#wrathofthestag

His first week was spent in the grand old Kehoe House, chosen not for its prominence on Columbia Square nor for its placement on the Best Inns of Savannah list. No, Jack chose the bed and breakfast entirely because it bore the name of a retired Canadian hockey player.

Maman said at least he was predictable.

The inn was a good fit, as it turned out. There were no dainty settees or lace appointed windows—or at least none that Jack had seen. No, his room was darkly masculine, with deep mustard walls and richly polished oak floors. The bed was big enough he could roll around all night and never quite reach the edge.

Too bad you have no one to roll into… said Maman.

At least you’re predictable, said Jack.

She had texted him the names of several Savannah nightlife hot spots in return.

He stuck to daytime activities, though, combing the city in larger concentric circles, learning its name, its feel, its history. Acclimating to the slow boil of its heat and the sweet sultriness of its summer scent. The food was strictly off his diet plan; he ate it with gusto.

The people were charming and kind with wide smiles and slow, rolling accents and Jack had next to no idea what they were saying more than half the time. But they seemed to love his dimples and his biceps and the careful way he considered their wares, their houses, their history. It was a summer love affair of the slow burning kind, and by the end of week two, Jack was considering real estate prices over his morning coffee.

It was just such a curiosity that had landed him in his current predicament, seated on a stainless steel hospital table, awaiting stitches for the spectacular gash along the base of his thumb.

He had sent Mrs. Beetlemeir, his real estate agent, out to the waiting room where she could flutter and coo with abandon, rather than continue to drive him bonkers cooped up in the tiny enclosure. He appreciated her sincere distraught, and her quick thinking when he had picked a fight with an unruly and rusty iron gate—and lost. But he preferred the peace of solitude, even now. The pain had been something of a wakeup call and Jack felt for all the world as though the last few weeks had been something out of a dream. A feverish, catfish-laden, sweet tea-drowning dream. He studied the delicate handkerchief tied around his hand, his blood staining the sprigs of embroidered violets dark red. He would have to buy Mrs. Beetlemeir a new hanky.

Lost in thought about the exact nature of procuring delicate embroidered handkerchiefs, Jack jumped when the door was flung open and a white-coated—and startlingly handsome—figure appeared in the opening.

“Mr. Zimmermann.” The man quickly scanned the chart in his hand and then looked up with a smile. “Welcome to Savannah.”

Jack snorted. “Thanks. It hasn’t been, uh,” he waved his hanky-wrapped hand. “Dull.”

The nurse grinned and tossed the chart onto the bed beside him. “All right, let’s see the damage.”

He was small, his head just shy of level with a seated Jack, his palm warm where it gently gripped Jack’s wrist. He tutted under his breath when he peeled away the hanky. “You probably doomed a perfectly fine old gate.”

It took Jack a moment to register the words; there was a soft curl of dark blond hair tickling his chin and it smelled faintly of honey and sunshine.

“Huh?”

The man glanced up, close enough Jack could count the freckles sprinkling across the bridge of his nose.

“What did that poor old gate ever do to you? Minding its own business. Protecting its yard from intruders. And Yankees.” He sniffed and went back to prodding Jack’s hand. “The new owner will likely tear it down now, replace it with one of those ugly chain length monstrosities. Viciously murdering the gorgeous aesthetic of an heirloom Southern rose garden. And—”

“I’m not tearing down the gate.” Jack breathed in deep; was it creepy if he sniffed his nurse? He smelled good enough to eat. It wasn’t just honey—was that cinnamon? Donuts? Something with buttery cream—

“What do you mean you won’t be tearing it down?”

Those deep brown eyes were glaring at Jack now, a little bit of color blossoming in the sharp cut of his cheekbones, and Jack felt a stirring in the region of his groin. Uh oh. “I, um. I’m buying it.”

The nurse blinked. “You’re buying that big old Second Empire on Taylor.”

Jack blinked back. “Yes.” Mrs. B must have been very thorough in her description at admission; Jack had all but tuned her out, her chattering like the low humming buzz of a bee.

