Dr Tom Lewis.
Her jaw dropped open and she forced it upwards, but couldn’t seem to find any words.
That easy smile curving his lips, he nodded towards her right hand. ‘You got a flat? Need me to change your tyre?’
Still confused, she twisted the jack in her hand and stared at it. She imagined him crouching down again as he levered her car up, his gorgeous arm muscles bunching and tensing as he worked. Her mouth went dry at the thought and she suddenly remembered she didn’t even have a flat.
‘No, it’s fine.’ Searching her mind for the other words necessary for this surreal conversation, she put her bag, keys and of course the jack on the hall side table and noticed a strange key ring with a tiny surfboard already there. Right next to the spare key her parents had always kept hidden out the front. She prodded the strange key ring with one finger as if it might bite her and then looked back to Tom. ‘These yours?’
He nodded, his smile reaching inside her and flicking a heat switch again. ‘Yep. Sorry I didn’t get the chance to properly introduce myself earlier. You’d left by the time I’d finished with Mrs Q. How was the wedding?’
Too much.
She held up a hand, needing him to stop speaking while she gathered her thoughts. Hard to do while he was standing before her practically naked. If she’d thought his back a work of art… well, let’s just say his chest and abdominal muscles could have been the model for Michelangelo’s David.
Tom just continued talking while she tried to tear her gaze from the impressive specimen before her. She registered single words, snatches of conversation, and only snapped out of her little reverie when she realised he’d just offered her a drink.
‘Shouldn’t I be the one offering?’ she found herself saying. ‘At least that would be the protocol if I’d actually invited you here—’ her head was clearing, her words gaining momentum ‘—which I did not. So if you could fill me in on exactly why you are standing in my hallway, practically naked, late on a Saturday night, that would be great.’
She rubbed her forehead, waiting for him to speak, wondering if this was some weird torturous dream. The old Lauren would certainly have taken it as an omen. Her fickle libido wouldn’t have wasted time asking such boring questions. Instead, she’d have kicked off her heels, flicked back her hair and thrown herself into the role of hostess. She’d have gone to any length to make Dr Lewis feel welcome, very welcome. But for the new Lauren, this was a nightmare. She didn’t need temptation under her nose just when she’d decided to change her ways.
Tom’s brow furrowed and for the first time since she’d met him, his smile dimmed. ‘Frank did tell you I was coming, didn’t he?’
‘Frank?’
‘Frank Simpson,’ he clarified. ‘Your brother.’
‘I know who Frank is,’ she snapped. ‘But how do you know him, and what the hell has he got to do with you being here?’ She knew she was being rude—and to a temporary colleague of all people—but she couldn’t afford to let her guard down. Her hormones were already staging a protest inside her body, begging her mind to reconsider its hasty vow of earlier that day. She lifted her chin and crossed her arms. ‘Well?’
He blinked twice. ‘Frank’s an old friend of mine. We worked together at the Royal Adelaide. We email regularly—I like hearing about his efforts in Nepal—and when he heard I’d accepted a stint in Hope Junction, he told me I should stay here. He said you lived here by yourself now that your parents were overseas and that you’d be happy for the company.’
‘Did he?’ It was lucky Frank was over seven thousand kilometres away because right now she wanted to throttle him.
Tom ran a hand through his already mussed up hair. ‘Don’t tell me he didn’t ask you first?’
She snorted. ‘Not only did he not ask me, he didn’t even bother to tell me.’
This was typical Frank—too consumed in his own passions to think about other people. She pushed aside the thought that if he had asked she would have said yes because that wasn’t the point now. Things had changed. She had changed. Or at least she wanted to, but if Tom Lewis kept parading around her house in not much more than his underwear, it would be hard to maintain her resolve.
‘Oh shit. I’m sorry.’ His eyes widened suddenly and he glanced at the jack on the side table. ‘So you thought… Was that meant for me?’
She nodded. Still fuming, but also fighting a bubble of laughter that threatened to burst at the memory of her plot to attack him.
