Chapter Two
In the end he decided he didn’t need my services and ripped up his temporary patient form before he dropped the bits into my waste paper bin like confetti.
Okay then.
What next?
I must admit that I was torn two ways. If he’d got, oh I don’t know, a boil on his bum, say, then yes, I’d get to see if he was a true Scotsman even if he didn’t have a kilt on. And like it or not, he intrigued me. In more than just a wham, bam, thank you, ma’am … or man way. I couldn’t remember the last time I got warm and fuzzy “this is more than sex” thoughts about anyone, but I had them now. I wanted to know him, in every which way. Even down to his type of toothpaste and whether he ate his peas, wore his socks inside out, and helped old ladies cross the road.
But bummer—oh God, I’ve got bums on the brain—I would be treating him, not shagging him, so that would be uncomfortable. Because I’ve got to admit, he turned me on like no one had since Ethan McSporran when I was thirteen. And then I was too young to know what I felt, and the lust was unrequited anyway. We’d kissed at the school dance, and he was all rubber lips and icky. Not one of my most pleasant memories. It’s a wonder it didn’t put me off men and/or kissing for ever.
Luckily it didn’t.
I wondered what Alistair McCrea would kiss like? I’d really have to hunt out some old episodes of whatever it was Sandy said he was in.
“Ah, earth to Doc? You okay? You’re staring at me as if I’m about to drop down dead any second. And if I am, I’ll need to tell the crew they can have a day off, and make sure the boss man knows so he can reschedule and stuff.”
“What?” Oh hell, I’d been away with my dreams in front of him. “Ah, no sorry,” I improvised in a hurry. After all I couldn’t admit I’d be fantasizing about him naked, now could I? “I was wondering if you needed me to recommend another doctor? Unfortunately, there’s only me here today, but we can make an appointment with someone else if you want another day?”
He stood up and towered over me. Sadly, the way he stood and I sat put his crotch at my eye level.
God, it was mouthwatering. Even through dark denim I could see a long outline. I averted my eyes—good grief how clichéd—and coughed. “Well?”
“Not as well as I would be if we could do something about what you’re studiously ignoring. Sadly, I can’t get in tomorrow. We’re filming all day.”
He assumed I knew who he was and what he meant then? I nodded. “Then?”
He chuckled. “I only wanted some cough stuff. I’ll go to the chemist.”
“Ah then that’s twelve miles away. We’re a dispensing practice, but you need to be a patient. But the local shop will do the run of the mill stuff.” Why come to a GP just for cough syrup?
“No worries, I’ll send someone. And book an appointment for anything else I need a diagnosis on when I can.”
“Best way,” I said in a no-nonsense voice. I hoped. “Now will you excuse me? I have visits to make and then back for afternoon surgery. Somewhere in all that I want to find time for a cup of coffee and a gluten-free bun.” I stood up and held out my hand.
He stared at it for what seemed like ages and then raised one eyebrow in a sexy way.
Shit, did I really think a raised eyebrow sexy?
Woman, you have it bad.
“We aren’t patient and doctor, are we?” he asked in a somewhat serious voice.
I shook my head. What was he getting at? “No, I gave you the info about the chemist as one acquaintance to another.”
“That’s okay then. I can change acquaintance to something else.”
He tugged my hand, and taken unawares I fell forward and my boobs hit his chest with a thump.
Nipples are traitors. Mine hardened and poked into him as if they wanted to bore through to his ribs and beyond. Well, I couldn’t blame them, but this was my surgery for goodness’ sake, and even if he wasn’t a patient, it had to be unethical as … I saw stars.
He’d snuck one arm around me and pulled me so close his cock was doing the same sort of thing as my nipples. Then, he put his mouth to mine, and I was damned sure my panties were damp.
Don’t ask me how long it was before I drew breath, resurfaced, or realized my phone was making noises. I was surrounded both in mind and body by hot, aroused male, and it was fantastic.
“Honey, Doc, your arse is making strange noises, if that doesn’t sound rude.” Alistair had drawn back, and to my mortification, I swayed toward him again. Hells bells, I hope I wasn’t puckered up. That would be too much.
“My?” Surely not? Then I remembered I’d put the office phone on to divert, and my mobile in my pocket ready to head out before Sandie had interrupted my departure. “Oh shit, I bet I’m late for my next place.” I fished the offending item out of my pocket and squinted at the screen. I really must get my eyes tested. It was getting ever harder to see small print. My reading glasses were either not strong enough or too strong, and anyway the lenses were so scratched it was like viewing the world through frosted glass. Handy if I went into the gents’ by mistake (and let’s face it if I had them on, it was as likely as not) but not a lot of good elsewhere.
I managed to make out a text saying time to move.
“Right, I’d better go.” I grabbed my bag, put my shoes back on—when had I kicked those off—and did one of those half polite smiles when you’re not sure what else to do.
He grinned. Really no man should be allowed to get away with an expression like that without appearing stupid. Alistair McCrea just looked sexy.
“Not before I ask you out.”
“What?” I had to stop saying that like a twit. No one would know I had degrees and stuff or a reasonable vocabulary. “Why?”
