Bachelor Dad, Girl Next Door

‘If I don’t think you’re up to it, I’ll take over the rest of your shift.’

He waited with an expression of polite interest as she thought of and discarded several weak excuses.

‘Oh, all right. Let’s get it over with, then,’ she muttered. The thought of his hands on her, even in a professional capacity, was nerve-racking. The imprint of their earlier contact still plagued her. Her back to his chest, his fingers on her arms as he turned her…

She forced down a swallow and pushed away the distracting memory. ‘Where do you want to do it?’

He raised a brow and his lips tilted.

She felt heat leap through her system. Oh, God, had she really said that? Please, let the floor open up and swallow her now. ‘The exam.’

‘Cubicle three is empty.’ Still grinning, he moved to one side and stood with his back pressed against the shelf. Did he think she was going to squeeze past him? No way.

‘After you.’

He shrugged. ‘Sure.’

She breathed a sigh when he moved but it was short-lived relief. With his back to her, she could appreciate the broadness of his shoulders, the way his torso tapered to his waist and hips, the long, long legs, the easy way he moved. Her mouth felt suddenly dry.

Just outside the door, he turned, looking back at her, one brow raised quizzically. She realised her feet were still planted in the middle of the supply-room floor. Silently cursing her distraction, she tightened her fingers on the clipboard and hurried to catch up.

She walked stiffly to the curtained area, aware of him striding beside her. His lithe, trim body moving smoothly. Unlike her limbs, which felt all angles and awkward gracelessness.

Perched on the edge of the bed, she watched him bend to wash his hands. Her eyes were irresistibly drawn to the denim pulling over the line of his buttocks. When he straightened to rip a piece of paper towel from the dispenser, she looked away quickly.

As he stepped in front of her, she let the deep breath she’d taken trickle out. This was a professional examination, one colleague of another.

Hospital director of staff doctor.

It would only take a few minutes.

‘Look past me. You know the drill, hmm? Focus on a point on the wall.’ He raised his hand and shone a thin beam of light into her eyes.

‘Have you had bleeding from the nose before?’

‘Um, a couple of times.’ She was acutely aware of his face near hers as he assessed her pupil.

‘Recently?’

‘No.’

‘How long ago?’ He moved to her other eye and again bent towards her to do the examination.

‘Oh, um. Years.’ Then she remembered the exact occasion.

The landmine blast which had killed Peter.

And killed her future. Nausea rushed down on her, sweat popped out of her pores leaving her clammy and chilled. ‘It…was…um, a—a couple of years.’

There was a small silence.

‘Are you all right, Terri? You’ve gone very pale.’

The blood abruptly rushed back to her head, filling her face with heat, sweeping away the faintness.

‘Yes. Yes. Really, I’m fine.’ At least he hadn’t commented on her stumbling hesitation. ‘You—you asked about nosebleeds. It’s been a couple of years.’

‘Nothing since?’ He frowned as he straightened up, seeming to weigh her response for dissimulation.

She looked away from the measuring blue eyes. The last of the nausea receded. ‘No.’

‘How heavy were your previous bleeds?’

She frowned and pulled back, pulling herself together at the same time. ‘I’ve had a tiny nosebleed here, not an arterial haemorrhage.’

‘Yes, of course.’ He appeared to shake himself mentally as he slipped the penlight back into his top pocket. ‘I’m going to examine your cheek.’

‘Fine,’ she said through tight lips, closing her eyes, hoping to shut him out, so close, so threatening to her peace of mind. A rustle of fabric, the tiniest feather of air across her skin. Had he moved closer? Just the thought made her heart kick into a frantic, irregular rhythm. She was too scared to open her eyes to check.

A few tense seconds passed. Why didn’t he just get on with it?

Then the subtle torture began. Gentle probing fingers travelled down her nose, across her cheekbone, around her eye socket.

Nasal bone, glabella, maxilla, zygomatic.

Breathe in and out. In and out. Perhaps if she recited the muscles. There were so many of them…

She couldn’t think of a single name.

Closing her eyes had been a bad idea. Sure, it meant she couldn’t see him but the other sensory information was overwhelming. The heat of his body reached out to her. His smell—part soap, part tantalising masculine musk—surrounded her. Small whispery sounds of each inhalation, exhalation. How much more measured and normal his breathing was than hers.

His touch was warm and deft. The skin beneath his fingertips was alive with nerve endings. Nearby cells seemed to quiver in anticipation of their turn.

She swallowed, feeling so thoroughly shaken now that she didn’t dare open her eyes lest he read her ragged state.

Think of something else. Now!

Work. The emergency department.

‘How’s Uncle Mick?’ she said, dismayed to hear her breathlessness.

‘Uncle Mick?’ He sounded preoccupied. ‘Oh, yes. Mick.’

After a moment, he cleared his throat. ‘I’m just waiting for the blood results to come back. Particularly the sodium level. I noticed you had a half-strength saline bag standing by.’

‘Yes.’ She pushed the answer out, working hard to keep her tone even. Concentrate on work, on the technicalities. That would surely bring her back to an even keel. ‘I was worried about hyperosmolar hyperglycaemia.’

His fingers stopped moving, the tips resting softly on her skin. The moment hung, oddly alive with possibilities. Had he finished?