Second Chance With The Surgeon. Robin Gianna
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He stood and shoved his hands into his pockets so he wouldn’t reach out and tuck those wisps of hair behind her ears, as he would have before. “You feel like eating something now? I can get some soup from the deli? Or does something else sound good?”
“Something light, like soup and crackers, sounds perfect.”
“You got it.”
It would be good to have something to do besides talk with her and look at her. From the first moment he’d seen her in the occupational therapy room two years ago, he felt like he’d been smacked in the head by some unexplainable force. She’d stood up from the table, her athletic runner’s body in a slim-fitting dress, and her laughter at something her patient had said slipped into his chest. When her beautiful gray-green eyes had lifted to meet his he could have sworn his heart completely stopped.
Looking down at her now, he felt waves of tenderness mingle with memories of that day. He wished that he could take away the pain he knew she’d be in as soon as the brachial plexus block wore off. Felt the desire to pull her close, to take care of her, to make all that pain go away.
“I’ll be right back.”
He made himself turn away before he reached for her, and then left for the deli. He chose two kinds of the soup he knew she liked, and a bagful of crackers. When he came back and opened the door to her apartment he stopped abruptly when he saw she wasn’t on the sofa, and neither one of the dogs were in sight, either.
No way would she have decided to venture out while still half drugged up. Would she?
A panicked sensation rose in his chest and he strode to the galley kitchen, shoved the food onto the counter, then moved to her bedroom. “Jill? Jilly?”
One of the dogs whined before she answered. “In here. The bathroom. I... Go ahead and come in.”
He pushed open the door. Was stunned to see both dogs and Jillian sitting on the floor of the tiny room. Her sweatpants were twisted around her thighs and her good hand was held to her forehead.
He dropped to his knees. “What the hell happened? Did you hurt yourself?”
“Kind of. I’m so stupid. I had to go to the bathroom, and while I was sitting here I dropped the new roll of toilet paper. I leaned over to get it. Forgot all about my arm. It flung forward and dragged me off the toilet. I landed right on my cast and hit my head on the wall. Kind of funny, really.”
She sent him an adorable crooked smile and his heart squeezed even tighter. He grasped her wrist to lift her palm from her forehead. “Let me see.”
“Just a bump. Not a big deal.”
“Maybe not compared to your broken wrist, but it still hurts, I bet.” He wanted to lean down and kiss the offending red lump, and drew in a deep breath to quell the urge. “Let’s get some ice on it.”
He wrapped his arm around her back to help her up, and realized she was having trouble standing.
“You hurt your leg, too?”
“No. I just... I couldn’t get my stupid pants pulled up using only one hand while sitting on the floor.”
He lifted her to her feet. “Hang on to the sink while I finish pulling them up so you can walk.”
“This is ridiculously embarrassing,” she said, her face now stained pink and no longer smiling. “My ex-husband having to pull up my pants.”
“Just think of me as your doctor. Not a big deal.”
Logically, it shouldn’t be. But the truth...? The sight of the smooth skin of her thighs, of her round rear peeking out from beneath her panties and all the memories it conjured, made him want to tug those pants down, not up, and touch her and kiss her until neither of them could breathe.
He gritted his teeth and pulled up the sweatpants as fast as possible, before lifting her into his arms to move them toward the sofa. The scent of her wafted to his nose and he breathed her in. Who’d have thought the woman could smell so good after being in surgery and then Recovery half the day? But it wasn’t perfume, it was simply her, and he remembered it so well it seemed they’d been holding one another just yesterday.
Damn it.
“I can walk,” she protested.
“Yes, but this is easier and faster, and there’s no risk of additional injury.” He sat her on the sofa again. “I’ll get some ice for your head, then you can have some soup.”
“I don’t need ice. It’s just a little lump.”
“Trust the doctor. You need to ice it.”
“I see Dr. Bossy is alive and well.”
Her pretty lips tipped into a smile as she rolled her eyes and the tightness in his chest loosened. He had to grin, remembering all the times she’d given him that look.
“I consider the nickname Dr. Bossy to be a compliment. Where are your plastic bags?”
“In the second drawer, next to the refrigerator.”
Once a bag was filled with ice and wrapped in a towel he sat close beside her. Slipped strands of hair away from the bruise before he placed the bag on it. Their eyes met and he nearly forgot to place the bag on her injury, wanting so much to kiss her instead.
“That’s cold!”
Thank God for that distraction.
“Ice generally is cold. It’ll help with the swelling and make it feel better.”
“Yeah, well, right now my forehead hurts way more from the ice than the bruise.”
“Once your skin is numb it won’t hurt anymore.”
“Says the surgeon who lies to his patients about pain every day.”
“Lies to my patients? I never lie. I may downplay what they’re going to experience so they don’t freak out, but I never lie.”
“You forget I’ve heard you talk to patients when they’re in occupational therapy.” Her voice went into a bass tone. “Well, sir, your bones are healing nicely and the ligaments are stretching out well. In no time your fingers are going to be playing the piano again. You don’t play piano? Well, because of my magical surgical skills now you will.”
He had to laugh at her words and her cutely ridiculous expression. “I don’t believe I’ve ever said that to a patient.”
“No? I do sometimes. It’s an occupational therapy joke that most people enjoy.”
“And that’s one of the many reasons why your patients think you’re wonderful.”
He knew they did. Her numerous thank-you notes and high patient satisfaction scores proved that. He’d always thought she was pretty wonderful, too, even though she hadn’t believed it.
“Feeling any less painful?”
“Um...yes, actually.”
He watched her lids slide closed and held himself very still so he wouldn’t stroke her soft cheek or lean in to kiss her, which he suddenly wanted to do more than he wanted to breathe.
“Thank you. I’ll take over holding it now.” Her hand covered his on the ice before he slid his away.
“I’ll warm your soup. Which do you want—chicken noodle or tomato basil?”
“I love both—as you know.” She opened her eyes and turned to him, her expression serious. “I appreciate all this. I do. It’s... awkward me being here with you, and I know it’s awkward for you, too. I’m sorry about that. But I realize you were right. You bringing me home was lots better than trying to have my neighbor do it. She wouldn’t have been able to steady me the way you did. Or pick me up off the floor and bring me food, and walk the dogs and all. So thank