Some kids will talk to anyone.

Studying the stealthy little ninja that has materialized beside me with a wary eye, I lean away with a scowl. I'd thought I was alone.

The small boy asks me again if I like the painting, as if I hadn't heard.

"I'm biased, so I can't pass comment," I reply, glancing around in search of his parents. The kid can't be more than five or six years old. How in the hell have I ended up with an unsupervised kid in the middle of a hospital?

"What's biased?" he asks as my head falls back and I groan.

Twisting to see him, I squint at his questioning face. "Huh?"

"Biii-ased." His eyes roll as he draws out the word; as if I'm the annoying one. "Does it mean you're in a wheelchair?" he asks, his gaze now coveting my wheels.

The kid is as curious as a... well, a kid, I guess.

"No, it doesn't mean I'm in a wheelchair." I make a face at him before gesturing to the artwork on the wall. "It means I can't pass a fair judgment on this here painting you're asking about."

"Oh." Disinterested in that line of questioning now, he stares at my legs. "How come you're in a wheelchair? Do you live here?"

Looking around the empty corridor again I frown at him. "In the hospital?"

"Yeah," he says, still waiting for a real answer. "Mom says some people have to live in hospitals."

"Well I don't." Studying my clothes, I try to decide what it is about me that's giving off an 'inpatient' vibe. "I'm just visiting. Where is your mom, exactly? Or your dad."

The kid gestures vaguely behind him in the direction of the entrance to the Neurosurgical ward.

"Mom's checking work stuff. She's a nurse." Rubbing his elbow, the kid sighs as he looks up at the huge mural. "She said my dad's a doctor, but it's a secret. I don't know which one he is." He looks at me expectantly.

"Don't look at me, kid. I don't know which one he is either."

Frowning at me, the kid points to the painting. "This one is new here. Why won't you say if you like it?"

Looking back at the painting, I scratch my jaw. "Do you like it?"

Folding his arms, the kid huffs a sigh at me before turning back to the painting of the stormy sea.

"It looks real. Like those big waves are trying to get me," he says in a flat tone.

"You hate it, huh?"

Shaking his head, he moves away from me as his hand follows the shape of the waves. "It's cool that might get me," he says, spinning away and acting out an impressive seizure of motion in what I imagine is meant to be a precise rendition of being sucked into some kind of whirlpool.

Turning back to the painting, I wheel a little closer, seeing all the imperfections. "So you... like it?"

The kid stops spinning and comes to stand next to me.

Close.

So close that I can see crumbs on his face and smell the cookies on his breath. Figuring I'd be kind of grossed out by that, I'm surprised to find myself hungry for cookies. Chocolate chip, judging from the dark smear at the corner of his mouth. I could definitely go for some chocolate-chip cookies. And milk.

Shit. Five minutes with a kid and even my palate's regressed to a tender age.

Secretly hoping that Mom's made cookies while I've been out of her hair, I sigh. I'm pretty sure it's not healthy to be twenty-seven and hoping your mom made you an afternoon snack; and that it would be the highlight of your day.

Fucking man-child.

The kid brings my attention back to the painting.

"I like it," he says, as if his opinion on the matter holds significant weight. "Way more than the last one," he adds as he leans in and captures my eyes with his. "What do you think?"

Edging my chair back a little, I look back at the painting, trying to see it through his eyes.

"I think that I didn't like how I was feeling when I painted it, but I like it a bit more now. Nice shirt, by the way."

The wide-eyed kid stares at me a moment before looking down at his Ironman t-shirt with its paint smears. "You like Ironman?"

"Sure. Him too."

The kid looks at me as if I've given him gold.

"Will you teach me how to paint waves that can eat people?"

"Is that what was happening over there before? The waves were eating you?"

A nod.

"I thought maybe you had something wrong with you. Made me glad we were in a hospital." I smile to let him know I'm joking, and his face lights up.

"I'm Ry," he says with a shy wave.

I hold up my hand in response. "Brad."

Looking back at the painting, I try to remember the last image that was on the wall. "You really think it's better than the last one?"

"Way better," he replies, crouching to get a better look at my chair. "Can I have a go in your wheelchair?"

When I don't answer, he looks up at me. "Please?"

"Um, thanks for asking nicely, but it's probably too big for you."

Sizing me up, Ry nods. "Did you know your arms are bigger than your legs?"

Taking a deep breath, I nod. "Bigger, but not longer."

"Your arms are huge."

I shrug with shoulders that are also large. "They do most of the work these days."

"You could give me a ride down there," he says, pointing to the corridor behind us while his enthusiastic gaze remains firmly on my confounded contraption.

"My legs don't work, kid. I can't just get out and push you."

"I can sit there," he says, pointing at my lap.

Already shaking my head, I look towards the ward where his mom is meant to be. "Kid, there are all sorts of rules about that kind of sh-... stuff."

"What rules?"

"Um... they pretty much all start with 'ask your mom'."

Quiet for a moment, Ry looks away. "She'll say no," he says, his shoulders drooping. "She never lets me do anything fun."

"Oh? I suppose that's how you got paint on your shirt?" I ask, testing his dramatic statement for credibility.

Sighing, he looks back at the mural. "Can't get hurt painting."

"Ah. So that's the reason. She loves you too much to see you in pain."

"Ryan! I told you not to wander!" comes a stern voice that makes us both cringe as we turn to face his mom. She looks from Ry to me and the second our eyes meet and that glimmer of recognition hits, my chest goes tight.

A whisper of air escapes my lips in the form of a name.

"Stace."

Her dark hair is no longer clipped in a funky, youthful style, but pulled into a subdued tail behind her, making her square-ish glasses give her a sharp, unimpressed-librarian kind of appearance. She still gives off a vibe of instant challenge, but without her cheeky smile, the challenge definitely seems more sinister. The only thing softening the whole 'get back' projection she's got going on is that her lips are set in an 'O' of surprise and her intelligent, brown eyes are wide and staring.

