Falling for Damon Strathmore

Damon

“I said I’m fine!” I barked, jerking my arm away from the nurse trying to check my IV like I hadn’t already yanked it out twice.

“What part of ‘discharge me now’ is in ancient Latin to you people?!”

“Mr. Strathmore, please.”

“No. Don’t ‘Mr. Strathmore me like I’m eighty and need help with a leak. I can walk, I can talk, I can flirt. That means I’m alive. Let me out of this torture chamber.”

The poor nurse blinked at me, clearly a second away from paging security. Again. I was about to launch into my usual dramatic speech, something about medical kidnapping and oxygen being a scam, when the door swung open.

And there she was.

Dark curls barely contained a ponytail, scrubs hugging her like they were made to worship her hips, clipboard in one hand, coffee in the other like a goddess descended from Mount Starbucks. And that smile, God, that smile like she already knew I was going to be her problem, and maybe she was weirdly okay with that.

“I heard we’ve got a runner,” she said.

Voice? Smooth. Confidence. Slightly amused, like I was an annoying puppy, and she’d decided to adopt me anyway.

“I’m not a runner,” I said, straightening up like an idiot. "I just believe in freedom. Medical institutions are not supposed to feel like prisons.”

She walked in, eyes scanning the room, then stopping at me like I was a science project she couldn’t wait to dissect.

“You’re the one who had a concussion, right?”

“That wasn’t me,” I said, trying to play it off like the cook guy I was.

“Security has the footage of paramedics wheeling you in.”

“... That could’ve been anyone.”

Her eyebrows arched. I swear to God, I almost blurted out my credit card number just to keep her looking at me like that.

“I’m Alicia. I’ll be your nurse for the next few hours to days if your condition worsens,” she said, crossing over to the bed like she owned it. “Assuming you don’t stage another jailbreak or demand to be discharged.”

“Damon,” I said, suddenly forgetting all about my dramatic exit. “Just Damon. No Mr.”

“Damon,” she repeated, like she was testing how my name tasted in her mouth. I nearly flatlined right there. “Nice to meet you. Now sit.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sit,” she said again, already putting on gloves. “I’m going to check your vitals and make sure you haven’t wrecked your stitches pulling out your IV like a madman.”

“Have I wrecked them?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised if you'd detached your soul at this point,” she muttered, then looked up at me again. “Shirt off.”

“Oh. Wow. You move fast.”

“I’m a nurse, not a date. Don’t flatter yourself.”

Damn. Okay. She was quick, sarcastic, and probably smarter than me, which was annoying and hot. Mostly hot.

“I mean, if this is a meet-cute, I feel like we skipped the part where I drop my coffee, and you say something adorable.”

She looked me dead in the eyes. “You dropped your IV. And you screamed like a man whose leg was being sawed off.”

“… That’s one interpretation.”

She chuckled under her breath, and I swear I heard angels. Literal angels.

“You always like this?” she asked, listening to my chest with her stethoscope.

“Like what?”

“Flirty. Loud. Allergic to staying in bed.”

“I’m not flirty. I’m just naturally charming. It’s a condition.”

“And single, I assume?”

“Very.”

“No surprise there.”

Okay. Ow.

“You don’t believe in love either, huh?” I asked, trying not to flinch as she tightened the blood pressure cuff.

“Nope. Love is just brain chemicals and bad decisions.”

“Oh my God, marry me.”

“Too soon. I don’t even know your allergies yet.”

She grinned, as if she wasn’t flipping my entire worldview upside down with a few well-placed jabs and some latex gloves. And me? I, Damon Strathmore, ladies’ man extraordinaire, professional heart-breaker, was sitting shirtless in a hospital gown with my brain short-circuiting because a nurse smiled at me and didn’t care that I looked like hell. This was bad. Terrible.

Or maybe… Perfect.

“You had a concussion,” she said, holding a clipboard like it was a weapon of authority. “You need paracetamol and a few days of rest.”

I blinked at her, squinting as my vision adjusted. “Wait, hold up—does that mean I have to stay here?”

She gave me this smile that was way too calm for the trauma she had just delivered. “Just for the rest of the day.”

I groaned again, louder this time, because what in fresh hell.

“It’s not that serious, Angel,” I said, waving a dismissive hand and starting to sit up. “I can walk, talk, flirt… see? I’m totally…ow—fine.”

She raised a brow, arms crossing over her definitely-not-hospital-issue curves. “First of all, my name’s not Angel.”

I paused mid-scoot, cocking my head, pretending like this was news to me. “Is it not?”

She pointed to her name tag, which I hadn’t noticed till now because, well, I was busy fighting for my freedom. And also, her eyes. I mean. Come on.

“Alicia Collins,” she said crisply.

I leaned forward, reading it like it was written in ancient Greek. “Alicia Collins,” I repeated. Then under my breath, “I still prefer Angel.”

She heard that. I could tell by the twitch in her cheek and the way she sighed like she’d dealt with five of me already today.

“Lay back, Mr…?” She glanced at the chart.

“Damon,” I said smoothly, reclining again like I meant to. “Just Damon. Remember?”

“Okay, Just Damon, you need to stay under observation for the next few hours. No arguments.”

I raised both hands. “You wound me, Alicia. Do I look like the kind of guy who’d argue with a beautiful woman in scrubs?”

“Yes,” she deadpanned.

Damn. She was good.

I smirked. “Fine. I’ll behave… Angel.”

She rolled her eyes and turned on her heels, muttering something about headaches and grown men who act like toddlers. I watched her go, my grin stretching wider.

Maybe hospitals weren’t so bad after all.

After she left, I sat back to think of everything that had just happened and one thing I knew was that she was totally immune to every one of my charms. Where other girls would fawn over me, Alina behaved like I was nothing, like it was the very dirt she walked upon.

“Damn! What a woman,” I muttered.

The only thing keeping me company within the room was the beep-beep of the IV machine, but on the other hand, my whole thoughts were filled with Alina and who she was. I was a world star, girls never left my side, I had a string of them all fawning over me.

Okay. No, seriously. This was bad. Like code red, evacuate-the-building kind of bad. Because apparently, somewhere between the IV drip and her telling me to “stop being a stubborn man-child,” I’d made a decision. A very permanent, slightly terrifying, definitely irrational decision.

I was going to try my luck with her.

And by “luck,” I meant all the charm I had in my player arsenal—which, let’s be honest, was dangerously rusty thanks to that whole “love doesn’t exist, relationships are for fools” phase I’d been stuck in.

But this one? This nurse with the sharp mouth and prettier eyes? Nope. I was already gone. Hooked. Doomed. Finished. But now, she had no idea.

But from now on? She was never getting rid of me.