by Robin Gianna
A knock on the door had her freezing in place and turning to stare.
“Can I come in?”
CHAPTER SIX
CONOR’S VOICE THROUGH the closed door sent panic through Jill’s chest.
“I... I’m trying to figure out—”
Apparently he took her lack of an actual answer as permission, and came into the room. His gaze immediately slid to her rear, which was currently clad only in the bikini underwear she’d wrestled on, but at least her sweatshirt covered it a little bit.
“Uh...you need some help?”
“Well, actually...” Her voice trailed off but truthfully she did. And he was already in the room, staring at her half-dressed body, so what was the point in shooing him out now? “Yes. Can you help me put these pants on? Then blow-dry my hair? ’Cause I can’t do that without looking like I’ve been in a wind tunnel, as you saw yesterday.”
He came to stand next to her, seeming to study the contents of her dresser drawer very intently. “Which pants?”
“I guess these.” She held out some black dress pants. “They’re not tight, like my jeans or leggings, which are too hard to get on. But I can’t get them zipped and stuff.”
He reached for them, and when their eyes met his held a familiar expression that darkened his eyes and made her face feel warm.
Lord, this was embarrassing—and at the same time it was absurdly arousing. Apparently her libido hadn’t caught up with the fact that they were completely wrong for each other, and divorced, and that she had zero interest in a relationship with anyone until she’dgot herself together first.
“Put your hand on my shoulder,” he said as he leaned down. “Then lift your leg.”
She’d almost forgotten the wide bones and muscular strength of his shoulders, and forced herself to hang on and focus on her balance instead of how his body felt beneath her hand. She slipped one leg, then the other, into the pants, but had to keep holding on to him to keep from toppling over.
He pulled them up to her hips, the backs of his fingers touching her skin. Their warmth slid around to her belly button and down to the zipper, then pressed into her flesh a little as he worked the button. Absurdly, she had to bite her lip to keep an unexpected sigh of pleasure from escaping. If the feel of just his fingertips on her stomach was enough to make her want to grab him and throw him to the bed, she was in serious trouble.
“Okay.” He pulled her shirt down over the pants and their eyes met again, his dark with the same desire she felt pumping through her blood. “Not your usual combination. Dress pants with a big sweatshirt. Want me to help you with a blouse? I figure the sweatshirt was all you could handle on your own?”
“No,” she managed. “I can’t get a bra on, so I’m... I’m naked under it.”
A soft groan left his lips and the hands that were still on her pants button moved to tighten on her waist. “Did you tell me that just to torture me?”
“No. Of course not.”
Had she? Or had it been because being this close to him, with his hands on her clothes and her body, made her think about what it would feel like for him to strip off the stupid sweatshirt and lick her bare breasts?
“Okay,” he said again, lifting his hands to run them through his hair before turning toward the bathroom. “I have no idea how to blow-dry your hair, but I’ll try.”
“Can’t do any worse than I did with one hand.”
She followed him, seriously pondering just letting it air-dry—except she didn’t want to show up at her appointment looking like she was wearing a fright wig. Lord, this was awkward—especially because being so close to him made her feel stupidly quivery.
“Sit here,” he said, pulling out the plush seat beneath the vanity. “Where’s your dryer?”
“In the bottom drawer.”
Trying to feel as if she was just sitting at a salon, she ran the brush through her hair again, then handed it to him. “Put it on the high setting, then brush while you point it at my hair.”
He did as she asked and she watched in the mirror as he frowned down at her, his focus on the job so intense that the tight feeling loosened and she had to chuckle.
“You look like you’re about to do surgery. Something like brain surgery that you’ve never done before.”
“Because I haven’t ever done this before. And I think it’s clear I have no clue how, since I wash mine, comb and go. I mean, what exactly am I supposed to be doing with the brush?”
“Just sort of smoothing it as you dry. Didn’t you ever watch me when we...? Never mind.” Bringing up more memories of when they’d lived together was not a good idea. “So, brush the part you’re aiming the dryer at. Just drying it, as I learned when I simply pointed it at my hair and left it flying around, makes it look like an eggbeater has been at it.”
“Okay. No eggbeater look. I’ll try—but, just so you know, I’m not promising how it’ll turn out with me at the helm.”
“Hey, I have an idea!” She turned to look at him, wondering why she hadn’t thought of it before. “How about I use my good hand to brush, while you aim the dryer?”
Their eyes met and held, until he broke the connection by looking down again. “Good idea. Probably would work better than me brushing. Take this.”
His voice sounded a little strained. Their fingers touched as she took the brush, and the buzz in the air between them practically crackled. She tried to focus on her reflection in the mirror, to see exactly where he was aiming the dryer and how her hair was turning out, but her attention kept being captured by him.
His shoulders were broad in the dress shirt and tie he always wore to see patients or for business meetings when he wasn’t in his scrubs. His profile looked more as if it should belong to a male model than a surgeon. His strong jaw and sexy lips...
