it possible he’d mistaken shyness for disinterest?
She stirred something within him, but he’d just labeled it as curiosity, considering she was the only female he knew who didn’t fall into flirt mode whenever he was near.
He was definitely curious. Beyond curious.
More like intrigued by the plethora of contradictions that defined his colleague.
The CEO waited for Eleanor to speak.
The rest of the crowd waited for her to give her speech.
A too-long pause settled over the crowd.
“H-hello. It—it is …” A few stuttered words began escaping her quivering lips. “An honor …an honor to be here. Today. This evening, I mean.”
“She sure isn’t her sister,” a man next to Ty with a camera in his hands grumbled under his breath.
Surprisingly, Ty’s fingers curled, the man’s comment rubbing him up the wrong way. Why he felt so protective of a woman he wasn’t certain he even liked, he had no clue. But he found himself wanting to speak up, to defend her. How could you defend someone you didn’t really know?
Still, he shot the man a silencing look. “Not everyone is a polished speaker, but Eleanor is a fantastic doctor and woman.”
The man’s bushy brows drew together then he shrugged. “Whatever, pal.” Then he went back to snapping photos.
Not looking anyone in particular in the eye, Eleanor began speaking again, and Ty found himself letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“Th-thanks to everyone for coming to this wonderful occasion where we’re celebrating the opening of a new neonatal wing at the Angel Mendez Children’s Hospital.” She paused, swallowed hard, then smiled what he knew was a forced smile before she continued. “M-many of you know pediatrician Federico Mendez started this hospital during the depression after the death of his much-loved son, Angel, who suffered from polio. My father, Senator Cole Aston, wishes to continue the tradition started by Federico Mendez.”
Her expression tightened and she cleared her throat, pausing too long yet again.
Come on, Eleanor, he mentally willed her on. Just thank everyone for coming again and be done.
“It is with that same generous and caring spirit that my father donated the funds for this new neonatal wing in the hope that—that …” Between stutters, she thanked everyone for coming to the ribbon-cutting. Then, not seeming to know what else to say, she turned imploring eyes on the CEO.
Imploring eyes because she was begging to be rescued.
How was it possible that a woman who’d had to grow up in the public eye could be so socially backward? Surely Cole Aston would have enrolled her in some prep courses to prepare her for public speaking?
And the stuttering? Was that lifelong or something she just did when she was nervous?
Tyler wished he knew. Wished he knew lots of things about the enigma showcased in a flashy red dress.
Rather than rescuing her, the CEO looked as if he had no clue at how on edge she was. Instead, he made another big hoo-ha, then handed Eleanor a large pair of showy scissors.
Immediately, she almost dropped them but managed to recover in the nick of time. One of the men beside her rolled his eyes. Ty saw red and not just the red of Eleanor’s hot dress and cheeks.
His gaze shot back to hers, saw the fear, saw the shaking of her hands, the sheen of perspiration that glistened on her skin. Something moved inside him.
Literally, something in his chest shifted.
Dear heavens, she was going to pass out.
Ty might be known as a womanizing son of a gun, but he was a chivalrous son of a gun. His momma, God bless her big Southern heart, would have beaten his hind end otherwise, and rightly so.
He might have left his horse in Texas but, hell, no one else was stepping in to save the good doctor.
Despite the fact that he was feeling a little off-kilter himself at just what a knockout body she’d been hiding under her scrubs, at whatever that odd sensation in his chest had been when he’d looked at her just a moment ago, at admitting to himself that he’d been interested in her all along, playing the role of white knight to Eleanor’s damsel in distress came as natural as counting one, two, three.
Eleanor couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t move.
Wasn’t even sure how she was hanging on to the scissors that she’d somehow managed to position over the ribbon.
All she had to do was close her hands and the ribbon would slice.
So why weren’t her fingers cooperating? Why weren’t they closing around the handle?
She needed cooperation, needed to get out of there before she toppled over on her face or sagged to a humiliating puddle at the feet of her bosses. Not to mention that her dress would burst wide open if she made any sudden movements. Wouldn’t the press have a field day with that?
Jelly Ellie’s belly exposed yet again.
She winced, fought back the horrible thought of the photo of her happy, pudgy, eight-year-old self hanging out of her bathing suit while hugging her cute and cuddly little sister forever captured by the paparazzi. She reminded herself she wasn’t that little girl anymore who’d been crushed by their cruel jokes and taglines that she carried too much weight. She was an accomplished woman, a doctor. She could do this.
Make the cut. Just squeeze your fingers together and cut the ribbon.
Nothing happened. Except that her palms grew more and more clammy. Any second the scissors were going to slip out of her sweaty hands and fall to the floor.
Headlines around the city would read Senator Cole Aston’s daughter doesn’t make the cut. Folks would nod their heads in agreement, make comments that they’d known she wasn’t good enough to get the job done, that had the lovely Brooke Aston been there all would have been well.
“Dr. Aston?” the CEO prompted from beside her, his low tone warning for her to get on with the program.
She wanted to. Really, she did. But panic had seized her and, except for the trembling within her, she stood frozen in place.
The room began to spin, to darken. She was going down. She’d be mortified. Her father would blame her. Brooke would blame her. The hospital would blame her.
She prayed that when she went down she would bump her head and lose her memory, that she’d lose all recall of the day’s events. Amnesia would be a blessing.
But rather than fall to the floor, a strong pair of hands closed over hers, applying pressure and closing her fingers over the scissors handles. The ribbon split in two and each end drifted toward the floor in a dainty float that Eleanor watched as if in a surreal dream.
The sound of the applause and cheers—and was that
