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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 headbecause 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.
CHAPTER 3
Cameron
I hadn’t missed the expression on the doorman's face. He was probably calling Chris now telling him what a bloody mess I was and how this cannot happen again. This is great. I’ve only been here less than twenty-four hours, and I’m sure everyone is talking about me.
