Chiseled & Curvy: 10-Book Steamy Romance Bundle

Chapter 1
Brooks

I can hear her approach from a mile away.

With my eyes bandaged into darkness, I turn my head in the direction of the rumbling engine, angling my ear toward the sound. It shouldn’t be so distinct, but with my eyesight gone, the rest of my senses have overcompensated to the extreme. Not only can I tell how far away she is, but I can tell she’s driving a small car. Something too wimpy for the rough terrain around here.

She better not get stuck out there. I’m in no mood to go rescue her.

I tilt my head against the back of my leather chair and try to relax my muscles. I’ve been so fucking tense since Dr. Ramsey told me he’d be sending a nurse out here. I tried to talk him out of it. Told him I was fully capable of taking care of myself.

But Dr. Ramsey just laughed and told me to expect her to arrive sometime the next day.

The sound of the nurse’s car grows closer. My shoulders grow tenser. Not knowing who she is or anything about her—that’s what bothers me the most. I don’t like strangers coming into my home. Hell, I don’t like anyone coming into my home. The only reason I was fine with Dr. Ramsey coming out here yesterday was that I vetted him years ago. But I was restless for him to do what he needed to do and leave.

I’m still sunken into my armchair when I hear her tires rolling up outside. I listen as the door of her car opens. It takes a minute before the door shuts and her footsteps approach my home. Then there’s a knock on my door, three firm little raps.

I wonder how many times she’ll try knocking before giving up and going away.

She knocks again, another three raps. Reluctantly, I force myself up out of the armchair. As much as I don’t want her here, I can’t bring myself to flat-out ignore her. My feet carry me slower than normal toward the front door. When I reach out to grab the handle, my fingers grasp empty air.

Fuck. Blindly, I search through the air until my hand bumps the edge of the brass door handle.

The door feels heavy in my hands as I pull it open. The sharply brisk air of mid-winter greets me, kissing cold against all of my face except for the bandaged part. As I breathe in the clean air, I get a whiff of the spruce trees surrounding the cabin.

But there’s spice in that inhalation, too.

“Good afternoon,” a gentle voice says in front of me. “My name is Esme. I’m a nurse from the clinic. I’m here to assist with your recovery. Is it all right if I come in?”

I let her voice sink into my imagination, trying to use it to conjure an image of her physical appearance—but my mind remains blank. She’s nothing but the sound of a woman’s voice.

“Dr. Ramsey sent you?” I ask, disapproval in my tone.

I think I hear her smile.

“Yes,” she says. “That’s correct.”

I don’t move out of the doorway, stubbornness keeping me in place.

After a few seconds of silence, Esme says, “I’m so sorry about your injury.”

The genuine sympathy in her voice cracks my armor. Just a little. I mumble something about how accidents happen and take a step back to let her in.

That spicy scent of hers drifts into the house as she enters. I listen as she takes off her shoes and sets them by the door. Some rustling follows as she takes things out of her bag.

“First things first,” she says, turning toward me. “Can you please confirm your full name and birthdate?”

How many bandaged-up men does she think there are on this mountain?

“Perfect,” she says after I rattle off the information. “Now I’d like to check your vital signs. If you wouldn’t mind taking a seat—here, Brooks, let me guide you over to a chair—”

“I can do it,” I snap, yanking my arm away from her hand. This is my own damn house, isn’t it? I feel my way over to my dining table and lower myself into one of the wooden chairs. There’s no logical explanation for me being able to sense that she’s smiling in amusement at my bullheadedness, but somehow I know that it’s exactly what she’s doing.

“I’m going to take your temperature first, okay?” she says. “Just a quick swipe across your forehead with my thermometer.”

A rounded bit of cool, smooth plastic glides over my forehead, followed by a beep.

“Good,” she says, sounding pleased. “No fever. Now I’m going to check your pulse. Can you roll up your sleeve and lay your arm out for me, please?”

I do as she asks, pushing up the flannel of my shirt to expose a forearm to her. The pads of her fingers are warm as she presses them against the inside of my wrist. My artery pulses against her fingertips as the seconds pass, the time feeling slow and stretched out.

I take in a breath, drawing in that spicy scent of hers. It’s more complex than I can figure out. She smells like cinnamon, pepper…but rose, too. Or maybe jasmine. I’m not exactly an expert on flowers. The ones that grow around here are all wild.

“All right,” Esme says, her fingers lifting from my wrist. “Your pulse is a bit elevated, but I’ll check it again in a while. I’d like to listen to your heart now, okay? I’ll need you to take your shirt off, if that’s all right.”

My fingers move to the buttons on my flannel. I pop them open one by one. I don’t have an undershirt on, just my bare chest.

“That good enough?” I ask.

Esme is silent for a moment before answering. “Yes. That’s fine.”

I’m surprised to find myself longing for her fingertips to touch me again. But instead it’s only the end of a stethoscope that comes in contact with my chest.

“Your heart sounds good. Take a deep breath in for me…now out. Okay. Good.” I hear a pen scratching on a piece of paper. “You can button your shirt back up.”

“All done?” I ask, my fingers working at the buttons again.

“Almost. I’d like to take a quick look at your bandages first.”

I shouldn’t be this eager to feel her hands on me again. And yet I am. All I want is for her to touch me again.

Only a fool would fall for his nurse. That’s the thought that sears through my mind as she leans in closer and begins to inspect the bandages wrapped around my eyes.

I stay as still as possible as her hands work over the bandages.

But inside, something old and forgotten is flickering in me, on the verge of catching fire.