‘I guess I’ve made a lucky escape.’ He swept a hand across his brow. ‘Look, I’ll understand if you don’t want me to stay, but do you think you could cope with one night? I promise not to wake up early and play loud music. I’ll even make you breakfast if you like, and finding another place to stay will be my number one priority tomorrow. I think Hannah mentioned something about there being some sort of accommodation available at the hospital?’
‘Breakfast?’ She hadn’t meant to say that out loud. She’d always had a thing about men that cooked. More a fantasy actually. Her hormones had their tongues out, panting. Down girls.
He nodded. ‘Omelettes, pancakes, the whole truckie’s delight. You name it and it’s yours.’
Her tastebuds joined her hormones in their protest. She would definitely murder Frank next time she saw him but she couldn’t exactly throw the new doctor out on the streets. Granted, the weather this time of year meant camping out wasn’t that terrible, and he could go to the hospital like he said, but that wasn’t the point. Maybe having Tom living with her could be some kind of test. After all, it would only be for a couple of weeks because she’d be gone by Christmas. Maybe she’d take a holiday before looking for another job. Maybe she’d visit Frank in Nepal—it’d be easier to make his death look like an accident over there. Who knows, maybe she’d look into joining the aid program herself.
‘Well, what’s it to be? Eggs and pancakes, or should I go grab my bag and chuck on my shoes?’
His mention of shoes had her gaze dropping to his feet. Bad idea. Until she’d seen his, she’d never thought of feet as being sexy. Food, think of food. Had to be safer.
She swallowed. ‘Pancakes, please. And don’t worry about finding alternative accommodation. Frank’s right. There’s plenty of room here and it’s not a problem. It would just have been nice of him to let me know.’
The smile crept back onto Tom’s face. His five o’clock shadow glistened in the light of the hallway lamp. ‘Are you sure? I don’t want to put you out.’ His tone sounded sensual, almost suggestive, but she told herself it was all in her imagination. The last thing she needed was Tom flirting with her.
‘Quite sure,’ she said with a firm nod. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’m absolutely shattered, so would you like me to show you your room before I head to bed?’
Tom looked sheepish. ‘I think I already found it. Frank gave good directions. The second on the left down the corridor?’
‘That’s the one.’ Right next to mine. Her stomach tightened at the thought and she summoned a smile. ‘In that case, I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘I look forward to it.’
She all but fled down the hallway towards her bedroom, knowing that as she fell into slumber his parting words would be replaying inside her head like a sensual taunt. As much as she hated to admit it, she was looking forward to seeing him as well.
Chapter Four
Lauren woke to the tantalising aroma of proper percolated coffee and…she sniffed…pancakes? She’d never stopped to think about what pancakes smelled like before but the scent wafting under her bedroom door had her tastebuds begging her legs to hop out of bed and follow her nose.
‘Not so fast,’ she told herself as she rolled over, taking the sheets along with her as she curled into a snuggly ball. She couldn’t just launch out there and tackle Tom head-on; she needed to school her hormones first. Needed to remind them that just because there was a drop-dead-gorgeous sex-on-damn-fine-legs doctor cooking pancakes in her
kitchen—and possibly even wearing an apron—that didn’t mean he was free for the taking. She let her imagination dwell on the apron thing a moment, picturing how gorgeous Tom Lewis would look wearing nothing but an apron, and then swallowed as her mouth went dry and heat rushed to other parts of her body.
She’d been experiencing an unofficial man drought lately. Since Flynn had hooked up with Ellie again she’d been too depressed to think about sex, and no one had managed to light even a flicker of interest within her. Until yesterday.
Until Dr Delicious.
‘Oh Lord!’ she groaned as she turned over and buried her head in her pillow. Was it too late to go back on the vow she’d made in church? She hadn’t told anyone about her decision to leave town…not even Whitney. No one but she knew that yesterday she’d decided to turn over a new leaf—to change her wardrobe, ways and attitude. She wasn’t accountable to anyone but herself, and the way Tom had looked at her last night when she’d been holding the jack, she bet it wouldn’t take much to lure him into a fling. She could think of it as her last hurrah in Hope Junction. Even if she came back, he was only a locum, so he’d be gone. No chance of any awkward meetings.