The glare softened, just a bit, and went back to studying Jack’s hand. “You’re going to need stitches. Six—maybe seven.”

Jack leaned forward and tried to inhale without being obvious. Pancakes? “Shouldn’t we wait for the doctor?”

“Okay.”

Jack’s hand was promptly released.

They stared at one another for a beat, brown eyes on blue, and Jack fought the urge to squirm under a rather obvious and lingering onceover. He hadn’t given much thought to his attire when he ventured out that morning with Mrs. B, worried more about the heat than his appearance, but right now he was very aware that his faded Falconer’s tank top left very little to the imagination. He smiled slowly, feeling bold. He was on vacation, after all. “You want to lose the coat while we wait?” He squinted at the nurse’s nametag. “Bittle? Fair’s fair.”

The little fucker didn’t even have the grace to be embarrassed at being called out, pursing his lips and opening his palm. “Give me your hand, Zimmermann.” Jack tensed when strong fingers closed around his wrist again, but Bittle was surprisingly gentle. He spoke slowly and succinctly, looking Jack right in the eye. “You need six stitches. Maybe seven.”

Jack prided himself on being a learned man, but it took him a very long moment to catch up. “Wait—you’re the doctor?” His mouth worked. “How old are you?”

“Old enough to know better than to take my coat off for a pretty face,” Bittle muttered, running his thumb along Jack’s wrist. He smirked at the fluttering pulse under his finger. “You feeling all right Mr. Zimmermann?”

Jack inhaled sharply. Scones? “I feel fine. I feel—” And here’s the thing: Jack wasn’t afraid of hospitals. Playing a lifetime of hockey, he had been nicked, stitched, poked, and stuck more times than he could count. But this was entirely different. His doctor was hotter than the sun, possibly flirting, and smelled like something Jack would pour maple syrup all over and eat for breakfast.

Jack wanted to eat his doctor and he was one thousand percent sure that wasn’t OSHA permissible. He was suddenly lightheaded, slammed with the most vibrant shade of pure lust he’d ever known. He planted his good hand on the steel bed and fought to steady himself. “Are all southern doctors like you?” He asked, just shy of grabbing his heart. Or Bittle’s ass.

“Nope.” Bittle’s grin was smug. “You’re just that damn lucky, I guess.” He turned away and began to rummage through the cabinets over an adjacent sink. He pulled out a tray and added dressings and a suture kit and bottles of liquid the likes of which Jack was pretty certain would feel like fire on contact. Then he shrugged off his coat (with a bawdy wink), rolled up the sleeves of his perfectly tailored pale pink buttondown, and went to work cleaning Jack’s wound.

The whole process stung like a motherfucker, and with each of Jack’s hissing curses, Bittle murmured silly platitudes like there there boo boo and what a big boy you are! Jack wanted to smack him. And kiss him. But mostly he wanted to get his hands on his tight little hips and grind him into the wall to relieve the godawful pressure mounting in his dick—what kind of doctor wore jeans that tight anyway?!

And he smelled like motherfucking cheese Danish!

At the first prick of needle, Jack decided the south was hugely overrated. 

He was eventually left to sulk, alone (with his seven stitches), while Dr. Bittle (!) finished Jack’s chart at the nurses station and wrote him a script for painkillers and antibiotics. (For prophylactic purposes, Bittle had added, tongue wholly in cheek).

When he returned, hair perfect, eyes sparkling, lips unkissed, Jack stood with a scowl. 

Before he even got a word out, Bittle popped a pill between his lips and shoved a paper Dixie cup of water in his good hand. “Drink that, Zimmermann, and meet me in the parking lot in twenty. I know a lobster with your name on it.”

He was gone with a wink and a whiff of poundcake.

Jack stared at the door until the pill began to dissolve on his tongue, leaving a strong bitter aftertaste that he chased away with the water.

He crumpled the cup and tossed it in the trash, mouth splitting wide in a grin.