Chapter 3: The Hammer
Paul stood in the private clinic at seven-ten, white coat already on, instruments aligned on the stainless tray. Thirteen minutes before the first appointment. The internal phone rang. Walk-in. Wrist injury.
Three hours ago, I already knew this would happen.
Three hours earlier the kitchen had been quiet until the hammer started. Seven-oh-three. Quiet hours ended at eight. Fifty-seven minutes. He had gone upstairs. The door of 7B was only half-closed. Plaster dust drifted out. Alice stood inside with a hammer held at the wrong angle, music loud enough that she did not hear him enter.
“You’re holding it wrong.”
He told her the load-bearing wall was two metres to her left, that three more swings would sprain the radial styloid. She pointed at the door. He said he would call management if it continued past eight. As he left he saw her adjust her grip, almost without noticing.
Now, in the clinic, Nick walked in with Alice. Her wrist was wrapped in his black silk scarf, the knot in the wrong place. Paul looked at the bandage, then at her face.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she said.
“This way, please.”
In the examination room he removed the scarf. His fingers, cold, moved over her skin. Alice’s breath caught.
His fingers are like ice. But he smells like sterile cotton... and cedarwood.
“What happened?”
“I was renovating.”
“Holding the hammer wrong?”
She smiled faintly. “So... You’re a doctor.”
“Orthopaedics.”
“Of course you are.”
He tested the wrist, thumb pressing slowly along the tendon. She bit her lower lip until it reddened. His eyes stayed on the lip for a second too long.
Her skin is dangerously soft. Stop biting that damn lip.
“Does it hurt here?”
“Little bit.”
He pressed harder. She made a small sound. Nick watched their hands.
Paul withdrew quickly. “Grade one sprain. No fracture.”
“How can you tell without an X-ray?” Nick asked.
“Experience.”
He bandaged the wrist slowly. Alice watched his jaw.
Look at that perfect, rigid jawline. I wonder what it takes to make him lose control.
“You’re very careful.”
“It’s my job.”
“Is it?”
Their eyes met. He looked down at once.
Don’t look at her mouth. Her pulse is racing under my thumb.
“No painting for two weeks. No lifting over two kilograms. No hammering.”
“What if I need to finish the wall?”
“Was it worth it?”
“I would’ve figured it out.”
“Evidently not.”
Nick helped her up, hand on her back. She neither leaned in nor moved away. Paul watched them leave.