by Jo Leigh
IT WAS DARK when she woke. There was a handy clock on the bedside table, which told her it was just past nine. If she hadn’t believed it before, there was no doubt now that she’d lost her chance to be on Broadway.
How long would she be sitting on the sidelines, watching friends and people she really disliked getting gigs that should have been hers? Four to six weeks might sound okay on paper, but in her world that was an eternity. What about work? What about classes? No auditions, no ballet, no jogging in the park. Impossible. She was an athlete, for heaven’s sake, and a serious one. Her life revolved around her physical self. She’d never been sidelined like this before, never.There had been dance classes, gymnastics and jazz and cheerleading. Competitions, awards, rehearsals, practicing when the other kids were sleeping in or playing or having sleepovers. She regretted none of it, but now it was as much a part of her as breathing, and she had no idea who she was if she wasn’t a dancer.
All that stuff before about feeling scared? Nothing. This was scared.
She looked at the door, at the window, at the clock, and then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She’d come to New York without knowing a soul. She’d used all her own money. She’d gotten into shows on talent and persistence. She could get through this. She could.
After a lot more deep breaths and a lot of envisioning herself bathed in white light, she opened her eyes again, the panic in her stomach somewhat eased. Not all the way, but then she remembered the only thing she could control was right now. And right now, she had a kink in her neck.
She usually slept on her side, but she’d been afraid to move in case her leg fell off the pillow. She stretched, and that felt so good she stretched some more and that’s when the throbbing in her ankle perked up.
It wasn’t difficult to reach the bedside lamp. She wondered if Flynn was home yet. She had no idea how long she’d slept as she hadn’t looked at the clock before she’d conked out.
She hoped he was home. Despite her mini meditation, it still felt odd as hell to be here. Even when she pretended it was a hotel room. The remote was right there so she turned on the TV and flipped through the channels. Oh, my, he had all the cable stations. Fancy.
There were movies she hadn’t seen, South Park, ohh, Buffy. That settled that. She had watched the series so often she knew exactly what was going on with Spike and Dru. The show was the TV version of eating mac and cheese and she felt her shoulders relax into the pillows.
Still, she kept hitting the mute to listen for him, but there was only silence. No knock, no footsteps. She ought to get up. Do something about her cotton-filled mouth. On her way back to bed, she’d open her door. That way, he would know that she was up. If he was home. If he was awake.
It was once again a real pain to get on her feet. The crutches weren’t all that comfy on her pits, and she hated feeling like such a klutz. Shutting the bathroom door had never been a battle before, but she finally won. The brushing of the teeth felt divine. So good, she washed her face with the delicate-smelling soap and brushed her hair to boot.
That’s when she realized she hadn’t put on her bathrobe. So, did she open the bedroom door first, then go to bed, or get the robe, then the door…
Forget it. If he saw her, he saw her. It was bound to happen if she ended up staying here for days and days. Maybe she even wanted it to happen.
He had such great hands. No rings, and his nails were neat and clean and he smelled good.
Her heart hammered a bit as she opened the bedroom door, prepared to see him standing there, hand up ready to knock. Nope. Just dark hallway. So she slowly turned, careful not to hit anything with her crutches, and started back to bed.
“You’re up.”
The voice behind her scared her into catching the crutch on the carpet. She panicked, dropping the right crutch so she could brace for the fall, but hands grabbed her waist just before she crashed.
“Shit,” he said, pulling her back to upright. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s okay. I think.” Her panic blossomed as he stepped closer, pressing his body against her back. She couldn’t do anything but clutch his arm and try not to put her bad foot down.
“You’re all right?”
“Yeah. Fine.”
He didn’t move. She felt his breath on the curve of her neck, his heat on her bottom and a bit more pressure where his hands held her steady. The nightgown was so slight it was as if he were touching her skin. She stood as still as possible, tummy all aquiver, waiting to see what he would do and hoping not to fall.
“You’re, uh…”
“Yes?” Her voice came out whispery. She listened to him breathe.
“I should get you into bed.”
Her eyes closed and so did her mouth as she tried not to take that the wrong way.
His hands braced her until he was at her side. Somehow she managed to get her free arm around his neck and he helped her hop to the side of the bed. And yes, her boob rubbed against his chest. From there it was an awkward dance until she was sitting down. His gaze went directly to her nipples, which could probably take an eye out if she weren’t careful. Nothing she could do about it, so she used her audition smile. It took him a long time to notice.
Flustered again, he tried to smile back, but it was only somewhat successful. “You hungry?”
“Famished.”
“Want food or éclair?”
“You got me some?”
“More than some,” he said, taking little steps away from her, his hands shoved in his pockets. He’d changed clothes. Nicely worn jeans with a slate-gray silky shirt. He’d showered. He really was a good-looking man.
“How many more?” she asked, forcing her mind to focus on edibles.
“I got a dozen.”
She laughed out loud and he gave her an honest grin.
“What? I panicked.”
“In a good way,” she said, still unsure of so much, but not really minding.
“I also got champagne.”
“Wow.”
