in his face, making the angles sharper, more defined. “The people I treated were most often unconscious and completely helpless. There wasn’t time for polite conversation.”
Wow, she’d whipped him up into a real huff. She ought to be ashamed that she’d enjoyed doing it.
Curiosity had her wondering about the previous job he’d just described, but now wasn’t the time to ask. She was too close to her goal of provoking him to his limit. She tilted her head and queried, “So you’re saying I’m not real?”
She injected the question with a jesting tone, let the humor she felt twinkle in her eyes.
Finally realizing he was being purposely prodded, he shook his head. Then he looked down at the floor, chuckling.
The sound was rich and heady. Catherine liked it. A lot.
And when he lifted his gaze to hers, he was smiling.
Smiling.
A tingling heat permeated Catherine’s entire body.
“No,” he said softly. “I’m not saying that at all. You’re perfectly real.”
He draped his stethoscope back around his neck and laced his fingers together at his waist.
“You should smile more often,” she told him.
He nodded. “You’re probably right.”
Silence hung between them, heavy and cumbersome. If she didn’t know better, she’d have sworn that the temperature in the room rose several degrees.
Her grin was smug. “No probably about it. That smile suits you. Loosens up everything. The tenseness in your body—” without thought, her tone lowered an octave “—in our conversation…in the very air.”
She did feel an easing of the strain in him, both physically and emotionally, and in their conversation. But the air remained dense. Deliciously thick. His irritation was no longer the culprit, she realized. What swirled around them now was something shadowy. Something both mysterious and exciting.
Catherine hoped he didn’t intend to use that stethoscope to listen to her heart any time soon, because if he did, he couldn’t miss the way it fluttered against her ribs.
“Okay, so maybe we need to start over.” He offered her his hand. “Hello. My name is Dr. Riley Jacobs.”
She slid her palm against his and curled her fingers around his hand. His skin was warm, his handshake firm.
“I’m Catherine Houston,” she told him, pleased to play along. “My family calls me Cat. But I prefer Catherine.”
“Catherine it is, then.”
The handshake ended and she felt a twinge of disappointment.
“And how are you today?” He measured each word carefully.
“Much better now.”
Much better! she thought.
“So what brings you in to see me today? Did you strain a muscle? Are you sore from overexertion?”
In a sudden quandary, Catherine remained silent. He was being pleasant now, sure. But as soon as she told him there was nothing wrong with her, he’d probably be peeved that she’d wasted his time.
“Well,” she started out haltingly, “I don’t really have a physical injury.”
“Oh?” Uncertainty clouded his eyes, yet at the same time curiosity had his brows arching the tiniest bit.
“I don’t know if you’re aware,” she said, “but I’m a visitor to Portland. I came here because my cousin visited the city not too long ago and he just raved about the place.”
Her cousin Max had met his wife here in Oregon. And he’d defied convention completely when he’d married Ivy Crosby, too.
“So I thought I’d escape from…everything—” The words snagged in her throat and she gave a small cough. She needed to be careful or she was going to give away her secret. “I wanted to see what kind of fun I could find in Portland,” she finished.
“And what kind of fun have you found?”
He was giving tolerance and patience a valiant effort, but she could tell this small talk was driving him nuts.
She couldn’t help but observe, “You’re really a workaholic, aren’t you?”
Her question took him aback. There was defensiveness in his tone when he said, “I don’t know that I’d say that.”
Catherine ignored him. “You must have a reputation of working hard. How else could you land the top job at a place like this? I mean, look at you. You’re champing at the bit to do something—analyze my symptoms, diagnose my problem—so you can move on to the next crisis.”
His rigid shoulders relaxed and he actually laughed.
She’d found him appealing before, but this laid-back manner of his enthralled her.
“Sounds like I’m the one being diagnosed here. But I don’t mind reminding you that you’re the one who made this appointment. With me. The doctor. The one wearing the white coat and the stethoscope. So if we can just stick to the topic at hand…” He tossed her a pointed look.
Chagrin had her averting her gaze, and she shifted her hips until the edge of exam table pressed against the backs of her knees.
“You were explaining this nonphysical problem of yours,” he prompted.
“I was.” Bolstering herself with a deep breath, she said, “The people I’ve met here at the clinic’s gym are great, but everyone seems so busy with work or their families. No one seems to have time for a new friend. I was able to enjoy a cup of tea with Dr. Lassen. But I’ve been eating dinner alone every night. I’ve been doing a little sight-seeing, but—” she sighed dramatically “—it’s just not the same when you’re all on your own.”
With each sentence she spoke the crease between his eyebrows cut deeper into his forehead.
“Are you trying to tell me that you’re suffering from loneliness?”
“Well, you don’t have to say it like that.” She tucked her arms across her chest and informed him, “It’s a perfectly legitimate ailment.”
Even though humor continued to sparkle in his chocolate eyes, he did a great job of mustering up some solemnity. “Of course it is.”
She forced her spine to straighten. “So it’s official? I’ve been diagnosed?” Without waiting for him to answer her silly questions, she barreled ahead. “Then what I’d like you to do is write me a prescription. For some company. For some conversation.” She thought a moment and then boldly announced, “I think a sight-seeing tour of Portland would be nice. Coffee and dessert would be great. Oh, and dinner, too. Not necessarily in that order, of course.”
He looked quite stunned. She
