Following the Doctor's Orders. Caro Carson
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a yes. I’d like a drink.” She wiggled the white cardboard cup impatiently.
He covered her hand with his before he began to pour the steaming hot liquid, holding her cup steady with the same hand that had kept poor Harold steady. His palm was warm. His hand was large enough to wrap around both her hand and the cup easily.
Unlike Harold, she didn’t find the touch of his hand calming. She’d been this close to Zach before, but only in passing, for a whisper of silliness—I’m having a hard time finding my way out of this building because I keep getting lost in your eyes—and then he’d be gone and she’d be left alone with a pleasant little shiver of awareness.
He didn’t leave this time. He was still here, still touching her, and she had nowhere to look except at him. His eyes were blue-green and as focused on her as she was on him.
“I expected more from you.” He let go of her hand and put the coffeepot back on the burner.
“More what?” she asked.
“I expected a straightforward yes or no from a woman like you. Can I take you out for a drink after work?”
His casual stance and the trace of his ever-present grin sent all the usual messages: nothing to worry about, no reason to be alarmed. But the look in those blue-green eyes was different.
This wasn’t a game. She was so terribly aware of the height and breadth of him, so much masculinity in a firefighter’s shirt. Oh, it had been a long, long time since pheromones and hormones had threatened her ability to think clearly.
“Why the hesitation? You make a thousand decisions every shift, Brooklyn.”
“It’s just Brooke.” No one here called her Brooklyn. “How did you know my real name?”
“It’s on your license.”
Paper copies of all the physicians’ licenses were displayed on the wall. She was willing to bet no one else had read them in ages. “It’s a frivolous name. I prefer Brooke.”
“It’s a sexy name. Brooklyn Brown. It fits you.”
That deep voice of his was always appealing, but the way he used it now, saying her name as if it were something he could taste...
Oh, no.
She set the coffee cup on the counter.
No, no, no. She was not going to turn into a mush-for-brains puddle of female hormones at the feet of a fireman who said she was sexy.
“I could pick you up in an hour. Are we on?”
Brooke needed to say no. She knew it. Instead, she kept looking at the single most handsome man to ever ask her on a date, and...kept looking. Silent, not moving forward, not functioning at all. Mush for brains.
The door opened again. “There you are. Done for the day?”
That particular voice belonged to Dr. Tom Bamber, a radiologist at the hospital. He was a welcome distraction at the moment, forcing Brooke to stop staring at Zach as she turned to greet Tom. She only had a second to wonder why the radiologist had come to the emergency department before he said, “I was looking for you.”
“You were?” Her surprise was genuine. He must have an unusual report for her. Radiologists typically gave their reports over the phone from their dark cave in the hospital basement, not in person. Harold Allman and his fractured tibia had been taken to the cardiac cath lab instead of X-ray, anyway. Dr. Bamber hadn’t been on duty earlier, and—
“I’ve got tickets to the ballet tonight. Orchestra, row E.” He flourished them before her like a two-feathered fan. “Score.”
Score, indeed. Brooke loved the ballet, beauty created from precision. It was sweet of Tom to remember, but—
Tom kept talking. “I have my doubts that a young troupe can truly do justice to Balanchine, but we might as well go and judge their attempt. Shall we say seven? We can dine with the Philistines at the food trucks outside the theater.” Tom stepped just a little too close to her. “Then I’ll buy you a drink after the show.”
Good grief, the man was asking her out on a date. Brooke rarely went out with friends and even more rarely on dates, but now she had two men wanting to buy her drinks. On the same night. At the same moment. Asking in front of one another.
She stole a glance at Zach, to whose presence Tom seemed to be oblivious. Zach raised her coffee cup to his lips, watching her conversation like a man watching a sporting event. He blew across the top of the hot liquid, which made his mouth look like he was about to give someone a soft, sweet kiss.
No, no, no. Don’t go there.
Brooke smiled politely at Tom. His lips looked unremarkable. His mouth wasn’t about to do anything except question her.
Normal lips were a good thing. Tom was exactly the sort of man she should date. They spoke the same language as doctors. They’d discussed their mutual appreciation of the ballet once, over lunch in the hospital cafeteria. They were evenly matched, even in their height. She could look him squarely in the eye.
Brooke had to glance up at the fireman who’d also just asked her out for a drink. She wondered what kind of place a man like Zach would take a woman like her. What was a playboy paramedic’s idea of a night out in Austin? Where would it begin—and where would they end up?
No, no, no.
Zach was all wrong for her, yet she couldn’t accept Tom’s ballet invitation in front of Zach. She felt a little relieved, actually, that she had an excuse not to go out on a perfectly nice date with a perfectly nice man like Tom.
Likewise, even if she’d wanted to, she couldn’t tell Zach yes in front of Tom.
Even if she’d wanted to?
She had wanted to. She’d almost said yes to a fireman just because he dripped sex appeal. Tom had unknowingly stopped her from making a big mistake.
“I’m sorry, but—”
The kitchen door burst open once again.
“There you are.”
Brooke felt relieved; this man was almost as handsome as Zach, but also quite happily married. The head of the emergency department, Dr. Jamie MacDowell, wasn’t going to offer to buy her a drink.
“Can you work late?” Jamie asked her instead. “We just got a call that there’s been a multi-car accident on I-35.”
“Sure, I can stay.” Brooke recognized the cowardly relief she felt. Now she didn’t have to turn down two men.
Jamie nodded at Zach as if they were old friends. “Surprised your engine hasn’t been called yet.”
An obnoxiously loud series of three tones sounded from the radio at Zach’s hip.
“Now it has.” Zach silenced his radio as he started for the door.
“Jinxed you,” Jamie said. As Zach passed him, the two men didn’t shake hands as much as do some kind of forearm-to-forearm punch. Brooke had seen that move before. It seemed that all three of the Dr. MacDowell brothers and half the emergency responders in the Texas Rescue and Relief organization had played on the same high school football team.
She should have guessed that Zach’s cocky grin and his confidence with women had started in his teen years. Of course, Zach Bishop had been a high school football star.
As he turned back to her, he added a wink to the grin that had probably slayed a dozen cheerleaders. “Looks like neither one of our shifts is over. Tonight is not our night, but the offer still stands.”
Then he left. Tom Bamber frowned at her. Jamie MacDowell lifted one brow in speculation.
Brooke turned her back on both men and grabbed her white coat off its hanger. It was time to