“Because I want to get into your knickers?” He paused for what I guessed was effect and then winked. “But not tonight. Tonight I’d like to take you out for dinner, and what else I have in mind doesn’t work well on a full stomach.”
Oh shiverooney. Hot sex? Swinging from the chandelier? Sadly no chandeliers around. What else? Now my mind was in overdrive. “Look, I’m not interested in a quick sh—how’s your father. Thanks, but no thanks. I have to remember who I am.” I did my doctor knows best face. He ignored it.
Thank you. Dare I say, but anything else I’m happy to negotiate over? Maybe I’d better not.
“Who you are? Oh, you mean the one I fancy? And who says it’d be quick? I want a full night, and not have to do anything other than replay all the bits we enjoyed the day after. Which is why dinner will have to be early. I’m getting a call at 4.30. That’s AM not PM.”
Good lord, poor bloke. “That’s as bad as a doctor being on call.” I made my mind up. After all what had I got to lose? Not my virginity, that was long gone, and anyway he’d said sex wasn’t on the agenda and I believed him. And I fancied him and wanted to get to know him better. Damn it. From what little I knew of him on such a brief acquaintance, I reckoned he was a man of his word. After all, if he wasn’t I’d bet my last quid Sandie would have blabbed that when she told me who he was. That woman is a walking fount of knowledge over stuff like that.
“Yes, all right. Now, I must go. Where and when?”
He frowned. “I was going to ask you for a recommendation. Eat around six, if that’s okay?”
I couldn’t think of anywhere we wouldn’t be surrounded by tourists or kids at that time, most of whom, I guessed, would recognize him. I scribbled my address on a scrap of paper.
“I’ll cook, but I will do the ‘tell a friend I have company and check in’.” I made a mental note of what was in the fridge freezer or cupboard. “Steak or spag bol do?”
“Either-or. Home cooked food sounds perfect. Can I bring anything?”
I bit back “condoms” before I said it. “Nope, I’ll be fine. See you then.”
It was lucky afternoon surgery was an early one, and I’d have time to tidy up and hide the washing I’d left draped around the Aga. I swear that stove was so much more than something to cook with. Clothes drier, de-creaser if you folded stuff and put it over the hotplate covers, and even bum warmer when you—gingerly—sat on it. I’d be lost without it.
Which had nothing to do with me getting my ass in gear and getting the rest of the day’s work done.
****
Typical, I was rushing around like a blue-arsed fly for the rest of the afternoon, what with a couple of emergency appointments, one of which was important, and the other a waste of time, and by the time I shut the door behind me I was red-faced and breathless. To say nothing of desperate for the loo, parched, hungry as lunch had been a no go; and running out of time.
I dealt with things in what I considered was the order of priority. Loo, a glass of water—if I started on the wine now I’d be blotto before long as my tummy was rumbling—and shoving the washing, now dry, into the hall cupboard. Normally I would just throw it on the chair in my bedroom. However, in case my guest let his good intentions go out of the window, along with my inhibitions about my wobbly tum, big boobs, and more than an hourglass—probably a day glass—shape, I decided a tidy bedroom was a must.
Well, tidyish. I’m no domestic goddess, nor do I want to be. After all the dust bunnies get upset when you disturb them, and when they return they bring all their friends as well. Better to let sleeping dust bunnies lie.
After I’d had a quick shower, I went to my wardrobe and shuffled through the contents. After student loans there hadn’t been a lot of money to play with, so my selection of clothes was limited and what I preferred. As in old jeans or long, floaty skirts. At only five feet two, my choices often made me look dumpy, but I didn’t care. Comfort all the way was my motto. So apart from work clothes everything wasn’t exactly high fashion. Or even low fashion. It hadn’t bothered me, but for the first time in ages I really wanted to make a good impression. How I accepted my feelings were more than just lust and a need for sex, I couldn’t tell you. I just knew they were. But then maybe…
Sod it. He could take me as I was. After all, I had feelings for him as he was, didn’t I?
Oh did I. I stared in the mirror and burst out giggling. Maybe not, because “as I was”, was a sexy low cut black bra I’d almost had to take out a second mortgage to buy, (big boobs equal costly underwear) and a lacy black thong. Okay, sexy underwear was my secret vice. Very secret because there hadn’t been anyone I’d chosen to see it for ages. Yet another side effect of my profession. Not because I shouldn’t have a lover or whatever, just because I didn’t have the time or the energy to A, find one, B, get into the mood, and C, shave my legs… Oh shit.
Sod it, he said nothing was going to happen, so hairy legs it is. And if I wore a long skirt, then they wouldn’t even be seen.
Sorted.
I grabbed the first skirt I touched and pulled it on. Elastic waists were so useful. Then rummaged in a drawer for a top that didn’t clash with it or my red—as in carrots not russet—hair and tugged it over my head. I guess I should wear tidy shoes, but my rule in the house was flip-flops in warm weather and Birkies—sadly with socks—or Uggs when it was cold. I’m a bit of a scrooge when it comes to central heating. As my kitchen has a sitting area, I tend to spend the colder months in there, and only use what my Grannie would call the best room and I called the other room at weekends or in the summer. And weekdays, by the time I got in it wasn’t worth lighting a fire to bump up the heat in there.