“I’m not sure you should have any. Although you’re only taking NSAIDs.”
“I thought I was taking high-dose aspirin.”
“You are. NSAID is the technical term.”
“Ah. Doctorspeak.”
“Anything to confuse the patient, that’s my motto.”
“Okay, how about I take another one of those NSAIDs and you fix me whatever you’re having for dinner.”
“Followed by éclairs and champagne?”
“Exactly.”
He looked at her breasts again, froze for a moment, then turned in a hurry. “Right. Couldn’t get the mac and cheese because the restaurant had a line halfway down the block, but I only found out after I’d been to the store. Oh, the pills are in the drawer. I hope you like soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, and I’ll be back later.”
She watched him go all the way down the now-lit hallway before she got the bottle of pills, thinking all the while that for a doctor he was awfully cute. Her thoughts turned to the champagne and dessert portion of the evening, and she popped two pills just in case.
FLYNN SLAMMED THE LIGHT on with his elbow then threw the fridge door open. This was ridiculous. He’d woken up with a hard-on. Fixed that problem with a record-setting jerk-off in the shower. End of discussion. Until he walked into the guest room to find his patient as good as naked.
Which was his own damn fault. He’d seen something flannel in her bag, but he’d gone for the red slinky number. He hated thinking with his dick. At least at home. On vacation he could shut off all cognitive functions and be as decadent as he wanted, which was usually not terribly decadent, but not here. Not with Willow.He pulled out the cheese and the butter, a Granny Smith apple, some deli ham and mustard and put it all on the counter. Man, she was pretty. Those breasts. He couldn’t stop staring at them. The whole hard-on problem? Still a problem. No, he hadn’t gotten absurdly rigid, but he’d been well on his way.
What the hell wa
s wrong with him?
As Andy had pointed out to him and the public at large, he hadn’t gotten any for a long time. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t in control. He wasn’t seventeen. But man, she was pretty.
To make things worse, he liked her. She’d be fun to get naked with. Playful, for sure. She certainly was full of surprises. He knew without a doubt that if he were in her position, he’d be raising hell. He probably would have contacted a lawyer already. Not that she would. She wasn’t the type. But if nothing else, hadn’t his father taught him to be prudent? To keep his johnson far away from his patients?
He put the sauté pan on the stove to get hot as he buttered the bread. The recipe was one from his childhood. Not a typical grilled cheese, but he’d wager she’d like it. She struck him as someone who liked to try new things. Her career choice was proof of her daring.
It didn’t take long to assemble the sandwiches and get the soup out of the cupboard. Clam chowder felt right, and he could pop that in the microwave while the cheese melted.
He even had a tray so she could eat in bed.
He wanted to eat with her, next to her. To spend the rest of the evening drinking cold champagne and stuffing himself with high-fat food. It was tiresome, always being so careful. About food, about women, about his residency, about everything.
For one night, couldn’t he toss out the rules? Have some fun? Make her feel good?
He stopped, his knife halfway to the mustard crock. Making her feel good had a nice ring to it. After all, he was responsible for turning her life upside down. The least he could do was make her happy.
7
THE SOUND OF HIS FOOTSTEPS in the hallway sent her whole body into hyperdrive. Heart racing, nerves tingling, anticipation off the charts. Which was stupid. She was injured, and she was his guest and no one had said anything about anything really, so she should just cool her jets and calm down. And yet, she touched her hair, cleared her throat and licked her lips, then sighed at her pitiful self.
He appeared at the door carrying a huge tray full of delicious smells. He smiled. She smiled back. Flutters happened.“Did you take your pill?”
“I did,” she said. Five minutes ago she had pushed an extra pillow against the headboard, an invitation for him to join her. Now it seemed too much. “The ankle is behaving itself.”
He stepped across the threshold and then stared at the bed for a moment. She could almost see him figure out her impulsive plan. Only she couldn’t tell if he thought it was a good idea, a terrible idea or if he had just crossed her off his list forever.
The tray, being so large, was put in the middle of the bed where she saw there were two smaller trays right next to each other. Both had nice bowls of steamy clam chowder and beautifully golden sandwiches. Also two containers of cranberry juice. Two.
He leaned over her to lift one tray, then put it on her lap. He smelled even better than the food. There was a cloth napkin, gold in color, and a soup spoon. Willow felt like a princess. Or at least someone very rich.
“You comfortable?”
She nodded. “This looks fabulous.”
“Old family recipe.”
“The soup?”
“Uh, no. That was canned. But the sandwich is.” He slipped the napkin from underneath the spoon and flapped it open. His pause was adorable. Would he actually put it on her chest?
Deciding it was better to have him relaxed, she took the napkin and did the honors herself.
Flynn seemed relieved as he headed around the bed, glancing at the chair in the corner. But then he simply sat next to her as if it were no big deal and her worries were nonsense. “I figured we could eat together, watch a little TV. If that’s okay.”