“I thought you were going to brush your hair while I dry—is your arm tired?”
‘Um...no.” She flushed. The distraction of his physical beauty had her completely forgetting to brush. “I just...you know...”
“Yeah. I know.”
The blue eyes meeting hers were deeply serious, and at the same time the heat between them shimmered. Her breath caught as she felt his hand slide the brush from hers, then slowly sweep it through her hair. He turned off the dryer and placed it on the counter. His fingers dipped into the strands he’d just brushed before he leaned down to press his lips to the bump on her forehead.
Her eyes slid closed as he moved to press his cheek against her temple and over her cheekbone, in a warm slide that sent her breathing out of whack and her heart beating harder.
“I’m so sorry you’re going through this. I wish there was something I could do to take away your pain. To make things better.”
“I—”
“Woof!”
“Yip! Yap!”
Hudson careened into the bathroom, with Yorkie hot on his tail, sliding a few inches across the tile floor to bump into the vanity seat, jarring them apart.
“Hudson! Yorkie!” Conor said, his voice a little rough. “Sit.”
Trying to focus her attention somewhere other than on him, she turned to pick up the forgotten hairbrush and gave her hair a few strokes. A glance in the mirror showed that her hair was surprisingly presentable. It also showed that Conor stood behind her now, his eyes somber as they met hers.
“No wonder you got knocked down on the street. I thought they’d be roughhousing less now that they’re not puppies anymore.”
“They’re still fairly young,” she managed to say.
“I’m going to grab a cup of coffee before I take them out for a walk. You want one?” He sounded for all the world as though the aching connection between them a moment ago had never happened. “I’ll help you get your shoes on, and whatever else you need, then we’ll go.”
“Sounds good.”
She watch
ed him leave the room and turned back to look at herself in the mirror. Blinked to rid her expression of the melancholy she saw reflected there. Somehow, for the next couple of days, she needed to look and sound like Conor just had. Show him she could think of him as a friend and nothing more.
* * *
Whenever Conor showed post-op X-rays to patients, then talked with them about the results and their treatment plan as they met with the therapists, it usually took his full attention. Today, though, Jillian being in the same room was a constant distraction—and never mind that the occupational therapy space was massive, taking up nearly half the entire floor of the tall building where HOAC had its headquarters.
The building where, with any luck, a new urgent care facility would soon exist, with him as part-owner. It would be good for patients to be able to go directly from diagnosis to meeting with surgeons, then to the OR, then back here for post-op care. And it would be good for his financial future as well. A win-win all around.
Which reminded him—he hadn’t heard back from Urgent Care Manhattan’s CEO, Peter Stanford, and needed to call him to get their meeting set up again. The longer the delay in getting the deal closed, the better the chance that another surgical center would woo the group to partner with them instead.
But even as he was thinking about what he needed to do to expedite the process Jill caught his attention again. Jokingly complaining and grimacing as she used the therapy equipment to try to improve her hand mobility. Then chatting and laughing with the OTs during each brief break. The bright overhead lights brought out the golden highlights in her beautiful hair, and even when the smile he loved was directed at someone else it sneaked into his heart anyway.
Despite the uncomfortable feelings rolling around in his chest he had to chuckle, noting that her hair looked fairly smooth. They’d definitely somehow avoided the eggbeater look she didn’t want, but how that was possible he had no clue. They hadn’t even managed to fully dry her hair before he’d found himself kissing her bruise and loving the feel of his cheek against hers. If the dogs hadn’t run in right then he wasn’t at all sure he wouldn’t have forgotten everything and moved on to kiss her mouth—which he’d promised her he wouldn’t do again.
He drew in a deep breath and strode to the computer to look up some charts, needing to get his mind off the intense desire he still felt for her. They’d both regret being intimate if they gave in to the sexual heat that kept shimmering between them, which probably surprised her as much as it surprised him.
With all the anger and disappointment that had led to their divorce, he’d figured all those feelings would have been snuffed out. But being with her, close together in his place, had proved that wasn’t the case at all. Somehow, though, he had to make sure he kept his hands and mouth to himself.
He went to his office and pulled out his cell. “Peter? Conor McCarthy. I’m sorry I couldn’t make our meeting, but I had a family emergency to deal with.” Not exactly family, but he sure didn’t want to go into that with Peter Stanford. “When would be a good time for us to reschedule?”
“Unfortunately I have a busy week. I’ll take a look at my calendar and get back to you.”
“Thanks. I’d like to get the details worked out as soon as possible, so please let me know what would work for you.”
Conor’s gut tightened as he hung up. Not good that Peter had sounded so vague. With another surgery center wooing Urgent Care Manhattan to become partners, he had to make sure his proposal was laid out to them pronto. And if it ended up not being the first one they saw, he’d just have to make sure it was the best one.
