Prescription: Marry Her Immediately

Amy regarded herself in the small mirror above the dresser. Darn, she couldn’t see the whole picture. Come to think of it, she didn’t own a full-length mirror, because she so rarely needed one.

What was she fussing about anyway? she asked herself grumpily. It wasn’t as if Quent was going to suddenly notice she was a girl. Or as if she wanted him to, given that he’d made it clear when they’d first met that he was bent on sowing his wild oats after years of grinding away at his medical studies. The last thing Amy needed was to lose her heart to a man who was only looking for a good time.

Remembering her promise to provide him with warm clothing, she prowled through the closet. From the back, she lifted out a bright-pink sweatshirt bearing the image of a black cat. Her friend Natalie Winford, who was soon to become the bride of the clinic’s administrator, had bought it for her at the nearby Black Cat Cafе as an impulsive gift.

Pulling it off the hanger, Amy scooted past the second bedroom, which served as a home office, and the third one, which was empty. The combination living-dining room had the usual assortment of furniture, thanks to her friends’ supervision, but Amy had augmented the decor with a few touches of her own.

There was, for instance, the electronic dartboard on one wall. Also, a video-game system dominated the dining table. To Amy, they made the place feel like home.

There was no sign of Quent. Judging by the mouth-watering scent, he’d kept his promise to make popcorn.

She found him in the kitchen, larger than life and twice as sexy, leaning against the counter. When Quent wasn’t working or otherwise active, he always seemed to be leaning on something, Amy mused.

The first time she’d seen him, he’d been holding up one wall of the hallway between her counseling office and the Well-Baby Clinic. She had the same reaction now that she’d had then: a racing heartbeat and a melting sensation in her core.

Now, as then, she did her best to ignore it.

“I’m glad to see what a gourmet cook you are,” Quent joked, nodding toward the take-out sacks stuffed in the wastebasket.

“Huh. Anybody can whip up a chicken cordon bleu.” Amy indicated a refrigerator magnet displaying the phone number of a local pizza parlor. “I’m famous for devising the most inventive combinations this side of Italy. Ever try pineapple, anchovies and onions?”

“I think I treated a kid for eating one of those last week,” Quent said. “By the way, I made the mistake of opening your fridge and nearly got sucked into the void.”

“You’re just mad because I’m out of beer.”

“That, too.” He removed the bag of popcorn from the microwave and replaced it with two mugs of water. Judging by the box of hot chocolate mix sitting nearby, Amy guessed she was in for a treat.

A thrumming noise drew her attention to the window. “What a torrent! It’s only rained this hard once or twice since I moved in.” She’d come to Serene Beach four years ago, after counseling patients at a low-cost clinic in Fresno.

“We could light a fire in the fireplace,” Quent said.

A crackling blaze, hot chocolate, the man of her dreams taking her in his arms…Abruptly, Amy’s idyll vanished and she came down to earth. Or, more accurately, down to hearth.

“I don’t have a fireplace,” she said. “How about a portable heater?”

“Does it glow when it gets hot?” Quent asked.

She nodded.

“That’ll do.” He indicated the garment tucked under her arm. “What’s that?”

“Catch.” She tossed him the pink sweatshirt. “As I promised.”

He held it up. “Not really my color.”

“Pink looks good on blondes,” Amy said.

“In that case, how can I refuse?” He shrugged off his clinging wet shirt, gave his powerful chest a swipe from his towel, and reached for the sweatshirt.

Her kingdom for a camera, Amy thought. She wanted to stroke him so much her palms itched. It was almost an ache, this need to run her hands along that rippling bare skin and feel the masculine hardness.

She didn’t dare risk changing their relationship that way. Either Quent would start to feel uncomfortable around her or he’d add her to his collection of conquests. Either way, it would spell the end of their good times.

He yanked the sweatshirt into place. Although loose on Amy, it clung to him. “Not bad,” he said. “You loan this to all your boyfriends?”

“Only the blond ones,” she said.

“I hope you wash it in between.” The microwave bell rang, summoning Quent.

“Usually. If I remember. I mean, they come and go so fast, who can keep track?”

She didn’t like misleading him, even as a joke, but if Quent discovered how little experience she had, the man would laugh. Amy couldn’t bear to be teased about the fact that she’d reached her third decade still a virgin, and not entirely by choice. Above all, she didn’t want Quent to be the man to whom she finally gave herself, because it would mean so much more to her than it possibly could to him.

Someday, Amy hoped to find a gentle, undemanding guy who would love and treasure her. The problem was that when she did meet men of that description, she felt a big fat nothing toward them. Certainly not the scary, exhilarating sense of riding a roller coaster that hit her every time she imagined Quent’s mouth covering hers, his body pressing her down…

“Is it something I said?” He stood there holding out a steaming mug of cocoa. “Or are you ignoring me on purpose?”

“I was remembering the last macho hunk who wore that sweatshirt,” Amy invented.

“I could wipe up the floor with him.”

“Oh, yeah? He was a wrestler.”

“Professionally?” he asked.

“Just with me,” she said. “I won, by the way. Pinned him best two out of three. Come to think of it, we never got to three.”

Carrying the popcorn, Quent led the way into the living room. “Maybe we should try that.”

“I wouldn’t want to hurt you,” she said.

“Hurt me? You didn’t take a close enough look at my muscles while I had my shirt off,” he shot back. “Care for me to strip again?”

With all my heart. “I’ll pass,” Amy said. “Hang on.”

She set aside her mug and dug through the front closet for the portable heater. She found it behind her ski poles and Boogie board.

Set up in front of the couch and plugged into an extension cord, it radiated a luxurious circle of warmth. Amy and Quent sank onto the sofa to enjoy it.

For some reason, they kept sliding to the middle. She tried not to react when his knee nudged hers or to the brush of his shoulder as he raised his mug to drink. But she couldn’t help it.

“I like your hair loose that way.” Quent’s voice sounded hoarse.

“It won’t dry in a ponytail so I shook it out.” She couldn’t meet his eyes, not sitting this close. They’d practically be kissing.

Overhead, a gust of wind hit the roof. Instinctively, she shifted closer to Quent, as if he could protect her from the storm.

Their hands met when they reached into the popcorn bag at the same time. Amy’s skin prickled.