‘Argh,’ she screamed as she realised what she was doing. Less than twenty-four hours on the straight and narrow and she was already trying to reason herself out of her decision. Pathetic. She remembered her thoughts from last night and reminded herself that Tom had been delivered to her as some kind of test. If she could maintain a distance from him while they were sharing a roof, then she could resist anything, or rather anyone.
‘Lauren?’ Her name came with a knock on her bedroom door and she froze. ‘Are you okay? I thought I heard a scream or something.’
‘Yes, Tom.’ She barely managed to get the words past the embarrassment choking her throat. ‘Just my morning exercise.’
‘I see. Sounds like fun.’ She heard the humour in his deep voice as colour rushed to her cheeks. ‘You’ll have to tell me all about it over pancakes. They’re almost ready.’
‘Uh, thanks.’
Exercise? Couldn’t she have said she’d seen a mouse or something? Cringing at the image of whatever he thought her ‘exercise’ was, Lauren rolled out of bed and glared at her reflection in the mirror. After the horridness of yesterday, she’d not had the energy to take her make-up off properly or brush the hair spray out of her hair. Her face was puffy, her hair like a bird’s nest and there were mascara smudges around her eyes. She looked scary enough to play the part of the villain in a Disney movie. And to get to the bathroom down the hallway she had to risk a run-in with Tom. If only her parents had put in an extra bathroom when they’d spoken about it instead of saving all their money to go overseas. She’d never wanted an en suite more in her life.
And then an idea struck her. It was possibly the most ridiculous thought she’d ever had, and it went against every notion she’d ever lived by, but that might just make it genius. If she went out into the kitchen looking like this, there’d be absolutely no chance of Tom finding her attractive. And if he didn’t find her attractive, he wouldn’t flirt. And if he didn’t flirt, it’d be that much easier to stick to her resolve. Ripping off her singlet and shorty pyjamas, she marched over to her dresser, tugged open a drawer and dug deep for some old flannel ones her granny had sent her one Christmas. There was absolutely nothing sexy or appealing about flannel, which is why as a rule she never wore it. In bed or out. It was surprising she’d even kept them.
Taking a deep breath, she dressed again and then ran her fingers through her hair—she couldn’t quite bring herself to face him without at least a quick finger comb—and marched across her bedroom to open the door. The smell of coffee, pancakes and sizzling bacon assaulted her. Oh no, help me God. A hot man and bacon. She hadn’t eaten it for years, but could still recall the taste like she’d indulged only yesterday.
Shoving that thought aside, Lauren lifted her chin, pushed her shoulders back and continued on into the kitchen. She paused in the doorway to take in the scene and had to steady herself on the doorjamb. It wasn’t only the food that looked and smelled irresistible. Tom wasn’t wearing an apron. In fact he was still in nothing but his black board shorts. The sight of all that flesh on display left her mouth dry. He was tanned to perfection with muscles and bulges in all the right places. And his dark hair was damp, telling her he was fresh out of the shower. Not an image she needed in her head right now.
She glanced down at her dishevelled appearance. Tom looked like a male model in comparison. Maybe she’d gone a little OTT with the not-making-an-effort thing, but it was too late to change her mind. She stepped into the kitchen and tossed him what she hoped was a nonchalant smile. ‘Good morning, Dr De—Lewis.’
He gave her a reproachful look. ‘Please, call me Tom.’
Not meeting his gaze, she collapsed into a chair at the table. ‘Just trying to maintain professional boundaries.’ Except that she’d almost called him Dr Delicious. Yep, very professional, Lauren.
He chuckled. ‘I don’t see most of the women I work with in their PJs.’
‘That’s good to know.’ Her eyes zoomed in on a jug of orange juice sitting in the middle of the table. She never bought orange juice—even the hundred percent stuff was packed with sugar—and the Co-op wasn’t open on Sundays. ‘Where’d you get that?’ She pointed at the jug. ‘I hope you didn’t go to the roadhouse. Their prices are exorbitant.’
He shook his head. ‘I got chatting to the elderly lady next door when I went for my run this morning. She offered me a bag of oranges—said her garden is overrun with them—so I came back and juiced them. Have a glass.’
