Esme accepted the business card and flipped it around to see another phone number scrawled across the back. When her gaze jumped back to his face, he winked at her.
Kh?i stood up then, and the doctor’s eyes widened as he took in Kh?i’s height, dark clothes, and that intense air that made her think of assassins and bodyguards.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t notice you here,” the doctor said.
“What do you mean by ‘after hours’？” Kh?i asked in his serious way.
The doctor swallowed. “It means … whatever she wants it to mean.” He backed toward the door. “That’s it for this visit. I’ll send in the nurse to wrap the ankle.” With one last tight smile, he left.
Kh?i scowled at the door as it swung shut and picked up a roll of cloth the doctor had left behind. “I can do it. I know how.”
Then he shocked her by lifting her leg and winding the cloth around and around her ankle and the arch of her foot. His grip was firm, but he never hurt her. His warm fingers were gentle against the icy skin of her calf, her heel, and the ball of her foot, sending goose bumps up her leg.
When she caught her breath, he looked up at her. “Is it too tight?”
She was too distracted to speak. He was touching her ugly foot, and he wasn’t jerking away or wiping his palms on his pants. Instead, he held her like she was precious. It was a heady sensation having his beautiful mind focused entirely on her, even if it was only her ankle.
Belatedly, she answered, “No, not too tight.”
He returned his attention to her ankle, and the edges of the business card pressed into Esme’s skin as she tightened her fingers. She wanted to touch his face, the brooding lines of his profile, his forehead, his jaw, the sharp bridge of his nose, his oh-so-kissable lips …
“That should do it,” he said, and when he pulled his hands away, she saw he’d wrapped her ankle neatly and secured the end with a metal clasp. “If you start to lose feeling in your toes, let me know, and I’ll loosen it.”
“Okay, thank you, Anh.”
“Ready to go?”
She nodded and dropped her legs over the edge of the bed, intending to stand, but again, he gathered her up in his arms and carried her out of the room.
“I can walk,” she whispered.
“It’s better if you don’t. I don’t mind carrying you.”
After that, she didn’t protest. She didn’t mind him carrying her, either. No one had held her like this since she was a child. As they traveled through the clinic, however, she fisted her hands and kept her arms tense. She couldn’t forget how he’d responded each time she’d touched him in the past. She didn’t want to ruin this. Or surprise him into dropping her.
After setting her down briefly at the front desk to pay for her visit—she didn’t know how much it cost because he handed his credit card to the receptionist before she could show Esme the bill—she was carried outside and buckled into his car. Sleepily, she watched the lights flicker by as he drove back to his house.
He broke the silence by asking, “What stairs were you on when you fell? There aren’t any by my mom’s restaurant.”
At his question, adrenaline spiked, and cold sweat misted her skin. “The stairs across the street.”
Please don’t ask more.
“The ones at the adult school?”
She tried to sink into her seat and traced her fingertips along the handrail on her door. “I like your car. What kind is it?”
“It’s a Porsche 911 Turbo S.”
“Por-sha,” she repeated. “That’s a pretty-sounding name.”