Her eyes lifted to his. They held only a cool detachment. No sign of what the words had made her feel, which was her belly jumping, her breath catching and her heart beating a little harder.

      “I’m sure I can get ready by myself.”

      “Yeah? With that thing on your arm and it held in a sling? No way.”

      “Then I’ll just sleep in what I’m wearing,” she said. “I won’t be the first patient to arrive at the clinic wearing the same clothes they wore for surgery.”

      “Suit yourself. But you’re going to be overly warm and uncomfortable in that sweatshirt. And you’ll need something with no sleeve to wear over the cast tomorrow when they take it off.” He shrugged, seeming to not care one way or the other.

      She knew he was right—damn it. “Fine. Can you pull the sleeve off over my cast?”

      He did as she asked, carefully removing the sling, then pulling the sleeve off her arm before reaching for the bottom of her sweatshirt. He gently slipped it up and over her head, exposing the camisole she wore beneath. He seemed to be concentrating on the sweatshirt, but when his eyes met hers for a long, suspended moment his expression made it hard to breathe, and she was beyond glad when he turned to grab her toiletries bag from her suitcase.

      “I’ll get you some water for the pain meds.”

      The speed with which he strode from the room told her she hadn’t imagined it. This crazy situation was reminding both of them of things better left forgotten.

      He returned with a glass of water and wordlessly handed it to her. “Take a drink, then I’ll hold the glass and you can pop the pills.”

      Even taking pills with only one hand required either help or juggling, and she hoped and prayed her hand would be usable sooner than some of her patients experienced.

      “Thanks.”

      “Think you’ll need help to go to the bathroom?”

      “I’m sure I’ll be fine. Goodnight.”

      Her face burned all over again, and she could feel his eyes on her as she went into the chic bathroom and closed the door, leaning back against it. She stared at her toothbrush and toothpaste, sitting on the counter, and wondered how she was going to manage to put paste on the brush with only one hand, or wash her face.

      Lord. How had her world gotten so messed up in one split second? No doubt about it—the next few days, and longer, were going to be misery in more ways than one.

      And being close to Conor again was definitely at the very top of the misery list.

      Thank heavens Conor had insisted she take the pain medicine. At about two a.m., when the nerve-block began to wear off, the intense tingling pins and needles sensation accompanied by pain surging through her whole arm was way worse than she’d expected—even though she’d had plenty of patients complain about it.

      Another dose of medicine to get her through the night left her feeling a little woozy in the morning and, as uncomfortable as she was being in his apartment, she had to acknowledge—again—that Conor had been right. If she’d tried to take the subway in to HAOC all by her lonesome to get the cast taken off, or even taken a cab, it would have been hard going, possibly even unsafe.

      Except there was one significant problem she had to deal with right now. When Conor had simply and without expression stripped off her oversized sweatshirt so she could sleep comfortably in the camisole and sweats she’d worn yesterday it had been in a fairly low light, and quick enough that she hadn’t had to endure feeling embarrassed, or whatever it was exactly that she’d been feeling, for very long.

      This morning. Though... After struggling for a few minutes trying to get a loose short-sleeved shirt on over the giant cast, she huffed out a frustrated breath. Clearly not going to happen. What was it going to be like, trying to get dressed and undressed after the cast was off and a splint had been put on instead? Regardless, she was absolutely not going to ask Conor for help—even if it meant wearing the same clothes for days until her sister came.

      Not going to cross that bridge until she came to it. But this bridge had to be crossed right now—because she couldn’t exactly show up at her former workplace with only her thin camisole covering her torso.

      “Um... Conor?”

      She heard the rattle of cups and walked into the kitchen, ridiculously holding the shirt over her front even though he was facing the sink. As though the man hadn’t seen her half naked last night and totally naked a hundred times in the past.

      But they weren’t together anymore, and she just couldn’t feel comfortable walking around with her breasts visible through the thin fabric as if it was no big deal.

      “Can you slip this over my head? Can’t quite manage it.”