He blew out a breath and was glad it was time to see patients. Some as follow-up, and others who were there to see him with new injuries, discussing their options for future surgery and what to expect.
After a couple hours he decided he should check on Jill and suggest she head back to his apartment to rest. He scanned the therapy room, frowning when he didn’t see her anywhere. Michelle Branson was working at her computer, not with a patient at the moment, and he moved to ask her if she knew where Jill had gone. Then his gaze caught the shimmering waterfall of silky hair that covered half of Jill’s face, turned in profile.
Instead of sitting and relaxing, or talking with the people she used to work with, or trying to do the exercises, she was in the laundry room, standing at a table to fold the towels they used under patient’s arms and elbows during therapy. Then she gathered a heating pad to take it to a patient who had just arrived, smiling and talking with them as she folded it over his arm in preparation for therapy.
He shook his head. She’d said she wanted to get back to work as soon as she could, but wouldn’t taking a few more days off to rest be a good idea? She’d had her own therapy session, and he knew she had to be in pain after it.
Nonchalantly pretending to look at his tablet, he watched her work with the patient. The stressed look on her face was obvious, even as she smiled. When she moved back to the laundry room he followed her there.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“No. Why do you ask?”
“I thought you looked stressed.”
“I am stressed. Worried that this—” she held up her arm “—is going to take forever to be normal again.”
“It is going to take a while—which you know. So why are you working? You know you need to be resting, instead of messing around distributing towels and heating pads.”
“I’m only using one hand and resting my other one.”
“Why won’t you take just a few days off?”
“Now, isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?” She rolled her eyes. “The surgeon who works fourteen-plus hours a day is annoyed that I’m bored and want to do something productive.”
“I don’t always work fourteen hours a day, and I’m not injured. You are.”
Even though his chest felt tight with concern for her, he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of pride that this amazing woman, the woman he’d thought he’d love forever, was such a tough dynamo, with zero interest in lying on a couch and watching movies for the next however many weeks as she healed.
“What’s wrong with putting your feet up and letting people take care of you?”
“I’m hardly doing a thing. Mostly because I can’t. Punching you in the nose isn’t even an option.” With a teasing smile, she waved her splinted hand toward his chin. “You can’t imagine how frustrating it is only being able to manage a little of the work I usually do. To feel dependent on other people for things I’d never dreamed I’d need help with. As you are unfortunately aware.”
Her voice held a joking tone, but he could see deep inside her beautiful eyes that glum and forlorn were good words to describe how she felt. And, yeah, despite working with patients for a long time now, it was true that he didn’t really know exactly what it was like to be temporarily or, in the case of some unfortunate patients, permanently crippled.
“Hey...” He reached to gently draw her into a corner, standing close enough that they could talk quietly. The frustration he’d felt with her just moments ago melted into sympathy and warmth, even as he tried to shore up the protective shell around his heart. “It’s going to be okay. You’ll get where you were before—I’m sure of it. It’s just going to take time, patience and effort. Like you always tell your own patients.”
“I know. But I’m not going to be able to run. I’m meant to be in training for a marathon, and I really thought I’d be able to beat my best time. I’m not going to be able to run at all for a couple months—which I hate.”
“You’re training for a marathon?”
“I started running marathons just after we broke up. It was cathartic. Now I’m addicted.”
“Wow. Good for you.”
He could just picture her training, driven despite the small handicap of her leg, working to achieve her best time. Her hair flying as she
ran. He almost told her he’d like to watch her run, but stopped himself. After she was on her own again having any contact outside work wasn’t a good idea.
“I’m sorry it’s so frustrating that you can’t run and train right now.”
“I can’t even tie my sneakers. Can’t get dressed... I—”
The tones of a muffled “William Tell Overture” chimed in his ear and he knew it had to be her cell phone—because who else had that as their ring tone?
“That’s you. Where’s your phone?”
“In my purse.”
She took a few steps to grab it off the counter and began fumbling to unzip it one-handed. Seconds stretched on, and he finally reached for her bag.
“I’ll get it.”
Digging inside her purse, touching her lipstick and her wallet and other things, felt strangely intimate, bringing memories he hadn’t even realized were there. When he finally pulled her phone out from under a small notebook he was glad to be able to hand her purse back, so the smell of her perfume stopped wafting to his nose.
Despite telling himself not to, he glanced at the screen to see if it was some guy she might be dating, but it was just a number with no name. Of course if there was a guy, wouldn’t he be around to help her? If she had a guy who wasn’t here for her when she needed him he deserved to be dumped to the curb and never thought about again.
Though he’d been that guy, hadn’t he? And she’d left.
“Here.”
He passed the phone to her. Maybe it was a friend who was ready and available to help her out—he should be hoping that was the case. That would be good. Really good for both of them. Except his heart didn’t seem to be wishing for that at all.