“Sure. That’s fine,” she said, in her most casual voice. So why was she still nervous and anxious and wondering if her attraction was as real as it felt or just a distraction from the collapse of her life as she knew it? Not that she’d let on. She smiled as if this sort of thing happened to her twice a week.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been on this bed before,” he said as he settled his tray on his lap.
“Really? Has anyone?”
He nodded. “My sister and her husband. My nephew. My friend Andy stays here when he’s too smashed to get home.”
“Does that happen often?”
“From time to time. Only when he’s not on call and has a few days off.”
Okay, talking was good. Really good. In fact, maybe she’d spend the rest of the meal asking him questions. “Is that what you do when you’re not on call?”
He smiled in lieu of an answer.
She took half her sandwich and resisted the urge to peek inside. She wasn’t a fussy eater, but some things were a bit exotic for her Bakersfield tastes. The first bite told her not to be concerned. It was scrumptious.
“Really?” he asked.
She nodded, making the yummy sound again.
“I know it’s not typical.”
“It’s much better. Spicy and creamy and crisp and soft all together. And there’s something sweet. Apple?”
He gave her a new smile. One that showed more than his excellent dental hygiene. He might be a big important surgeon, but just like little ol’ her, he needed the attaboys. “Then you won’t mind the canned soup so much.”
“You’re right. I won’t.”
He took a big bite himself, then straightened the pillow before he relaxed back, for all the world looking like a man settling down for the duration.
“Is Andy also an orthopedic surgeon?”
“Neurologist.”
“Doesn’t alcohol kill brain cells?”
“Luckily for him he’s got them to spare. The moron’s brilliant. He aced every test all through school, completely destroying the bell curve. I have no idea why we’re friends.”
“Sounds like a healthy competition. I mean, you’ve had ample opportunity to strangle him in his sleep.”
“Ah, the mess afterward. He’s very tall. Not worth it.”
She ate some more, liking his sense of humor very much. And also liking the pauses between the Q & A. In fact, they were nice. Easy. Still, she wanted to know so much more about him. “Is Andy enjoying his vacation as we speak?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Did he yell at you for staying here and playing nursemaid?”
“He did.”
“I think we’d get along, then.”
Flynn nodded. “He’d hit on you before you could say hello.”
“You mean he doesn’t use the knock-’em-senseless technique? It’s very good, you know. Although you could have tried just introducing yourself.”
Flynn closed his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest.
She patted his hand. “It’s okay.”
“But it’s not. You’re a career dancer. I’ve put you out of work.”
“That might be a bit of a stretch.”
“Oh?”
“The goal is to be a career dancer. Right now, I’m a sometimes dancer, more often cocktail waitress and student.”
“A cocktail waitress?”
“Don’t knock it.” She sniffed. “The tips pay for that palace I live in.”
“How can you be so flip? You realize you can’t work for at least four weeks.”
She swallowed. “I know.”
“Will you still have a job?”
“I hope so.”
He shook his head with self-disgust. “What will you do in the meantime?”
“Hang out at Grand Central Station, hop on one leg and set out a hat. I heard people are particularly generous on Friday afternoons.”
“I’m serious.”
“Fine. I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead. Something will work out.” Meeting his gaze, she waited until he could look at her calmly. “It was an accident. They happen. And you’ve more than made up for everything. Please, let the guilt go.” God, she was a good actress. Maybe if she convinced him it was no big deal, she’d convince hers
elf. “I’m frustrated about missing the audition, but there are going to be more auditions. Maybe I needed to slow down a bit, and this is the universe’s way of helping me.”
“You’re amazing, you know that?” he said, smiling.
“Shut up. It’s the painkillers talking.”
Amusement lit his eyes. “Are you really just twenty-four? Or was that another hypothetical you gave Dr. Jefferson?”
“Impertinent.”
“I’m a doctor.”
“So what?”
He opened his mouth, then shut it quickly. “That line always works.”
“Do people give you their ATM pins, too?”
“Hmm. Haven’t tried.”
She took a spoonful of soup, now that it wasn’t so hot. It was good, a perfect companion to the sandwich.
He followed her cue and went back to his dinner. They both stared at the television, which was still muted. Buffy had been replaced by reruns of House.
“Does this show make you crazy?” she asked.
“Yep.”
“But you still watch it?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
He thought for a second. “Catching their mistakes makes me feel smart.”
Her hand went back to his, just for a second. “You don’t need a medical show to know that.”
“No, no, I don’t.” His eyebrow rose in that way of his. “For that, I need Jeopardy.”
She laughed, and he looked pleased. The ruggedness she’d noticed before was still there at cross-purposes with his hair, yet somehow it made sense. She hadn’t known him long, but she already knew he was a complex man. Not easily categorized. “Why’d you become a surgeon?”
He swallowed his bite, staring at the foot of the bed as he did so. “I originally wanted to be an engineer. When I was a kid, I mean. Make things. Take them apart and build them better. But then at sixteen I broke my leg playing baseball. The doctor was a friend of my father’s and he explained the procedure in detail. I realized that the human body is more interesting than any building or piece of machinery.”
“Is it still interesting?”
He nodded. “Fascinating.”
