Oh, Christ. He pictured another needle and felt his skin go clammy. His stomach went queasy. This wasn’t working for him, not one little bit. Not unless she was going to strip down for him again. “I don’t need—”
Still looking at him, she pulled out…a prescription bottle. “Are you afraid of pills, too?” she asked innocently, when he was beginning to suspect there was nothing innocent about her at all.
Annie snickered again.
“I swear to God,” he muttered in her direction.
Emma lightly smacked the bottle against his pecs, a fact he found interesting—was it his imagination, or did she touch him a lot?
More importantly, did she do it on purpose? It was worth finding out, and testing, he leaned into her, just a little.
Her pupils dilated.
Check.
Her nostrils flared.
Check, check.
If they’d been wild animals, their foreplay had just been conducted. Still testing, he lifted his hand and covered hers, still against his chest.
She stared down at their now entangled fingers around the pill bottle, then lifted her gaze to his. Her breathing had changed.
Quickened.
Test over, he decided, his own breathing changing as well. Because oh hell yeah, she was aware of him, every bit as much as he.
Which meant she was all bark and no bite.
That was very good to know.
“Twice a day for seven days,” she murmured, her voice a little thick. “Come see me in two.”
“For..?” He was imaging all sorts of things.
“I’ll take out your stitches.”
Okay, she had a little bite.
Actually, probably more than a little. “I can take them out myself.”
“Come to me, or I’ll come to you.”
He liked the sound of that—her coming to him, on him, all over him, but he knew better. The woman was bloodthirsty. Plus he’d seen her steely, fierce determination up front and personal. Come to her? He’d love it, only it wasn’t going to happen. “Sure thing,” he said. “Two days.”
Or never.
Chapter 8
To Emma, Spencer was cute in a Clark Kent sort of way; dark hair, dark eyes, and a helpless smile made all the more disarming for the simple sexy dimple that went with it. He had a lean runner’s body that belied how much he ate, and a career in the surgical world that men twice his age would kill for.
But he had a fatal flaw. Emma called it Fickle-ality. He couldn’t settle, on anything.Period.
Still, as a best friend, it worked, and while she ran the clinic that day, he happily occupied himself in the great outdoors; kayaking, hiking…
That night, not content with the stack of casseroles to choose from, he cooked. Emma sat on the small kitchen counter and watched him throw some ingredients into a pan, from which came forth the most mouth watering scent. “What is that?”
“Roasted tomato mozzarella and eggplant pasta.”
It never failed to amaze her—a professional water burner—that Spence was every bit as talented in the kitchen as he was in the operating room.
“Oh, Kate dumped me,” he said, topping off their glasses.
Ah. That explained why he was here early. He’d gotten bored. “Didn’t you date her only twice?” she asked. “That doesn’t count as a dumping.”
“Yes it does,” he said. “Which also qualifies me for make-up sex.”
“Kate’s in the Sierras?”
“I meant you.” He smiled, his dark eyes warm and affectionate. “I get another shot at you.”
Yeah, right. He wasn’t looking for another shot at her, he wasn’t looking for anything but fun and they both knew it. It was why they made such good friends, because they didn’t need anything from each other—perfect—as they didn’t have anything to give each other. It was a selfish relationship on both sides, and also the only lasting relationship in either of their lives.
He came close and ran a finger over her jaw, rimming her ear.
“Let me save you some time on the foreplay action. We’re not sleeping together, Spencer.”
He merely topped off her wine with a small smile, clearly confident he’d change her mind.
After dinner, she showed him to the tiny spare bedroom. Spence caught her hand there in the hallway and flashed her a quick grin. “So what size bed do you have in your room?”
With a laugh, she looked him in the eyes. His thick hair was as unruly as his heart, dipping low over his forehead. He wore designer threads, and managed to look like he’d just thrown them on. He was rich, incredibly talented with a scalpel, and fun.
If she’d taken him inside her heart, he’d have broken it in half a long time ago.
Which was okay. She didn’t have the urge to take him into her heart. She didn’t have the urge to take anyone in her heart. Her life was good as it was.
So good.
And she couldn’t wait to get back to it. “A queen-size bed.”
“Nice.”
“Perfect for one.”
“Or two.”
“Or one.”
“Aw, Em.” He stepped into her, pressing that runner’s body to hers as he slid a hand up her side, gently squeezing her waist. “It’s been awhile.”
“Yes, since you were dumped on your sorry ass by Margarita.”
“As I recall, you comforted me quite nicely.”
“You don’t need comforting, Spencer. Not tonight.”