Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Sydney Swoony

I can't believe that I hired contractors to repair my clinic who can't even pick up after themselves. If I weren't paying attention, I'd have run over that 2x4 piece of wood, and I was sure one of those nails would have punctured my tire. Better me than one of my clients, but either way, this was unacceptable. I'd spent the last six hours in back-to-back appointments, barely having enough time to go to the bathroom. I'd like to say that was unusual, but it wasn't. Now all I wanted to do was go home, put my feet up, and do absolutely nothing for the rest of the weekend.

That was going to need to wait a few minutes because I had a call to make first. Reaching into the pocket of my medical jacket, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed his number. He answered right away.

"This is Mike, make it quick," he said.

Oh, I will.

" Mike, this is Dr. Swoony. I need you to return and clean up the mess you left in my parking lot," I stated firmly.

"Can't right now. I'll call you on Monday and come by sometime then," he replied.

"Monday? This cannot wait till then. Someone could get injured," I explained.

"Okay. If I can, I'll come Sunday, but I can't come right now," he stated.

"Why?" I questioned, frustrated.

"My wife is in labor and I'm on my way to the hospital," he said.

I remember him mentioning that they were expecting twins, but she was only thirty-four weeks along. It was still early to deliver. There was no way I could ask him to come even the next day. It was most likely that he wouldn't be available Monday either.

Even though I didn't appreciate him leaving my property in such disarray, I understood why he left so suddenly.

"Mike, don't worry about it. Just take care of your wife. I hope all goes well with the delivery," I said.

"Thanks. I hope so too."

He ended the call, and I stood there looking at the pile of scrap wood and stuff that was removed from the exterior of the building, and not disposed of. If I left it, I was sure one of my neighboring businesses would file a complaint, and rightly so. That left only one person to clean it up. Me.

There was a dumpster in the alley that I and the businesses on the right used. That was perfect because none of this was going to fit in a trash barrel. Unlocking my Smart Car, I tossed in my cell phone and purse, then locked it again before I started the cleanup. It took several trips back and forth to get all the scrap. There was just one left, the largest one.

Bending down I grabbed the eight-foot-long piece of wood, rested it on my shoulder making sure all the nails were facing up and headed for the dumpster one last time.

I was just about to lift it off my shoulder when I heard a squeak. That was the one sound I was afraid to hear in the alley. Looking to my left, sure enough, there were three large rats scurrying around towards me. I let out a shriek and tried to spin around. The long piece of wood on my shoulder hit the side of the building.

"Damn it!"

My heart was racing, and I just wanted to get out of there. Quickly I turned the other way and once again, the wood made contact, but this time it felt different.

"What the fuck!" a man's deep voice bellowed out from behind me.

I was so startled the wood rolled over my shoulder and onto my foot. I let out a yelp myself, but I was more concerned that I wasn't alone in the alley any longer. Normally I had my purse on me, which had the pepper spray readily available attached to the strap. Now all I had to defend myself was my keys.

Maybe the rats will come to my rescue and chase him off.

I told myself to be brave and strong, but my insides were doing flips as I turned to face the stranger.

He was standing there shirtless, gorgeous, and bleeding from the side of his head. My fear was replaced by my medical training, and I instantly rushed to his side.

"Are you okay? What happened?" I asked.

"I suspect it has something to do with you whacking me in the head with that 2x4 you were swinging around," he replied. "Maybe I should be asking you what you're doing in this alley all alone. You know it's not safe here."

"I know. There were three rats chasing me and I guess I panicked and wasn't watching what I was doing with the wood. Let me take a look at your wound," I said. The blood continued to run down his head and now onto his shoulder and chest.

"I'll clean it when I get home."

"Absolutely not. You need to clean it properly or you risk an infection. And it is possible you need stitches. I won't know until I stop the bleeding," I said.

"I have stuff for that in my Jeep."

"Dirty rags and a Band-Aid do not qualify as proper wound-cleaning material," I stated firmly.

He laughed. "Coagulant. It's a..."

"I'm a doctor. I know what it is. What I don't know is why you have it in your Jeep." It was a medicine used to stop or slow the flow of bleeding. "Are you a hemophiliac?"

"If I was, then I definitely chose the wrong career," he grinned.

I had no idea why he was so calm when the bleeding hadn't slowed at all. I was used to seeing blood, but this patient didn't seem to want my help. And helping is what I did and still do.

"Well, I don't care what you do because if we don't stop the bleeding, you might not need to worry about working. Now, come with me, and let's clean that wound." He just stood there, not budging. I put my hands on my hips and said, "Do I need to get that 2x4 again?"

I was only joking, but his eyes widened, and he said, laughing, "You're out of your weight class."

I wrinkled my nose. "I don't get it."

"You know, size and weight. Like in boxing," he explained.

"Oh, that. I hate violence. All that injury and blood." I shivered.

"You're a doctor and you can't handle blood?" he asked.

