even if she denied it, even if she had forgotten about him, he was going to make sure she remembered him now.
This time, he wasn’t going to walk away.
Chapter Three
Ashley didn’t get the prescription filled.
She hadn’t told Cam that she was taking Fedentropin because she didn’t want him asking all kinds of questions about the drug trial she was participating in. It had been awkward enough when Irene had made reference to her broken engagement without getting into any explanations about her medical history or the experimental drug that was helping to manage her endometriosis so that pregnancy remained an option for her.
But her hand throbbed painfully as she tried to sweep up remnants of broken glass and wood with her left arm wrapped around the broom and the handle of the dustpan gripped with the thumb and two other fingers of her right hand, making her rethink that decision. She could call Megan, of course. Her sister had developed the drug she was taking and would know whether it was safe to take the painkiller she’d been prescribed.
But then she’d have to tell her sister about the fifteen stitches and Megan would insist on coming over to see for herself that it wasn’t a fatal wound. And as much as she enjoyed spending time with her sister, she hated knowing that her family was still so worried about her. As they’d been worrying since she’d ended her engagement.
Because worrying translated into hovering, and while Ashley was still adjusting to living alone, she enjoyed having her own space. She ate her meals on her own schedule, watched whatever she wanted to watch on TV and generally came and went as she pleased without being accountable to anyone else.
Of course that would change when she had a baby, but she looked forward to the duties and responsibilities of motherhood. She wanted nothing more than to feel the stirring of a new life in her womb, and the warmth of a tiny baby in her arms.
Which was another reason she didn’t want to fill the prescription Cam had written for her. Her appointment at the Pinehurst clinic was only a few days away and she didn’t want anything to delay the start of the process. So she’d stick with her extra-strength Tylenol and hope that was enough to take the edge off of the pain.
Her stomach growled as she emptied the dustpan into the garbage, so she propped the broom and pan in the corner and moved to the fridge. Unfortunately, she found nothing that appealed to her. Or maybe she just didn’t want to tackle putting together a meal with only one hand.
She could, however, dial the phone, and she was thinking about doing just that when the doorbell rang.
She’d never been the type to ignore a ringing phone and the echo of a bell had the same effect. She pulled open the door and, for the second time that day, found herself facing her past.
“Making house calls, Dr. Turcotte?” she asked him. Her tone was deliberately casual, refusing to acknowledge the jump in her pulse.
For as far back as she could remember, her body had always instinctively reacted to Cameron’s presence. Since she could do nothing about that response, she simply tried to ignore it.
But she couldn’t deny that he looked good. His hair was as dark as she remembered, and still long enough to flirt with the collar of his shirt. His eyes were the same rich green that brought to mind the Irish countryside of her ancestors, and his gaze was just as intense. The shadow on his jaw attested to a long day at the office and gave him a slightly dangerous edge. Dangerously sexy, she mused, and immediately pushed the thought aside.
He had on the same shirt and khaki pants he’d been wearing earlier, but he’d loosened the knot in his tie and rolled up his sleeves, revealing darkly tanned and strongly muscled forearms. He used to be an avid tennis player and she found herself wondering if he still enjoyed pounding a fuzzy yellow ball around the court. It would certainly explain his trim and toned physique.
“Actually, I’m not here in my professional capacity,” he told her, his comment drawing her back from her perusal.
“Then why are you here?” She knew the question sounded rude, but she didn’t care. She was tired, her hand ached and she didn’t have the energy or the desire to put a smile on her face, though she was suddenly experiencing an unwelcome stirring of certain other desires.
Cam lifted a flat white box that she hadn’t even noticed he was carrying because she’d been too busy looking at him.
“Pizza delivery,” he said.
“I didn’t order pizza.”
“And yet I’ve got a large double pepperoni and extra cheese in my hands.”
It was her favorite kind. Of course, it had always been his favorite, too. Had he remembered her preference? Or had he just ordered it the way he liked it?
Not that it mattered. Even if he had remembered, their history was exactly that, and she wasn’t going to let his sudden appearance at her door drag her down memory lane.
So all she asked was, “Why?”
He shrugged. “Because I worked through lunch and I was hungry, and because I figured it would be difficult for you to put together dinner for yourself with those stitches in your hand.”
It sounded not only reasonable but thoughtful, and she was undeniably tempted to invite him in. There was something about Cam Turcotte that had always tempted her, but she wasn’t a teenager anymore and she had no intention of letting down any of her barriers where he was concerned.
“I’m not hungry,” she lied.
“You should eat anyway.”
Still, she hesitated. “Contrary to whatever Irene might have told you, I don’t need anyone looking out for me, Dr. Turcotte.”
“It’s just a pizza, Ash.”
He was using his doctor tone again, patient and reasonable, and she knew that she was being anything but reasonable.
As he said, it was just a pizza. And she was hungry.
She stepped back from the door.
“Fine. Bring in the pizza.”
Her welcome left something to be desired.
As Cam stepped into the foyer, he wondered again why he was there when it was readily apparent that Ashley wished he wasn’t. He’d known he was taking a chance when he looked up her address in the file, but he’d never been able to think clearly when it came to Ashley Roarke.
“Nice neighborhood,” he said, conversationally.
“We like it.”
“We?” he queried, following her through to the kitchen.
“Megan and I bought the house a couple of years ago and lived here together until she got married. I guess I haven’t quite got used to being on my own yet.”
“I thought you were talking about the fiancé,” he admitted, setting the pizza box in the middle of the table.
“Ex-fiancé,” she clarified.
