A barista at a local coffee shop had jokingly referred to American coffee as “água suja” or dirty water. And compared to the dark, full brew that most Brazilians preferred, he could see why.
Sophia settled onto the sofa and took a sip of her drink with a sigh.
You could tell the apartment belonged to a bachelor by the lack of seating options. It was either sit beside her or try to perch on the low-slung easy chair to the right of it. And his side still bothered him enough that he chose the sofa over his sense of self-preservation. So once he’d doctored his coffee, he sat next to her, waiting for the surgical sites to settle down before he took his first slug.
The dark liquid was smooth, with a slightly bitter aftertaste that lingered on his palate the way good coffee should. He closed his eyes and let the scent and taste fill his senses. “I’m glad I didn’t drink the hospital’s coffee before I left. This was worth the wait.”
She smiled at him and bumped his uninjured shoulder with hers before kicking off her heels and curling deeper into the sofa. “I’m glad you like it. And thanks again for your help with that patient. I was worried you’d ripped your stitches.”
“Does that kind of thing happen often?”
“No more than at any other hospital, I suppose. You’ve never had a patient go berserk on you?”
“My patients are generally a lot smaller than that one.”
Her lips twisted. “That’s right, most of yours are probably women who are looking for a tune-up.”
“Actually, no. I work with children. I’m a pediatric plastic surgeon. I deal with...” He swallowed at what he’d been about to say and changed the words slightly. “Facial reconstructive surgery, usually after a traumatic injury.”
Her finger went to her lip, the way it had a number of other times. Surely she wasn’t self-conscious about it. No one but a surgeon who dealt with cleft lips on a regular basis would be aware of her scar. “Why do you do that?”
She didn’t ask what he meant. “Maybe because you noticed it right away.”
“I didn’t. Only after you touched it that first day.” He wasn’t about to tell her he hadn’t been looking at her lip when he’d seen her at the desk. Or that there’d been something about her that had drawn him toward her, as it did even now.
He’d thought it had been because he’d recognized her from her earlier visits, but who knew? His head had still been pretty foggy about the shooting and what had happened afterwards. Maybe he could tackle that. Get her talking so he could keep his mind off the fact that he was seated beside a beautiful woman—all alone in his brother’s house. And that he couldn’t seem to stop staring at her lips—not because of her scar but because they were pink and inviting and...
And he had to put a stop to this right now.
“Did the police tell you anything else about what happened?”
She shook her head. “Marcos said you were standing in front of the favela where you both lived as kids. The police were involved in a drug raid, and a couple of the dealers’ shots hit you as they tried to evade capture.”
He should remember something more about that time—like how he’d even known where he’d once lived—but it was still a blank for the most part. “That’s what the police told me as well. I just can’t remember.”
“It happened fast, from what I understand. Didn’t the doctor say your memories should come back after a while? You banged your head pretty hard on the pavement when you went down. Unfortunately the taxi driver took off once he heard the shots, so the police had to step in. Maybe they’ll find the driver and you can ask him how you ended up there.” She shifted on the couch so she faced him.
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