"I see plenty of blood. And I'm used to injuries as well. But they are all a result of some sort of an accident, vicious attack or during surgery. Not because they were out there fighting intentionally." I didn't know much about the sport, but I remember my father sitting in front of the television watching boxing matches at night, and I cringed every time one of them got hit in the face. Broken noses, cut eyes, swollen lips. For what? To make others want to fight you next time? No, thank you. Not for me.

"Okay, Doctor....? What's your name?" he asked.

We were making progress. He at least was acknowledging I was a doctor. Next, maybe I can get him to let me treat him. "Dr. Sydney Swoony. And you are?"

"Cameron Giampietro."

"Well Mr. Giampietro, I think you should come to my office and let me look you over," I suggested.

"I'm okay. Just a small cut that I'll take care of when I get home," he said.

God, you're stubborn. I couldn't just let him leave without making sure he was okay. I knew that it wasn't a light tap on his head. I had felt the vibration of the contact throughout the board.

"I have taken an oath, and I am obliged to treat you. Now, you can either come with me, or I can call an ambulance and let them take you to the hospital to be looked after. Which would you prefer?" I asked firmly.

"There is a third option. You take my word for it and trust that I know my body. I'm okay." He held up three fingers and said, "Three fingers. I know my date of birth, where I am, and my name. See. Fine."

He turned to walk away, and I grabbed hold of his hand. He stopped and looked down at me. His eyes grew dark, and I couldn't tell if he was angry, but he just stared at me.

I wasn't not one who got intimidated, because I'd treated horses who were much bigger than he was, and aggressive dogs that were known to bite. But there was something in the way he looked at me that made my legs tremble.

Softly, I pleaded, "Please, Mr. Giampietro. If you won't let me treat you, then will you at least let me bring you home and make sure you're okay once you've cleaned up the wound?"

"You want to come home with me?" he chuckled. "Got to admit, you do have the most unconventional way to meet. I mean, you could've just asked for my number."

"Mr. Giampietro, you don't even know if I'm married or not," I stated.

"You don't have a ring," he replied.

And you've looked.

I would like to say that I hadn't noticed anything about him, but that wasn't true at all. He had no ring, a physique that screamed underwear model, and a face that said that he wasn't someone to be messed with.

"My marital status has nothing to do with my offer to treat you. If you have a concussion, you shouldn't be alone. Do you have anyone at home to watch over you for the next twenty-four hours?"

He cocked a brow. "Now you want to spend the night with me? Wow. "

"I find none of this funny. At all," I snapped. "I'm speaking to you as a professional. That's it."

He nodded. "I'm sorry. I guess you caught me off guard. I mean, I wasn't expecting to see a sexy doctor in the alley carrying wood. Especially not alone. Do you know how dangerous it is? You're lucky that the only thing that happened was you almost knocking me out."

Sexy? I hadn't been called that in a few years. It felt nice. But I knew what I looked like after a long day at work. Heck, I probably smelled like a dog, because I had to wrestle a few of them to administer their shots. And I was positive that I had plenty of dog fur on my uniform as well. Maybe he was just teasing me, hoping I would back off and retract my offer to take him home.

Sorry, Mr. Giampietro. It didn't work.

I hadn't realized I was still holding his hand. Quickly I released it and swore I heard him chuckle softly. At least the trauma didn't affect his sense of humor.

" It seems that we are in agreement," I said.

"We are?" he questioned.

Nodding I said, "That hit on your head is more serious than you were making it out to be. You did state that I practically knocked you out. Correct?" I was proud of myself for using his own words on him.

He sighed. "Has anyone ever told you that you're pushy?"

"I'm a doctor. I deal with facts. And I'm not pushy. I'm caring. There is a huge difference." Kind of.

" That's what you call it. Okay. Well, I'm starving and I have steaks waiting for me at home. If you want to come, you're welcome. But I'm leaving. Now," he said.

"Fine. I'll come. But can you wait for a minute? I need to finish doing what I was here for. Putting that wood in the dumpers. I don't want anyone stepping on it because there are exposed nails," I stated.

"Nails? Damn, I guess I am lucky." He shook his head and walked past me. Picking up the 2x4 he looked at the nails, "Oh yeah. I'm lucky. I don't think we would be having this conversation if you hadn't hit me with the flat side of the wood instead."

He was right. If even one of those long nails had made contact, it would've penetrated the skull and possibly killed him. If he did survive, he never would've been the same. Not with the location of his injury.

The fact that I could've killed a man because I was over-tired and not aware of my surroundings, shook me to the core. It didn't matter if it was an accident. I still would've been at fault. And he would've been the one to pay the price.

Never again.

If I were that tired, I would sleep at the clinic for a few hours. And if work outside needed to be done, it would also need to wait until I could do it.

I didn't get a chance to respond and apologize again before he tossed the wood into the dumpster. When he turned back to face me, I instantly noticed fresh red blood coming from the wound. It was concerning that even just bending and stretching was enough to cause it to start bleeding again.

