yet no image would form. All she could picture was a woman making a tart. “So what is she, a compulsive baker?”
“She’s an incredible cook.”
“Is that what she does for a living?”
“The exit’s over here,” he said, and she wondered if he’d deliberately ignored her question. He led her to an automatic revolving door, and she crowded into the space with him, breathing a sigh of relief as they escaped together.
“I feel better already,” Tess said. “Not a fan of hospitals.”
“When you need one, you need one.”
There was something in his tone. She wondered what his experience with hospitals was. She was filled with questions about him but stopped herself from asking. “I don’t intend to make a habit of falling apart for no reason. According to the people here, I’m supposed to find a physician and make lifestyle changes.”
She patted her giant bag. “It’s all in this brochure about my condition. Shoot. I hate having a condition.” She started walking across the street.
“Where are you going?”
“To work. I’ve got a zillion things to do.”
“I told your colleague...that guy...”
“Jude.” Jude the Disloyal.
“I said he should let everyone know you wouldn’t be back today.”
She felt a flash of...something. Annoyance? Or was it relief?
“I am going back to the office. There’s no way I can miss this meeting—”
“It’s been canceled. Your assistant asked me to let you know.”
“What? You canceled my meeting?”
“Wasn’t me.”
She pawed through her bag until she found a phone. Sure enough, there was a text from the office, informing her of the cancellation. Her heart flipped over. Had Mr. Sheffield canceled the meeting because she’d stood him up? Should she call Brooks and ask? No, there was probably enough gossip and speculation about her already.
“Now I need a coffee,” she said, then eyed him defiantly. “And a cigarette.”
“Just what the doctor ordered?”
She bridled. “You’re probably one of those Mr. Healthier-Than-Thou types, aren’t you?”
“Just your average non-smoker.” He took her arm, steered her into a coffee shop. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”
She tried to resent him for looking after her, but he’d been nothing but kind to her. None of this was his fault. She sat at a small round corner table and took out the information packet from the doctor. What a day. A crazy, terrible day.
Dominic returned with a large, steaming mug, which she gratefully accepted. As the scent wafted to her, she frowned, wrinkling her nose.
“Herbal tea,” he said.
“It smells like grass clippings.”
She sniffed again, ventured a small sip. “Yikes, that’s foul. I’d rather drink cleaning fluid.”
“It’s supposed to be good for the nerves.” He showed her the menu description: lavender, chamomile, Saint-John’s-wort, Valerian.
“Witch’s brew,” she said, and gave a shudder. “My nerves are fine.”
He said nothing, but his silence spoke volumes. She found herself focusing on his hands—large and strong-looking, a big multifunction watch strapped to one wrist. Discomfited to feel yet another nudge of attraction, she added, “Anyway, I’m going to be fine. I have a whole program here.” She showed him the information packet from the doctor. “Go ahead, take a look. After the ER, everybody in earshot knows all my secrets.”
“Says here the effects of untreated anxiety can be harmful, not to mention unpleasant.”
She shuddered, remembering the blinding sense of panic. “And people go to medical school for years to figure that out.” She looked across the table, seeing compassion in his eyes. “Sorry. I doubt whining is helpful.”
“After this morning, you’re entitled to whine. A little.” He consulted the booklet she’d been given. “The good news is, there’s plenty you can do. Step One: breathing exercises.”
“Okay, if there’s one thing I could do without practicing, it’s breathing. Hell, I was born knowing how to do that.”
“Breathing exercises are done lying down.” He showed her a series of diagrams.
“Otherwise known as sleeping.”
“Meditation is recommended. I don’t suppose you meditate.”
“How did you guess?”
He consulted the checklist again. “Yoga?”
“Noga.”
“Regular exercise of any kind?”
She scowled at him. “Running through airports. Power shopping.”
“‘Cognitive behavioral therapy,’” he read from the list.
She chuckled. “Every day. Doesn’t it show?”
“Sense of humor,” he said. “That’s not on the list, but it can’t hurt.”
She inadvertently took a sip of her tea and nearly gagged. “This stuff can’t possibly be on the list.”
“Here you go—foods to avoid.” He turned the page toward her.
“Let me guess—refined sugars, alcohol, caffeine....”
“Good guess.”
“Those are my major food groups.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I’m not going to do any of that stuff. It’s just not me.”
“Look, I don’t know you,” he said. “But I’m going to take a wild guess—if you do what the doctors say, it might help.”
She heard an inner echo of the doctor’s dire warning about her blood pressure and stress on her heart. You’re too young to put yourself at risk. You need to take it easy.... Parking her elbows on the table, she regarded him through eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why do I get the feeling you’re experienced with doctors and hospitals?”
He shrugged. “Must be your uncanny insight. Here.” He placed the information in front of her. “Start small. Pick one thing on the list and commit to it.”
His baritone voice and whiskey-brown eyes drew her in, more persuasive by far than the geeky resident in the ER. Dominic Rossi. Who had a right to be that good-looking? It almost distracted her from the fact
