and my best friend works evenings in Pennsylvania, so it’s not like I can pick up the phone after work and talk.”
“You asked my opinion.” He tugged on his earlobe. “I’m giving it to you straight,” he said, his eyes darting around the room in an agitated way. “Unless you want to have sex with the jerk who dropped you last year, don’t go near him.” He looked at her as if she needed to have a psych referral.
“You’re right. I was leaning in that direction, too,” she said, mostly to her plate. “I won’t even call him back or text him. Thanks for helping me see that more clearly.”
Polly sensed a change in John’s suddenly irritated mood when she spoke those last words. He inhaled subtly and took another drink from his wineglass, then glanced at his watch.
“We should probably get you back to the hospital to pick up your stuff so you’ll have time to get to that movie,” he said.
She lifted her chin and gave an exaggerated nod. “Right.” She’d blown it. A perfectly lovely dinner with her boss. Until she’d opened her big mouth about some other guy. Could John be jealous? Of course not.
The walk back to the hospital was quiet between them, but the streets, which had come to life with people heading out for the Friday night, weren’t. Across the way, Central Park looked hauntingly beautiful in the twilight. John strode on, not saying a word, hands in his pockets, a man on a mission. She did her best to keep up, but her feet were killing her.
“Thank you for buying dinner, Johnny,” she said, the only words she could think of. Hoping to remind him he’d given her permission to call him that.
“Any time, dumpling.”
That got a smile out of her. He was a paradox. She’d been around many gruff men in her life, but had never cared what they’d thought before. Staring at his profile in the dimming light, she saw a proud man, a talented surgeon, a man respected, if not liked by his peers, yet a man loved by his patients. A man she suspected hid something awful behind his gruff demeanor. Truth was, she found him more and more intriguing and attractive by the moment.
Beginning on Monday, she’d steer clear of him, especially after making a fool of herself by asking him for relationship advice. Whatever had made her think that was a good idea?
Since there was no way in hell she’d ever have a chance with a man like Johnny Griffin, what was the point of being around him? Because she liked him? Found him sexy? The thoughts caused her to pause on the pavement.
That’s when he reached for her hand, wrapping his long, strong fingers around it, and pulled her brusquely along the crowded street toward Angel’s.
POLLY TAGGED ALONG behind John at a fast and challenging clip. They rushed through the hospital lobby towards the elevator, past the “welcome” clown pacing on stilts and the piano player, who was smack in the middle of “Old MacDonald”. Diverse entertainment for visiting hours. He moved like a man with a single thought on his mind—how to dump his dinner date. Yet he never let go of her hand.
Still not saying a word on the crowded elevator trip to the sixth floor, he tugged her down the hall and, having left his office door unlocked, whisked it open, practically dragging her inside. Only then did he release his grip. She went directly for her bags and personal items, assuming he wanted her gone. Now.
Why had she thought that offering John Griffin pizza was a good ice-breaker in order to bring up her question about whether or not to go out with an old boyfriend? All she’d done had been to tick him off.
He stood off to the side, staring out the window, hands crammed into the pockets of his slacks, looking like he was doing battle with a slew of demons in his head. Had she done that to him?
“I feel like you’re mad at me,” she said, stating the unmistakable.
He turned abruptly. “I’m not mad at you, I’m angry about how you try to please everyone else and overlook yourself.”
She bunched her hands into fists. “I’ve had a lifetime of practice. Old habits die hard, you know?”
He tugged his earlobe. “I know.”
Relieved that he wasn’t fuming at her but was more irritated at her situation, a wave of mismatched feelings swept deep, causing confusion in her mind and her eyes to water. She glanced away.
“If you don’t mind—” her voice sounded congested “—I’ll change out of these shoes for the subway first.”
He turned and watched as she sat on the edge of a chair. “I thought you were going to the movies.” The man had gone tighter than a stretched rubber band and the muscle at his jaw twitched as he blatantly ground his molars.
“It was a comedy, and I’m kind of not in the mood now.”
He cleared his throat. “Sorry.”
“It isn’t because of you.” She slipped off one shoe. “I guess I just realized how tired I am. It’s been a long day.” She stretched out her foot and toes. “A long week.”
His gaze jumped all over her, from her face to her chest to her hips and legs and finally to her foot. His expression changed from indecision and caution to longing and oh-what-the-hell. Something had snapped in him, some decision Polly wasn’t privileged to know, yet his change was as plain as the sudden jangled nerves in her stomach. He made an abrupt move, came in front of her and dropped to his knees. Without a word he handed her his handkerchief for her teary eyes then removed her other shoe. His warm, strong hands caressed her foot, sending shockwaves through her.
Polly stiffened as the idea registered of John Griffin giving her a foot massage. She inhaled raggedly while he gently worked the ball of her foot and the arch with amazingly talented fingers. Soothing sensations tiptoed up her calf, causing tingles behind her knee.
Oh, my God, what do I do?
A crazy answer popped into her mind as she wiped away the tears from her eyes with his monogramed handkerchief. Enjoy it.
He splayed her toes and worked each joint right out to the tips of her nails. She tensed and sighed, and felt his touch all the way up the insides of her thighs, though his hands never left her foot.
“The problem with women these days,” he said, increasing the pressure on her heel, “is they mess up their feet with these super-sexy shoes. All men want to do is get them off.” She looked down at his short-cropped, silver-salted hair, discovering a small endearing cowlick in the middle. His voice sounded hoarse, strained, like maybe he really was mad at her. Yet his hands told a completely different story. Was he turned on? “I say that as an orthopedic surgeon.”
That made her smile, his rubbing her feet in such a sexy way yet trying to pull off a professional manner. He was looking out for her well-being, though, wasn’t he? His ministrations were so amazing she couldn’t help but sigh again, so he reached for her other foot. Call her easy, but her shoulders slumped and her head dropped back, savoring the heat of his hands on her totally susceptible skin.
“You’re too kind to me,” she whispered, shifting her gaze from the ceiling to his serious face as he concentrated on the task at hand—her foot. Her incredibly lucky foot.
