heavy stuff, more your Nick Drake jazz-folk sort of thing—and they do the best pizza in the city. The risotto’s good, if you don’t like pizza.’ So he couldn’t use that as an excuse.
‘I—’
‘Eight o’clock. And we don’t talk shop all night.’
Excuse number two neatly sidestepped, he noticed with sudden amusement.
‘And partners are welcome.’
Circumventing excuse number three? Or was she fishing to see if he was involved with someone? No. Of course she wasn’t interested in him. She’d made it clear it was a group event which happened every week. ‘I—’
‘Good,’ she said, before he could think up a valid reason to refuse. ‘See you there, then.’ She gave him directions to the restaurant. ‘It’s the little Italian place with a green sign outside—just ask for the hospital table when you get there. They’ll know who you mean. Bye, Fi,’ she called to the sister. And then she was gone in a swirl of soft hair, brightly coloured tunic top and black trousers, leaving Sam staring after her and Fiona with raised eyebrows.
When Jodie had changed into an elderly pair of leggings and swapped her loafers for a pair of trainers, she fastened her hair back into a ponytail, shrugged on her waterproof jacket and headed for the bicycle sheds in the far corner of the hospital car park.
What had she done? Jodie asked herself as she unlocked her bike, slid her handbag and document case into the waterproof carrier on the rear wheel and started cycling home. Fancy inviting the ward’s newest consultant to their crowd’s usual Thursday night gathering! He’d think she was trying to curry favour. Or, worse, that she was trying to net herself a husband with a prestigious job and a good income.
And she didn’t fancy Sam Taylor. Not at all.
Though he was attractive enough, if you liked the strong, silent type. Tall, dark and intense. Grey eyes that reminded her of a rainy Wednesday morning, lonely and forgotten. She preferred the athletic type. Blond and suntanned, rather than that fine, pale skin. Curly, unruly hair, not straight and brushed back neatly from his face. Someone who wasn’t too serious, saw the sunny side of life. With a mouth that smiled a lot and crinkles round the eyes—and she liked cornflower blue eyes.
Oh, stop thinking about it! she told herself, skidding to a halt outside her house. He probably wouldn’t even turn up.
HOWEVER, when Jodie arrived at the small Italian restaurant at a quarter past eight—‘just in time for the last garlic dough ball,’ as Fiona commented with a grin—Sam Taylor was sitting at one end of the long table. Opposite the only spare chair, she realised with dismay. Wearing plain black trousers and a matching cotton round-neck sweater—trust him to do the Man in Black routine.
And it looked even better on him than she would have guessed.
Ignoring the rapid pounding of her heart, she sat down and gave him her most professional smile. ‘Hi. So you made it.’
He nodded.
Not going to make it easy for me, are you? she thought crossly. ‘Has everyone ordered?’
‘Yes, and we ordered for you,’ Mick Salmond, one of the few male nurses from the paediatric ward, told her. ‘Your usual. Margherita with mushrooms, black olives, Dolcelatte and avocado.’
‘Cheers. You’re a mate.’ She wrinkled her nose at him.
‘Avocado? On pizza?’ Sam lifted one eyebrow.
For the first time, Jodie saw amusement in his eyes. And suddenly that rainy Wednesday morning was gone: in its place was a sultry silver. And although his mouth wasn’t smiling widely—just a tiny lift at one corner—it had lost that vulnerable look. Instead, it looked…kissable.
Her mouth went dry. No. Absolutely not. No way was she going to start thinking of Sam Taylor in those terms.
Drop-dead gorgeous or lame duck? That was what her brother would have asked if she’d told him she’d been stupid enough to invite the consultant on their Thursday night pizza run—reasoning that either Sam was drop-dead gorgeous and someone had dared Jodie to do it, or he was another of Jodie’s lame ducks. Earlier today, she’d have said lame duck. Now she wasn’t so sure.
To cover her confusion, she nodded to the jazz band, a trio of singer-pianist, double-bass player and drummer, who were setting up for the night’s session. ‘They’re very good.’
‘So I’ve been told.’
She grabbed a bottle of red wine from the table and poured herself a glass, then took a large sip. ‘Mmm, that’s better,’ she said in satisfaction.
‘It’s the one you discovered last month,’ Fiona told her. ‘The Sicilian job.’
‘Trust a woman to find a wine that tastes of chocolate,’ Mick said, rolling his eyes. ‘It was on the “Specials” board. “Red wine with a chocolate finish.” And she was in charge of ordering, that night, so we didn’t get any choice.’
‘Come on. You know you like it. Anyway, red wine and chocolate are good for you. You’ve read the studies in the Lancet.’ Jodie grinned broadly.
General hooting greeted her words.
‘And then there’s that study on pleasure. People who enjoy themselves have better immune systems. It’s all to do with SIgA.’
‘Enough of the lectures, Jo-jo.’ Mick ruffled her hair. ‘And, please, don’t anyone mention the P-word.’
‘The P-word?’ Sam asked, mystified.
‘P-l-a-y.’ Mick spelled it out in phonics, amusing Jodie even more. ‘She’s writing some article or other for the British Medical Journal about the importance of play in paediatrics, how it helps children get better.’
‘So that’s why you spend all your free time on the ward, playing with certain patients?’ Sam asked.
She flushed. ‘Yes. No. I just enjoy my work, that’s all.’
The pizzas arrived, diverting everyone’s attention. Jodie had eaten three mouthfuls before she realised that Sam was staring at her. ‘What?’ she asked.
‘I can’t believe you’re actually eating that.’ He made a face.
‘Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.’ Jodie cut another piece, making sure there was a slice of avocado on it, and speared it with her fork. ‘Here,’ she said, reaching over towards him.
Again, there was that silvery glint in his eyes and he bent his head to taste the pizza, his gaze locking with hers. Jodie’s mouth went dry again. She hadn’t eaten since a snatched half a sandwich for lunch, so the wine must have gone to her head. What was she doing, feeding him from her fork? And what must he think of her?
Embarrassed, she almost snatched her hand back.
‘Better