The kid has the same eyes.

I can't believe it's her. I can totally relate to the look of shock on her face. Wasn't Damon just saying the other day that I should look her up? It seems a bizarre twist of fate that she'd be conjured up by the mere mention of her name; some magical form of kismet sent to test me.

I hadn't sought her out, of course. An ambitious and free-wheeling girl like Stace wouldn't be interested in a guy like me. I'm a lead weight. Sure, I would love to go a few rounds with a gorgeous and wild girl like her, but that's beside the point. She's out of my league.

And she has a kid!

No doubt she has a man at home too. A real man. Not one that lives with his Mom. She'll have a man that's got his life together and worships the ground she walks on because he knows how crazy-lucky he is to have her in his world.

Stacey Lane. Sexy and smart, and so damn naughty, you just know life with her would always be exciting. 

"Bradley-fucking-Jenkins?"

The fact that Stacey remembers my name could be considered a positive thing, but given her tone and the fact that she seems to have forgotten to mind her language in front of her young son, I'm guessing I'm not in her good books.

For a moment, she just stares at me before remembering herself, then there is no mistaking her protective maneuvering of Ryan to a position behind her.

Apparently she definitely does not have fond memories of me. I can't blame her really. I was in a bad space when we met. Damon - the smartest guy I know, assures me that I'm still quite likable despite my melancholic rages, but clearly the truth is otherwise.

At least I didn't take his advice and go after her. I'd have looked a right fool when she clearly detests and fears me. Double the reason not to act on Damon's bright idea. Genius, my ass!

Clearing the stunned silence from my throat, I grunt as I wheel backwards a little.

These days I can smell rejection a mile away. It stings, but on the bright side, it gives me ample opportunity to turn the tables on my opponent and dismiss them before they get a chance to do the same to me.

"Actually my middle name is Allen." Lowering my sour gaze from Stacey's pretty face, I smile at her son instead. "Nice to meet you, Ry. I should be going."

"Wait!" Ryan slides out of his mother's grasp. "Mom, can I please have a ride on Brad's chair? Pretty please? We'll be super-careful. He said it was okay if I asked you first."

Stacey shoots me with a hard look and I raise my hands.

"Technically, I didn't say yes," I inform her whilst making 'what-the-fuck?' eyes at Ryan. "Dude, I'm not looking for trouble. I kind of know your mom, and I'm pretty sure I've given her a bad impression or six in the past, so I'm going to just take myself home now. Thanks for your thoughts on the art though. Truly. You made my day."

Risking a lightning speed glance at Stacey, I see she's about to say something, but I shake my head as I start wheeling backwards. Spinning around, I head for the elevators.

Without turning back, I hear Stacey ask Ry to return a pen to someone called Marty, and before I can reach the elevator, I feel a rough tug at the back of my chair, bringing me to a sharp stop as Stacey Lane steps in front of me.

Arms folded, she meets my eyes briefly before looking beyond me to check on Ryan's progress.

"Punched any doctors lately?"

I knew it.

You punch one doctor, and you're labeled a threat for life. Leaning back in my chair, I fold my arms to mirror her position.

"Why? You know some more that need a lesson?" I throw back at her.

"A couple," she says with half a shrug.

"Stolen any hospital property lately?" I counter.

"Borrowed," she corrects me, the corner of her mouth twitching a little. "And lately, only pens. How have you been?"

"I'm not a threat to your kid, if that's why you're asking. And I resent the thought that I might be. Excuse me." Wheeling backwards I move to go around her, but she steps into my path again.

"I didn't think you were, but I had to be sure," she says, looking beyond me to where Ryan should be appearing any second. "You look good," she says, as her eyes lower to travel over me in an assessing kind of way.

A slight blush colors her cheeks and my heart stops for a moment, but before I can react, or think of something to say to test my interpretation of her behavior, she continues.

"I owe you something," she says, shifting her weight as if suddenly skittish. "Don't take it the wrong way, but I've wanted to do this for several years now and promised myself I would if ever I got the chance."

Bending over, she takes my face in her hands and smacks a sweet honey of a kiss on my mouth. I try to comprehend what's happening, but I can't think past her lips.

How does someone taste so sweet and feel so silky soft at the same time as they're setting you on fire? The urgency of the kiss melts away slightly and before I can pull her in for more of what I'm now craving more than chocolate-chip cookies, she pulls back. "Thank you."

Her words whisper over my lips, soothing the excited nerves she's just set tingling.

"For what?" I croak as she stands.

Touching her fingers to her lips, Stacey looks behind me again and a moment later her face lights up with a gorgeous, authentic smile - the kind reserved for true love.

"You clocked the right doctor," she says quietly, her smile still shining behind me.

She reaches out her hand and Ry takes hold of it, grinning proudly to himself.

"Marty get his pen back?" she asks.

"Yup."

"You ready to go get ice cream?"

"Yeah!" Ry fist pumps the air like a maniac. "Is Brad coming?"

Stacey locks eyes with me and I see every potential response cross her mind.

I don't want to hear the word 'no'. I want this interaction to end on a high and it doesn't get much higher than the kiss I just received.

"Thanks kid, but I've got an ice-cream date with my mom. Maybe some other time." Tousling his hair, I maneuver around them, my eyes not leaving Stacey's until it hurts my neck and I have to face the way I'm rolling.

I hit the button for the elevator and am relieved when it opens immediately with a ding. Wheeling aboard, I hit the button for the ground floor, and lean back in my chair to think about Stacey Lane insulting me, then kissing me, and whether she'd ever consider doing it again.