When he was finished, Michael sat back on his heels and took a deep breath. In costume, she had been striking and exotic. But without all of the makeup, with her eyes closed and her face relaxed, she was the picture of innocence. From her sinfully long lashes to the smattering of freckles across her nose, she barely looked old enough to legally enter a bar, let alone dance in one.
She let out a soft moan as she began to come around. Michael quickly finished applying an antibiotic ointment and bandage to her wound, then placed a soothing ice pack on top.
*
“Maggie?” The low voice was very pleasant, though it held a trace of worry. No voice that rich and deep should sound worried, she decided. The music was much fainter now, and she was laying on something soft.
“Maggie, can you hear me?”
She tried to pry her eyes open, but only one would cooperate. The other seemed to be stuck, covered with something cold and heavy. She lifted her hand, but another bigger, stronger hand covered hers and gently pushed it away.
“Leave it,” the nice voice said. “The ice will help with the swelling. Do you know where you are?”
Maggie tried to focus, the image before her large and blurry. But the voice was familiar, as was the scent. The bartender? The gorgeous guy with the heart-stopping smile and bedroom eyes? She was dancing, she was free, and then... she winced as she remembered her fall.
“Hang on, I’m going to turn off a few of these lights.” Seconds later, the level of brightness – and thus the sensation of knives shooting through her optic nerves - was substantially reduced. “Better?”
She nodded gingerly. The right side of her face felt like she’d been slammed with a two by four. Or a table. Her cheeks flamed red.
“Maggie, I’m going to take you down to the ER, get some X-rays, maybe an MRI, alright?”
“No,” she protested, her voice sounding distant and far away while still echoing painfully throughout her skull. ER’s were expensive, and X-rays even more so. No steady employment meant no health insurance, and she did not have an overabundance of funds. And after this little tiptoe through the tulips she was quite certain she wouldn’t be getting paid for this job. If she was lucky, the cost of any damages she caused wouldn’t be more than what she had in the petty cash fund she kept for emergencies.
Not to mention that the only way she would go to the hospital was if someone was carrying her unconscious body there without her knowledge or consent. She would never go willingly, and definitely not for a little bump.
“I just need to get home.” She hissed audibly as she tried to sit up, but strong hands kept her down.
“I don’t think so. You might have a concussion.”
“No concussion,” she insisted, trying for a wan smile. “I’m naturally obtuse.”
The corner of Michael’s mouth tilted up in that lovely crooked grin. “And inherently clumsy?”
There was a twinge of amusement to his voice. At least she hoped it was that, as opposed to him making fun of her outright. He had seemed so nice earlier. It would be a shame if he turned out to be a jerk. Not surprising, based on her track record with men, but disappointing all the same.
“Now you know.” Her cheeks flamed again.
“Seriously,” he said, “what happened out there?”
Maggie looked down at her hands. “I think I just got a little dizzy. I probably should have eaten before I came. And I shouldn’t have had those shots to calm my nerves.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?” He was persistent, she had to give him that, holding up two – no four – no two, definitely two – long, tapered fingers. Geez, this guy even had sexy fingers. Given the sharp, stabbing pain through her temple, she should not be having visions of exactly what he might do with those fingers.
She pushed his hand away irritably, annoyed with herself and uncertain of the answer. “What are you, a doctor or something?”
“Yes, actually,” he said, shining that damn light in her eye again. “Michael Callaghan, at your service.”
The combination of the pain and the humiliation made her snappish. She snorted, wishing immediately that she hadn’t because it hurt.
“Yeah, right. Why would a doctor play bartender?” It was almost as insane as a mild-mannered farm girl doing the dance of the seven veils at a bachelor party.
As if he had read her mind, he answered, “Probably for the same reason a nice girl would play exotic dancer.”
His fingers, warm, gentle and feeling way too good, wrapped around her wrist to take her pulse. Maggie groaned. “Touché.”
“That aside,” he continued, “my family owns the Pub. And I enjoy tending sometimes.”
Oh. Come to think of it, he did bear a striking resemblance to several of the men there. Just her luck. As if he hadn’t been unattainable enough just being a perfect male bartender. He was a Callaghan and a doctor. Totally out of her league. Now she felt even more foolish.
“Look, uh, Dr. Callaghan, I – “