"Mr. Giampietro, please let me bring you to my clinic. It's just next door. You're bleeding again, and I don't want you to pass out." I used a professional tone, but inside, I was a wreck.

He reached up and with the back of his hand, he wiped the blood away. "Like I said, I have stuff to stop it. Now whether you are coming or not, I'm not staying in the alley all day. I'm hot and sweaty." And bloody. "And I really need a shower if you haven't noticed."

You need more than just a shower. You need medical attention.

"I'm coming." I wasn't happy about this, but at least I would know he was okay and if he wasn't, I would be there to help. That's what mattered.

We walked out to the other side of the alley where I saw his Jeep. I reached out and said, "I'll drive."

"It's a stick shift," he stated.

I looked inside and sure enough it was a manual transmission. "I didn't know they even made those anymore. Why would you buy such a thing?" I asked.

Even a bloody mess, he was handsome, especially when he grinned like he was doing now.

"Simple. Most people don't know how to drive it. So, who is going to steal it?" he asked.

That explained why he didn't have the roof or doors on it either. If I suggested we take my Smart car, which was a third of the size of his Jeep, I knew he would say no and the ground I made with him would be gone. No choice but to concede.

"You can drive, but if I see anything that makes me believe you are incapable of doing so, I'm having you pull right over," I warned.

"No problem," he said, getting into the driver's seat. "I've got a lot on the line this week. I'm not about to fuck it up with crashing my Jeep."

He got into the driver's seat as I climbed into the passenger's. Had to admit I was enjoying the feeling of being less confined than in my car. Any other time, I might have allowed myself to enjoy the ride and take my long hair out of the tight bun on top of my head.

Before starting the Jeep, he reached into the back and pulled out a T-shirt. I thought he was going to wear it. Hopefully, he hadn't noticed my eyes lingering a bit too long on all those rippling muscles. Either way, covering them up was going to help me concentrate on him as a patient. But instead, he used it to wipe the blood off his head and chest before tossing it into the back seat again.

"Less likely to get pulled over if I'm not covered in blood," he said.

True, but if he'd listened to me, he also could avoid getting an infection. "I hope you have real medical supplies at your house because that is not considered cleaning a wound," I reminded him.

"Like I said, I'm used to them." He pulled onto the road, and we were on our way. "I have all sorts of medical supplies."

Maybe he was accident-prone because I'd learned that most men didn't have even basic medical supplies; never mind the supplies I would need to clean a wound properly.

"I forgot my purse and cell phone in my car," I said about ten minutes into the drive. It was part purse and part medical bag.

"Is your car locked?" he asked. I nodded. "Then we will stop at my house so I can shower and clean up, and I'll bring you right back to your car. Is that okay?"

It was his excuse to get rid of me right away, but I still felt I should monitor him for a while. A couple of hours should be plenty of time. "After dinner will be fine."

He didn't argue and about fifteen minutes later, we arrived in what I knew was a very expensive part of Boston.

"This is your place?" I asked.

"For now," he stated, parking his Jeep and getting out. I sat there looking at the entrance in disbelief. "Are you coming?" he asked, standing on the sidewalk.

I could see the doorman standing there, and I knew that if he didn't truly live there, he wasn't going to be allowed inside. Half of me expected to be turned away, but when we got to the door, the man said, "Good day, Mr. Giampietro. It appears you've been injured. Would you like me to have the physician come to your apartment?"

"Dr. Swoony is going to take care of it. But thanks."

The doorman looked at me and asked, "You're a doctor?"

There was no point in mentioning that I was a veterinarian since I had yet to divulge that fact to Mr. Giampietro. Holding my head up high, I replied, "I am. Did you need to see my credentials?" Right now, all I had was my white medical coat with my name embroidered on it. Thankfully he shook his head because I remember that I didn't have them with me. They were locked away in my Smart car with all my other identification.

We entered the building and he headed for the elevator. I was still shocked that he lived here. As we crossed the lobby, I scanned the other people there. They all had the same look. All business and the expression on their faces said that they didn't exactly approve of him being there. He really didn't look as though he fit in with that group, but I knew nothing about him, except for the fact that he wasn't needy. And didn't want anyone taking care of him.

Maybe I'm wrong. You aren't the bad boy type. If you live here, then you're the stuffy shirt, workaholic type.

Not that I was looking for a criminal or a man who couldn't control his temper, but I wanted someone who wasn't afraid of getting his hands dirty. A regular guy. One that drove a Jeep because he liked off-roading and didn't care if it got scratched or was covered in mud.

It was a shame, because he was very attractive, and I briefly had allowed myself to think past cleaning his wound and let my mind wander to more pleasant thoughts, like washing the rest of him. But I had dated a few of those money-hungry types, and they weren't for me.

Good. Now I can just think about him as a patient. And not as a perfect specimen of a man.