would or should give him the time of day. Even if he believed in them, which he didn’t. Not anymore. Not since Marcus—
Suddenly exhausted, he closed his eyes.
“Stay with me, sleeping beauty.” Her voice was sharp. “Mr. Reynolds? Can you hear me?”
Megan gently patted her patient’s face and squeezed his hand, because it was one of the few places without abrasions. Probably because he’d worn leather gloves. What kind of idiot would protect his hands and not his head?
“An idiot with a death wish,” she whispered to no one in particular. She gently patted his face again. “Oh, no you don’t. Not on my watch.”
“I’m not asleep. Who’s an idiot?” he asked, opening his eyes.
She let out a relieved breath, grateful she’d easily roused him and he hadn’t slipped into unconsciousness. “So you were playing possum.”
“I don’t play anything—”
Anymore.
The word hung in the air between them as clearly as if he’d said it out loud. She studied him. He wasn’t hard on the eyes. In spite of the fact that he looked like the loser in a close encounter of the pavement kind, he was incredibly good-looking. But she couldn’t help thinking he was in pain.
Duh. Of course he was. The man probably had a concussion. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she couldn’t see where he was hurting the most. And since when did psychoanalyzing become part of emergency room protocol?
“No more pretending to be asleep, Mr. Reynolds.”
“I wasn’t pretending. And the name’s Simon.”
“It’s going to be mud if you scare me like that again.”
He grinned unexpectedly, chasing the shadows from his face, making him even more attractive. Her heart skipped, and she thought it was a good thing she wasn’t hooked up to a monitor. With no evidence to the contrary, she could pretend she’d had no reaction to his smile.
Megan checked the machine and noted that his vital signs were all good. But the shadows in his eyes and the tension in his square jaw told her he was pretty uncomfortable. Unfortunately, because of the head injury, there wasn’t anything she could do about it. Until the doctor assessed his tests and the extent of the damage, she couldn’t give him pain meds.
But he was stoic. She couldn’t help admiring that. And he was edgy. The cc or two of humor he’d injected into their short conversation gave her hope that his tests would come back negative, proving what she’d already observed. Simon Reynolds was strong and healthy. And handsome in a rough-and-tumble, rugged sort of way.
That was not a professional observation. It was purely personal, and she couldn’t help it. She was a woman; she was breathing.
Short, wavy dark hair framed his face. His eyes were a vivid blue, a shade more intense than she’d ever seen before on anyone—man or woman. The thick, dark lashes were sinfully long and totally wasted on a man.
He looked like a fighter—lean and muscular. Now that he’d passed the golden hour, that precious sixty minutes when medical intervention made the difference between life and death, she could observe more details about him. Her haphazard surgery on his clothes had revealed a pretty impressive chest and strong legs dusted with a masculine covering of hair.
“So you think I’m an idiot, Nurse Nancy?”
She met his gaze, which, surprisingly, held humor. “I told you—my name is Megan. And while you weren’t supposed to hear what I said, yes, I think you’re an idiot. Kids know better than to ride a bike without a helmet. Unless you’re a superhero I have to conclude that you don’t have the common sense of a gnat.”
“I hate helmet hair.”
“Ah,” she said, nodding. “So you’re a vain idiot.”
“Is it part of your job to insult your patients?”
“Nope. Just one of the perks.”
“Are all the ER nurses like you?”
“Nope. They’re worse. But then I’m fresh out of school. A newbie just filling in. I do four or five shifts a month to keep up my emergency room certification.”
“Why’s that?”
“I work for a home health-care company while I’m getting experience and waiting for a full-time position to open up here in the ER.”
“Why?”
“I have a child. Emergency room nursing is highly skilled. The pay is better.”
He flinched, then his face froze into an expressionless mask. As she observed him, the feeling hit her again that, in addition to his physical pain, he was stoic about his emotions.
Why did she keep doing that? Emotions had no place in ER medicine. Feelings were part of long-term recovery. For that matter, why had she just shared so many details about herself? She usually chatted with patients when she could, but didn’t share personal information. What was so different about this particular patient?
“Megan?”
She looked over her shoulder and saw the ER unit secretary in the doorway. “Yes?”
“Dr. Sullivan said to show you this.” The tall, thin, mid-fortyish woman handed her a computer printout. “He said to put it in the chart,” she added before hurrying from the room.
Megan’s eyebrows went up as she scanned the information. “Well, this is interesting.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“It’s procedure to check the computer for previous data on every admit.”
“So I’m an admit.” His gaze narrowed on her. “Would you like to share the information with me?”
“I suspect you already know what it says.” She met his gaze squarely. “We saw you the first time a year and a half ago.”
His forehead furrowed. “Broken ankle?”
“Skydiving,” she confirmed. “Next was a shoulder separation.”
“I think that was hang gliding. That tree came out of nowhere.”
“Last but not least,” she said, “a ruptured spleen—resulting in surgery.”
“Waterskiing. I took the jump, and I remember soaring through the air with the greatest of ease. After that it gets a little hazy. I think one of the skis torpedoed me.”
“It appears you’re something of a regular here.”
She studied his pupils, watching for classic signs of concussion. The heart monitor would tell her his vitals, but she touched two fingers to the pulse in his wrist. For some reason, she felt the need to touch him.
“You have some dangerous hobbies, Simon.”
