London's Most Eligible Doctor. Annie O'Neil
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as …”
“Simple as what?”
Cole laughed. “I don’t know. I heard someone cool on television say it and thought I’d have a go. Clearly, I’m not down with the hipsters.”
Lina took a bite of biscuit, hand curled protectively in front of her mouth as she chewed, rather than risk a reply. He didn’t need to be in with any crowd. Cole Manning was in a class of his own. She closed her eyes as the sugary sweetness of the biscuit melted into nothing on her tongue. It tasted like home. The one place she couldn’t go until she could show her parents she’d been worth the effort.
She looked at Cole again. He seemed genuine enough. As did the job offer.
A receptionist job. Well … She tried to keep her dejected sigh silent. At least she knew she was physically up to it. Talking to people—talking to dancers—all day might not come so easily.
She looked away from him, teasing at a pile of invisible flower petals on the floor. She didn’t want him to see how much she needed the job. Her foot automatically shaped itself into an elegant turnout as it swiped the “petals” to the side of the room with a controlled semicircle of movement. That much she could do.
“Cole!” A woman appeared at the doorway and gave the frame a quick double knock. “We need you in Reception right away.”
It was then that Lina tuned into the noises outside Cole’s office. There was the sound of a young woman crying. Periodically broken by an occasional heated wail. She knew that feeling. She knew it down to her bones.
“All right, Lina? Are we good?” Cole rose quickly to his feet, moving the puppy’s basket to the floor.
“So I already have the job?” She couldn’t help but let some cynicism sneak into her voice. This whole thing was sounding more and more like some sort of setup.
“Let me check what’s happening out there and then see how we go, shall we?”
“IT HURTS!” THE teenager’s face was a picture of pure unadulterated agony. She was on the floor, knees slightly bent, back hunched over, and a wash of tears wetting her cheeks.
“It looks like it hurts,” Cole agreed. He was never one of these doctors who brushed away the pain. If it hurt it hurt. Plain as. Apart from which the poor girl’s foot was already thick with heat and swelling. If he had to guess? A serious sprain—level two. A possible tear in the ATFL? Nothing life-altering, but it would certainly keep her out of pointe shoes for a couple of months, and for a young girl like this—thirteen or fourteen—it would feel like a lifetime. He looked up at the mother, who also had tears in her eyes. He raised his eyebrows in lieu of asking what had happened.
“I dropped her before we reached the sofa.”
“You mean you carried her in here?” Cole was impressed. It was a bit of a hike from the pavement.
“We were just about there and …” Her hand flew to her mouth in horror.
“You did well. No additional harm done. Just a bit of ego bruising, from the looks of things.” He nodded to the mother before quickly returning his attention to her daughter. “You’re all right, darlin’, aren’t you?” The teen gave an unconvinced nod before Cole looked back at her mother. “Shall we get her up and into an exam room?”
“Please. I am so—The day’s just been … I tried …”
Cole rose, put a hand on the woman’s shoulder and gave her a reassuring smile. Parents were often more traumatized than their child. From the looks of the number pinned on her daughter’s chest she’d been at the London Ballet Grand Prix. The biggest day on a young ballerina’s calendar. There would be no scholarships or job offers for her this year.
“Let me help. Can I have your arm?”
Cole looked down at the sound of Lina’s softly accented voice. She was totally focused on the girl.
“What piece were you doing?” Lina instinctively sought to distract the girl from her injury.
Cole moved round to help Lina raise the girl from the ground but watched curiously to see how she dealt with a traumatized dancer. They shared common ground. It could be useful.
“I was doing the ‘Spring Concerto.’” The girl only just held back a sob.
“Vivaldi?” Lina’s face lit up. “What a wonderful choice. And your contemporary piece?” She sat back on her heels and looked at the girl seriously. “You did have a contemporary piece, right?”
“It was ‘Spiegel im Spiegel.’”
“Are you kidding? That’s one of my favorites. I used to dance to that one a lot.”
“Used to?” The girl swiped away some of her tears, missing Lina’s microscopic wince.
“What’s your name?” Lina asked.
“Vonnie.”
“Beautiful.” She tucked an arm around the girl’s small waist and began to raise her into a wheelchair she must have brought in. Resourceful. Cole found himself beginning to rethink the “just a favor” part of his agreement. Maybe she would be a good hire.
“I’m Lina. Shall we get you to X-ray?”
It was all Cole could do not to laugh. Lina didn’t have the slightest clue where X-ray was and how she’d magicked a wheelchair out of nowhere was impressive … a picture of confidence. And, more importantly, she’d engaged Vonnie enough to begin to stem the flow of tears. Impressive for someone who hadn’t seemed keen to spend her day with working dancers.
“Actually, can you put any weight on it?” Cole was the doctor here. Probably wise to take charge of this scenario.
Vonnie wrapped an arm round Lina’s shoulder and, with Cole’s help, heaved herself up.
“Have you already put ice on it? Kept it elevated on the ride over here?”
“Yes,” Vonnie snuffled. “As soon as it ha-ha-happened!”
Uh-oh. Those tears were back again.
“Lina, I’ll take Vonnie to X-ray, all right?”
The young girl twisted round, her face wreathed in anxiety, one of Lina’s hands clutched in her own. “No! Please don’t make her go. She understands me.”
Lina looked over at Cole and gave him the Polish version of a Gallic shrug.
“Fine. But you’ll have to leave the room during the X-ray.” Cole stepped away from the handles of the wheelchair and handed over steering duty to Lina. She wanted to work here? She could prove it. “I’ll lead the way, shall I?”
Cole tipped his head from side to side as he took in the extent of the injury. Swelling could hide things, but X-rays didn’t lie. He’d been right. It was a typical grade-two ballerina sprain—a tear of the anterior talofibular ligament with lateral swelling.
“So what do you say? Eight weeks until she dances again?”
“Mmm … something like that.”
In the tiny dark room, with only the X-ray board spreading a low-grade wash of light, having Lina so close, Cole had to rethink how wise a move it would be to hire her. He was attracted to her. And not just your average gee-you’re-good-looking sort of attraction. He was fighting a Class-A desire to spin her round, pull her into his arms and find out how she tasted, how she would respond to his touch. None of which would really be appropriate in a professional environment.
“It’ll be hard for her to hear … on top of missing out at the Grand Prix.”
“Believe me, I’ve delivered my share of bad news.”