She made a face but obeyed readily enough. “I can’t abide not working. It’s not as though the stitches impede my painting hand.” She held up her right hand and waved it around.

“Tomorrow,” he told her. “One more day.”

“But—”

“One more day, Charlotte.”

She sighed. “If this whole art thing doesn’t work out for you, a career as a surgeon might be an excellent option. A tyrannical surgeon, but a surgeon nonetheless.”

He smiled despite himself. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.”

“Would you prefer that I did not sleep here?” he asked suddenly. It had been weighing on him since that night he carried her back here, bloodied and broken.

“What?”

“Would you prefer that I seek other lodgings? I just thought that perhaps you might wish to be alone—”

“Does my being here make you uncomfortable?” she asked, her brows furrowed.

Yes, he wanted to say. Because now I lie awake at night imagining what it would be like to have you beneath me. And above me. And that makes me hot and hard and restless and very uncomfortable.

“Of course not,” he said instead. “I just didn’t want my presence to make this awkward…”

“Now that I’m Charlotte and not Charlie?”

“Yes.”

“I appreciate your honor, Flynn Rutledge,” she said, smiling softly at him and making something deep in his chest ache. “Thank you for asking.” She dropped her eyes, her cheeks pink. “But I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want you to go anywhere.”

Warmth flooded through him, and it threatened to ignite into a different sort of heat. “Good,” he said. “I don’t want to go anywhere either.”

She nodded, her eyes still fixed on her hands clutched in her lap, her teeth worrying her lower lip. Wide, impossibly kissable lips. Lips that had featured prominently in his recent fantasies. Flynn had to look away before he did something that was not honorable at all.

“How do the stitches feel?” he blurted.

“Itchy,” she said.

“Good. Then it’s healing.” He took a deep, steadying breath, bringing his gaze back to hers. “Let me take another look.”

She opened her mouth as though she might argue.

“You will not win an argument with a tyrannical surgeon.”

That was met with an eye roll. “Oh, very well.” She loosened the laces at her throat a little more, and Flynn had to look away again, realizing that this was the height of folly. Last time he had examined her shoulder, she’d been half asleep and covered in blankets. She had not been restless and alert, her eyes following his every move.