A moment's inattention, and now he was sitting on a gurney in accident and emerg, pressing gauze against a gash in his arm that stung like a bugger. Fifteen years as a volunteer firefighter for Panem Fire and Rescue, and this was the first time Peeta Mellark had let his mind wander while on the job.
It was a car crash, pretty near as routine as they get. The Panem brigade was often first on the scene of car crashes on the lonely country roads, Peeta had attended dozens over his years volunteering. But this time, when he'd gone round to help extract the passenger from the crumpled wreck, all he'd seen was a sheet of inky-black hair glinting in his torchlight, and all of his training had momentarily flown from his head. Reaching into the cabin without first evaluating the risk, he'd caught his sleeve on a jagged piece of window glass, sharp as a spear, that cut him from the edge of his kevlar wrister almost to his bloody elbow. Missed slicing anything important, but it hurt like a bloody bugger and worse, he had to take the ride of shame in the back of an ambo to get stitched up at the hospital instead of helping his mates with the clean-up. They'd never let him live it down.
And it hadn't even been her. Her, the woman who'd stolen his sense and his silver tongue when she'd scowled at him four days ago. He'd spent four days kicking himself for not getting her name, and four days hoping she'd come back. But he hadn't caught another glimpse of her.
Except in his dreams.
Every time he closed his eyes he saw hers, an unusual silver shade, wide and deep, the ocean by moonlight. And her hair, a long ebony rope carelessly plaited and tossed over one shoulder that even in the moment had made his fingers itch to unwind the strands.
Peeta loved women, loved the female form and had never lacked for companionship. His reputation around town as a flirt was well-earned, he could charm the pants off most anyone. He wasn't exactly a love 'em and leave 'em guy, he treated the ladies well, showed them a good time, monogamously, and when their time together had run its course, they always parted as friends. He was never with anyone longer than a few dates though. Peeta Mellark wasn't relationship material. But getting the girl in the first place, that's something he never had any trouble with.
Except for four days ago.
When he'd seen her there, bathed in a weak pool of lamp light like a bloody angel, he'd thought she was beautiful. Then she'd spoken—in that accent!—and she was in turns feral and vulnerable, he couldn't help but be fascinated. He'd invited her into his shop, thought they'd yabber, he'd wrangle a date out of her. But she'd turned those big eyes on him, and it had felt like a fist to the gut. He'd never had such a visceral reaction to a pretty face before. He'd fallen all over his tongue, like a dipstick, and she'd run off, disappearing into the predawn, as if she'd never been real at all.
His mobile rang, interrupting his thoughts. Finnick Odair's face filled the screen. Peeta groaned. The last thing he needed was to be revved up by bloody Finn. Still, he answered, because if he knew anything about his best mate, it was that he'd keep trying, ringing incessantly until Peeta answered. Best to get it done.
"Hey," Peeta said into the device, keeping his voice even and upbeat. In reality, he was knackered, but there was no need to show that to Finn. He'd be catching enough grief.
"Peet," Finn shouted through the phone. "How ya goin'?" There was enough noise in the background that Peeta assumed he was still at the accident scene. Fire brigade often did the clean up, especially if there were chemicals spilled.
"Not bad, mate," Peeta said, shifting to keep the mobile pressed to his ear while also keeping the gauze pressed to his arm, wincing as he did. He hoped the doc wouldn't be much longer, he needed to be at the bakery in about three hours to start the morning bake.
"They didn't cut off your leg yet?"
Peeta rolled his eyes. "It's my arm, ya drongo, and it's barely a scratch." A scratch that was still bleeding, pain pulsing along with his heartbeat, but again, why give Finn more ammunition?
"Sure," Finn laughed, then sobered. "Seriously though, mate. You right? Want me to come by and pick you up?"
Peeta was sorely tempted, the hospital was on the outskirts of Panem and the walk back to town was going to suck. But Finnick's wife was pregnant and probably pacing the floors, waiting for him at home. They'd been putting in so many hours volunteering with the fire brigade, both of them, Peeta didn't want to take up any extra of his time. Besides, a brisk walk in the predawn would do him good, help him refocus, sharpen his mind.
"Nah, mate, you go home to your lady," he said, but Finnick snorted through the phone.
"Annie'd have my arse if I left you to walk home. And you're gonna clomp back into town in your PPEs?"
Peeta slumped in defeat. Finn was right, he knew it. He could probably wrangle a ride from one of the nurses, several had already popped their pretty heads in to see if he needed anything. But then there'd be expectations, and Peeta was tired. Not just physically, but mentally too. Drained, really. "Yeah," he said softly.
"Ace," Finnick replied. "We're nearly done. I'll be there in an hour." Peeta hoped he'd be stitched up by then. It would have been better if the EMTs at the crash site could have patched him up, but they'd insisted on bringing him here instead.
He slid his phone back into his pocket, then returned to keeping pressure on his arm. A low murmur beyond the curtain suggested that it might finally be his turn.
Dr. Hawthorne—Gale Hawthorne—entered first. He was tall and powerfully built, with black hair that spoke to his Aboriginal heritage and a sharp gaze that saw everything. Peeta knew him, in a small town like this you knew pretty much everyone. He'd played footy with Doc Hawthorne's two younger brothers in school, they were good blokes. But the doc was far more serious, intense. Even when they were kids he'd been that way. Head of the family from a young age, Peeta reckoned that matured a lad fast.
"Mellark," the doc said, but didn't reach out to shake Peeta's hand. Just as well since it was occupied keeping pressure on his wound. "Our new doctor is shadowing me today. This here is Dr. Everdeen." Only then did Peeta notice the person who had followed Doc Hawthorne into the treatment room.
His heart skipped a beat. Good thing he wasn't connected to the monitors.
His silver-eyed dream, Dr. Everdeen apparently, stood beside Hawthorne, eyes twinkling with amusement. In deep blue scrubs and with that same dark plait, she was every bit as beautiful as the first time he'd seen her, only now she held an aura of authority, along with that mystery. And damn but that made her even more attractive.
"Mister Mellark," she said, and he swore he could hear the smirk in her voice. "Let's have a look."
Her touch was firm and competent, but gentle too as she prodded the skin around the gash in his arm. There was absolutely nothing sexy about it, but his heart tripped in his chest anyway. Blood loss, he thought. Definitely not because of the woman leaning over him, filling his lungs with lavender and antiseptic. She glanced up at him through sooty lashes, a gentle smile playing on those lush lips. "Going to need a few stitches," she said. "We'll fix you up, good as new."
Then she pulled away, and it felt like a physical loss.