‘You what?’ Lauren almost choked on her words, unsure what to grapple with first: the image of him on a run (yummy), or how on earth he’d managed to sweet talk old Mrs Crouch into giving him anything. The only thing she’d ever given Lauren was the evil eye. Even when she’d been recovering from gallstones in the hospital last year and Lauren had tried to win her over with the offer of a manicure, she’d been anything but pleasant. Sure, she’d let Lauren paint her nails a ghastly shade of pink, but she hadn’t said thanks.
Not realising what she was so shocked about, Tom smiled and boy-oh-boy could the man smile. ‘I hope you don’t mind me using your juicer.’
She took a moment to reply, still lost in the lusciousness of his grin. ‘No, not at all. In fact, I like nothing more than starting the day with fresh juice. And this saves me the hassle.’
As he leaned across and poured her a glass, she found her eyes traitorously staring at his arm muscles flexing. She all but snatched the glass and downed the liquid in an attempt to lower her rapidly rising body temp.
Tom turned towards the bench and returned a few moments later with two laden plates. One pancakes. One bacon. On the table he’d already laid out a bowl of sugar, a lemon cut in half, some raspberry jam, butter and a bottle of maple syrup that Frank had bought Lord knows how many years ago.
‘Now, what can I get you?’ Tom asked. ‘Pancakes, bacon and maple syrup are my all time favourite way to start the day.’
Without meaning to, she screwed up her nose.
He noticed. ‘What’s wrong? You don’t like pancakes.’
‘I love pancakes but I rarely have them and usually only with lemon and a little sugar. To be honest, I’m not sure if that syrup is any good anymore—’ she hesitated ‘—and I don’t eat bacon.’ Definitely not with pancakes. Who did he think he was? American?
‘You don’t eat bacon?’ he asked, as if she’d just confessed to never brushing her teeth.
‘I’m a vegetarian.’ She shrugged, then leaned over and helped herself to a pancake.
‘Oh, sorry.’ His face fell. ‘I borrowed this off Mrs Crouch too.’
Although he was possibly the most manly guy she’d ever laid eyes on, Tom still managed to cock his head to one side and give her puppy-dog eyes. Her heart twisted and she almost said she’d eat it anyway. Lord knew she’d wanted to on more than one o
ccasion in the last two decades—bacon was probably the one meat she missed—but her reasons for becoming a vegetarian had only increased since then.
‘It’s fine. You weren’t to know. And I don’t mind you eating it.’ To prove it, she reached for the sugar and lemon and then poured a more than liberal amount on top of her pancake. Another wacky thought had landed. She usually ate as little as possible when on a date, believing that no man liked a piggy guts, so today she decided to go for broke. ‘Hmm… This is divine,’ she said, after her first delicious mouthful. ‘Who taught you to cook?’
The grin returned to his face and Tom started filling his plate. ‘My mum. When I was growing up she worked in the test kitchen at The Women’s Weekly, before we moved to Adelaide. Me and my big sister were often guinea pigs but I never complained.’
He spoke with so much love that Lauren wondered how different his house had been from hers. Despite being a member of the CWA, her mother had never baked. She’d loathed having to think of meals every night for the family and had made sure Lauren, Frank and their father knew how much of a hassle she found it. ‘What else did she teach you to cook?’ she asked.
‘Pretty much everything in her repertoire. As a kid I used to sit on the bench and help her every chance I got. To be honest I haven’t cooked much the last couple of months—being on the road and on my own isn’t exactly conducive.’ He nodded at the food spread out before them. ‘But this was fun. I’m happy to cook whenever I’m around. Mum even taught me some vegetarian dishes.’
‘Seriously?’ Most men she knew scoffed when she told them she was a vegetarian. In a predominantly farming region, people who didn’t eat meat were few and far between.
‘Yep. I make a mean lentil burger.’
Her mouth watered even more as she popped another forkful of pancake into it.
‘So, why are you vegetarian? Is it a taste thing, a cute furry animal thing or a family thing? I know Frank eats meat but he usually goes against the grain, so that could be him rebelling against your parents.’
The Road to Hope Page 4
