Wishes and Stitches by Rachael Herron

this town—what else was she doing with them?
    Their eyes met again, and the way the bright summer sunlight streamed in through the window behind her, lighting her long brown curls to an almost maple color, made any more rational thought impossible.
    Rig lifted Naomi’s hand to his mouth. Until it got there, he had no idea what he’d do, but when her fingertips were close to his lips, he knew. He first kissed the injury, already bruising. She gasped. “What are you—”
    â€œThis is beautiful,” Rig said. “Engagement ring?”
    â€œNo!”
    He kissed the tip of her thumb, lightly, still not believing what he was doing. His mouth moved around the firm flesh at the base, and using his tongue, just the slightest bit, he tasted her skin in a flick, almost too quick for her to feel. But she felt it, he could tell. She kept her eyes on his, and any moment he was prepared to stop. To apologize. To be slapped. But instead, her eyelids fluttered in a way that made his insides clench.
    Then as softly as he could, using almost no pressure at all, he bit the tip of her thumb.
    He watched her as she fought with herself, the ice in her demeanor warring with the heat in her eyes. He released her hand regretfully.
    Pulling her hand back as if it was her idea, Naomi said, “What the hell was that? I thought we weren’t going to—” But her voice was too breathy to sustain the anger implied in the strong language, and Rig didn’t apologize, even though he knew he should.
    He shouldn’t have done that. But he wanted more.
    A buzzer screamed next to them, and both jumped. Bruno’s voice came over the intercom. “Dr. Keller, Maddy Walker’s your first appointment. I’ll put her in three.”
    â€œWhy did you do that?” whispered Naomi, holding her hand as if she’d sprained it.
    â€œI don’t know,” said Rig. He could only be honest with her. “I couldn’t help it.”
    â€œWell . . . don’t. ” She spun on her heel and was inside her office, the door slamming behind her, before he could draw breath to speak again.
    Pushing the talk button on the intercom, Rig said, “I’ll be right there.” His voice sounded completely normal. But he couldn’t get a full breath into his lungs, and all he could think about was how her hand had felt in his, how it had tasted—of antiseptic and a hint of salt, and something that was completely hers . . .
    Oh, no. He wouldn’t do this. Of course he wouldn’t. He understood self-control. He was a grown-up. But God, he ached, both physically and mentally.
    Damn, it had been a long time since someone torqued him up enough to get blue balls.

Chapter Twelve
    Sometimes we knit the sweater of our dreams, forgetting that the seams will still have to be sewn at some point. Seaming is a small price to pay for happiness, though, don’t you agree?
    â€”E.C.
    A fter Naomi’s last appointment, she left without checking on Rig. She’d seen enough of him today just walking by half-open doors of patient rooms. Invariably, he’d been laughing, presumably at something the patient had said. What was this, comedy-club doctoring? Laughter is the best medicine? She rolled her eyes at the thought.
    But he was a grown man, a doctor, with all the papers. She’d never owned this place—she’d just been spoiled for a while, and it had been nice.
    She waved a good-bye to a surprised-looking Bruno—Naomi seldom left before he did—and went outside. She blinked in the sudden sun, and felt the unexpected warmth of coming out of an air-conditioned climate into the coastal summer. She turned right, and went immediately inside again, entering the health clinic from the front entrance, the one she rarely used.
    It was an enormous room that had been used as a dance studio until it closed overnight, leaving small dancers outside, knocking on the glass.