Tonight, as I dashed around like a dervish I didn’t give lighting a fire a second thought. It was the kitchen or nothing. Well, unless the bedroom was needed. I never stinted the heating in there or my bathroom. Some things a woman just had to have. Warm extremities were one of them. I was well past sitting on the loo and counting the goosebumps on my legs.
I stopped dead in the corridor and went back into the bedroom to slam the wardrobe door. Unless I did that it had a habit of swinging open, and I’d be mortified if it followed true to form just as we were about to get down and dirty. By dirty I didn’t mean the contents of my dirty laundry bag and a pile of rags for the charity shop when I eventually found the time to take them.
2037 at this rate.
The hall clock—a relic from my parents when they downsized—struck its quarter to the hour unmelodic clang. It had never sounded the same since my younger brother, then aged eleven, tried to make it chime every minute. He didn’t succeed, and it retaliated by sounding like a wheezing asthmatic.
I needed to do an awful lot in not much time. First get the bolognaise sauce out of the freezer and defrost it and then see what I could sort out for a pudding.
Me?
Gah, I had sex on the brain. That’s what not enough did to you. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had that sort of a sweaty workout. Well, yes, I could, and it had been a disaster. A friend to a “friend with benefits” has its pitfalls, believe me. The bloke in question and I couldn’t look each other in the face—or anywhere—for weeks. It took us a long time to get back to the easygoing friendship we’d enjoyed.
Therefore, it’s no wonder I’m wary about things these days. I know enough about STDs and so on—well, I’d be a bad doctor if I didn’t—to remember condoms and safe sex and … bugger. I never did check I had condoms.
Spag bol first. I rummaged in the freezer, and for the umpteenth time promised myself I really would sort out all those unmarked freezer bags with unrecognizable contents. The trouble is I’m a bit of a scrooge when it comes to leftovers as well as the central heating. Oh, I don’t leave stuff to fester in the fridge like my brother. His fridge is a food poisoning paradise. But I freeze leftovers, with the idea I’ll eat them as snacks at some point.
The trouble is half the time I don’t write what’s on the bags and then end up with three defrosted part portions of foods that don’t go together. The most memorable was rice pudding, cauliflower soup (which I thought was homemade ice cream), and mashed potatoes.
However, I was reasonably sure where I’d put the bolognaise, and even better that I’d marked it.
For once I was right. I shoved it into a microwaveable bowl and set it to defrost.
What next?
Condoms. It struck me that he’d specifically said no sex. But it could just be a ploy, right? You know to put me at ease and make me relax. I hoped.
Because if it was it had done the exact opposite.
I shot into the bathroom and rummaged in the cabinet. Phew. A three pack and still in date. I transferred them to my bedside cabinet.
Now what?
What was decided for me, as a throaty roar came from the lane outside my front gate. I looked out of the window.
Oh … my … God.
Not only sexy as hell, but on a Harley and in black leathers. Who doesn’t go weak at the knees at the sight of a hot male body encased in leather? All my ideas of a perfect Dom and said knees on the floor with me having assumed the position shouted at me. I wish. I hadn’t a clue what his preferences were. For all I knew he could be vanilla as plain ice cream.
He stopped the engine. I assumed it was Alistair with that throbbing beast between his legs.
Oh for heaven’s sake. Now I sounded like one of those steamy romances I used to sneak out of my mum’s book pile when she was at work, read them, and put them back and hope she didn’t realize. The ones with “throbbing members” and quivering lips, oh, and independently acting body parts. His hands wandered, all on their own, and help. Enough already.
He put his leg over. Oh God, leg over. Stop it now.
I took a deep breath and opened the door, just as he pulled off his helmet and…
“Where’s your plait?” I burst out. His hair was now short with a sexy strand or two of grey showing in amongst the darkness.
Enough to make any woman—or man for that matter—do the “play your cards right and you can have me” stuff.
I’m no bloody exception.
Shut your mouth, woman, or you’ll catch flies.
Flies. Not that sort of flies. The flying kind, not the zipping kind.
“Hi.”
“Hi back.” Oh, how eloquent, Sandy. “Er, come on in. I’ve just realized I’ve only got gluten-free pasta. Do you mind?” Such scintillating conversation. My knees were knocking. A strange flutter in my heart was getting stronger. Hell, I’d not had a reaction like this to anyone since whenever.
“That’s fine. Hey, anything’s fine that’s not set food or my cooking. I wanted to bring flowers or something, but I’ve been at the hairdressers as you see.”
He ruffled his hair, which no doubt had been carefully styled.
“No worries, but why the not really but almost short back and sides?”
“I had to have it cut for the next episode. It’s fine. It’s a hell of a lot easier to cope with.”
I led him into the kitchen. “I’m guessing no wine for you?”
“Yeah, I’m on set at silly o’clock, so it’ll be Adam’s ale.”
“That’s easy enough.” I grabbed a bottle of sparkling and one of still from the fridge. “Take your pick and take off your … well, whatever you want to take off.”
He grinned.
“What I want to take off and what I will are two different things.”