Dr. Dangerous. Kristi Gold
Once in the kitchen Brooke found more mess to garner her attention. More discarded food containers, more newspapers, more chaos.
He pointed to the small dinette. “Will this work?”
She couldn’t see anything at all because of the debris. “Is there a table under there?”
“Yeah. Somewhere.”
He looked up at her, and she noted a bit of self-consciousness in his expression. With one arm braced on his crutch, he began to sweep the mess away with his free forearm, onto chairs, the floor, wherever it happened to land. If only Brooke’s mother could witness this act. She’d faint.
“Look,” Brooke said. “Find a chair, have a seat, and let me pick up some of this.”
He pinned her with an irritated glare. “I didn’t hire you to be my maid.”
“And I didn’t sign on to be one. But if we’re going to make any progress, I need some room. It’ll only take a minute if you’ll point me to the trash bags.”
He indicated a cabinet underneath the sink. “Right there. If you insist.”
“I insist.” Setting her tote bag on the hardwood floor, she made her way to the cabinet and opened the door to find an overflowing trashcan. “You’ve obviously given your housekeeper the year off.”
“She’s at my house in town.”
She regarded him over one shoulder. “You have a house in town? Then why aren’t you living there?”
“I like it here. More secluded.”
“You can say that again,” Brooke muttered as she bent over to tug a black bag from the cardboard dispenser. She turned to face him and shook the bag out, surprised to find an indescribable darkness in his normally light eyes. “Maybe you could get your housekeeper out here for some spring cleaning.”
“It’s fall, and I don’t want her here.” His tone was harsh, and Brooke got the feeling he didn’t want her there, either. Back to square one.
His resistance only fueled her tenacity. Made her want to try a little harder to gain his respect, or at least his cooperation. “Well, I’m no domestic goddess, but I can handle the trash.” Her mother fit the prima housekeeper role perfectly, and there was only room for one of those in the family. Neither she nor her sister, Michelle, had ever embraced domestic bliss. Right now she had little choice in the matter.
Brooke stared at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink and wondered how long they’d been there. A long time from the looks of the caked-on food, at least since the accident. Turning back to the table, she began slipping cartons of every shape and size, paper cups, a few discarded newspapers and myriad pizza boxes, into the bag.
After that was done, and she could actually see the scuffed wooden table, she gathered up her bag, took out her pen and forms to note his progress and sat facing him. “Have you started doing your home therapy as prescribed?”
“Some.”
She looked up from her charting. “Explain ‘some.’”
He struggled to remove the splint, avoiding her gaze. “Once since last week.”
She jotted the note and tamped down her frustration. “You might want to try at least once a day. Twice or three times would be better.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have the energy. By the time I get up in the morning, try to clean up, then get dressed, I’ve wasted half the damned day, and all I want to do is take a nap.”
Little did he know, Brooke could relate to that. If she had a particularly rough asthma attack, her weakness sometimes slowed her to a snail’s pace.
“Okay. Now let’s get down to business.” She looked toward the mound cluttering the sink. How could she run water if she couldn’t find the faucet? How could she heat water if she couldn’t find a clean pot to boil the packs? Heaven help her, she would have to wash dishes, or at least try to clear some of them away. Her mother would be so proud.
Without speaking, Brooke rose and began stacking some glasses to one side of the sink until she had a makeshift fortress teetering on the edge of catastrophe. Finally she made enough room to draw some water. Now, to find some kind of soap.
Bending down, she retrieved a half-full bottle of dishwashing liquid from the cabinet underneath and squirted a few drops into the sink. She washed the pot with the least dried on food, filled it with water, dropped the pack in, then set it on the gas stove to heat.
While waiting for the water to boil, she went back to the sink and the Mt. Everest mess. After remarkably finding a clean towel and rag in the drawer, she dove into the task of dishwashing, her back to him while he waited at the table.
The silence was almost as stifling as the unpleasant odor wafting from the dirty dishes. She struggled for something to say to break the awkwardness. “Looks like you’ve gotten to know every pizza deliveryman in the county. Pepperoni or the works?” She smiled over one shoulder and found him staring at her, his blue eyes sharp and intense.
“Neither. Just the plain stuff for me.”
“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
“Why?”
“It’s that whole doctor persona. I’ve always believed that most medical men have a predilection for the exotic. You know, fast cars. Faster women.”
“That’s the problem with stereotypes. People get too bogged down in them.”
She rimmed one glass with the cloth, over and over, until it squeaked. “So that’s not the case with you?”
“Depends. Which one are you referring to? Cars, pizza or women?”
Boy, oh, boy, did she want to know about the latter. Why, she couldn’t say. But she did. “All of the above.”
“I like my old truck, which on a warm day can actually top fifty-five if I get a running start. I like my pizza with double cheese and sometimes sausage. And what was that last one?” he asked, amusement in his tone.
“Women.”
A chuckle rumbled low in his chest, lifting Brooke’s spirits a notch. “I like to know that they don’t have to have a running start to reach the speed limit, and covered in cheese is just fine by me.”
My goodness. The doctor had a sense of humor. And she had a bad case of pleasant chills. “Well, those are certainly impeccable standards.”
“What about you? What are your requirements in a man?”
“A man?” She sounded as though she didn’t know the meaning of the word.
“Yeah. What’s your boyfriend like?”
She released a sharp humorless laugh. “Nonexistent.”
“I’m surprised. Seems to me a woman as attractive as you would have a significant other.”
The glass she’d been washing for a ridiculous amount of time slipped from her grasp and fell back into the sink, sending a fountain of water onto the front of her lab coat. She ignored the dampness but couldn’t seem to ignore his compliment or her pulse’s pitter-patter rhythm. Yet she had to if she wanted to keep her head on straight. “Nope, no significant other. I don’t really have the inclination at this point in my career.” Or the strength of will to investigate that possibility. Not after her one terrible experience with a man who’d used her, then discarded as easily as she’d just discarded the trash in Jared Granger’s kitchen.
“Your career is the most important thing to you.” He posed it as a straightforward statement of fact, not a question.
“Yes, you could say that. One day I plan to start my own clinic.”
The chair creaked behind her, indicating he shifted in his seat.