Moonlight Over Manhattan. Sarah Morgan
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yes to dinner when her lips wanted to say no.
“I d-d—” Hot with humiliation, she almost turned away and gave up but something inside her kept her feet glued to the floor.
She met Ethan’s gaze and braced herself for sympathy or, worse, pity, but saw neither.
“This isn’t my area of expertise,” he said. “If you’d slashed yourself with a knife or fallen out of a window, I’m your man, but I’m not afraid to admit I’m out of my depth here. Tell me how I can help you.”
He was asking how he could help.
No one ever did that.
They finished her sentences. They made assumptions. They talked over her. They gave up waiting for her to say whatever it was she was trying to say.
Ethan did none of those things.
“You c-c-c—” The frustration almost made her burst, but Ethan waited quietly. Patiently.
The one thing she didn’t associate her stammer with was patience. Not her own, or other people’s. But Ethan was patient. She didn’t get the sense that he was itching to get on with the next thing. Which was unusual. Nor did she get the impression that he was judging her the way most people did. So many people seemed unable to accept any variation on their view of “normal.” As a child she’d discovered that anything that made you different, made you stand out, also made you a target. In the jungle of the playground, differences were seen as weaknesses, and weaknesses were rarely celebrated. People thought she was gentle, but Harriet knew that wasn’t accurate. She wasn’t particularly gentle, whatever that meant, except perhaps with animals. She was tolerant. She accepted differences. And it seemed that despite his earlier anger, Ethan Black did too. Recognizing that diffused some of the tension building inside her. “You can’t help me.” This time the words came out unrestricted.
He paused. “In the past, what would you have done that has helped?”
Breathing. Relaxation. She’d even tried hypnosis once, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. Instead she breathed, forcing herself to relax. She was not going to walk out. If she walked out she would lose all respect for herself.
She was going to stay. Talk to him. Have dinner.
That was today’s Challenge Harriet.
And it was probably the biggest challenge she could have given herself.
He walked to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of white wine and then removed two glasses from a cabinet.
He poured the wine and then held out a glass to her.
She took it from him. “Thank you.”
This time the words came out smoothly, and she felt weak with relief.
Maybe this would be okay. Maybe this wasn’t a disaster.
He leaned against the counter, the subdued lighting in the kitchen creating a false air of intimacy. It bathed the apartment with a soothing glow that nudged the edge of romantic.
Or maybe that was just the way her mind worked.
Ethan Black would probably be appalled had he been able to read her thoughts.
She wasn’t a fool. She was well aware that he wasn’t interested in her personally. What he was doing was managing a situation he believed he had caused. She was employed by his sister, who, presumably, he didn’t want to upset. More importantly, he needed her to help with Madi. After the vanishing act she had pulled earlier, presumably he was afraid she might walk out and not return.
If he’d known her, he would have known that wasn’t a possibility.
Harriet would never leave a dog in a situation she felt was bad for them, and although she had no doubt Ethan was a good person and a great doctor, she wasn’t convinced he was good for Madi.
In reality it wasn’t his fault that she wasn’t good with strangers.
That was her problem. She was the one who had to deal with it.
She tried to relax the tense knot in her stomach. She tried telling herself he wasn’t a stranger. Not only had he treated her ankle, he was Debra’s brother and she’d known Debra for years. He hadn’t shouted because he was angry with her. He’d shouted because he was angry with himself. Because he hadn’t been able to save that patient.
She couldn’t even begin to imagine how that must feel. She wanted to ask him, but right now he was focused on her.
“How long has it been?”
Taking a slow, deep breath and looking directly at him, she tried again to speak. “A few years.” The words emerged with no problem. No barrier.
“Years?” Ethan put his wineglass down slowly. “Then I’m doubly sorry.”
“Why?”
“Because I triggered something you had under control.”
“It’s my stammer. Not your fault.”
“We both know that’s not true. I was rude, which is inexcusable. I made you anxious.”
“I find it difficult to talk to people I don’t know. I’m not good with strangers. I’m shy—” She hated saying it. Immediately she wanted to follow up by saying that shy wasn’t the same as weak. “And I have no idea why I just told you that. The one thing I don’t do is divulge personal information to people I don’t know.”
“I’m a doctor. It’s different.”
Was that it? Maybe it was.
He sat down on one of the chairs by the kitchen island and gestured for her to do the same.
“Did you see a speech therapist?”
“For a while. Maybe I should do it again.”
“I don’t think you need that. You just need to relax and take your time. And not hang out with guys like me.” His tone was dry. “You’re not alone, you know. Aristotle had a stammer. So did Charles Darwin.”
“King George VI.”
“Marilyn Monroe.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Really? I didn’t know.”
“There’s an interview where she talks about it. So how do you manage with your job? Aren’t you constantly required to talk to strangers?”
“Yes, but my sister does that part. New business, bookings, she handles that side of things.” She slid onto the chair next to him, her fingers grasping her wineglass. She didn’t trust her own powers of speech, and it was an awful feeling. She wasn’t sure if alcohol would make it worse or better. “I live life in my comfort zone.”
“That wasn’t how it seemed the other night when I saw you in the emergency room.”
“That was me trying to leave my comfort zone. You saw how it turned out.” Oh what the heck. She took a gulp of wine and felt it slide into her veins. The words were loose and flowing again. She could almost pretend she’d imagined what had happened. Almost, but not quite. It had happened. And it could happen again. Maybe on one level she’d always known that, but she’d gotten complacent. But maybe complacency was a good thing. Worrying, anxiety, made it worse. “I think we’d both agree I’m a work in progress.”
“But you went on a date with a stranger. You didn’t stammer?”
She put her glass down. “He didn’t give me a chance to talk. But I did manage about four short sentences, which was more than I managed on the date before him.”
His eyes gleamed and he leaned forward to top up her wine. “Sounds as if you’ve had some thrilling dates.”
“The best.” She found herself smiling too. She also found herself wishing someone like Ethan had been her blind date, which made no sense at all because less than