The Doctor + Four

Sonya tied the ribbons, grateful that he couldn’t see her flushed face. “That ought to do the trick.”

“Thanks for the personal service.” A dry attempt at humor.

She got busy cracking eggs, her arms humming with the feel of him. When she adopted children, she vowed, she was going to hug their wiggly little bodies all day. But kids weren’t what she ached for right now.

Barry progressed from peeling to cutting up the vegetables. “May I borrow a jalapeño?”

She handed him one. “That’s an interesting recipe.”

“I’m inventing as I go.” He examined the spuds in front of him. “Hmm. Little red spots.”

What spots? At this late hour, they might be an optical disturbance. “You should sit down.”

“I meant, I’m visualizing them. What am I thinking of? Pimientos!”

She smiled at her goof. “Try the pantry.”

Barry returned with two small jars containing pimientos and capers. “A south-of-the-border theme.”

“Capers are more French or Italian than Latino,” she noted.

“My mother’s of French descent. Okay, it’s a multicultural dish.” He heated oil in a pan and transferred the ingredients before washing up. “This will take longer than the omelets. You should wait a few minutes.”

“I’ll set the table.” Sonya removed two plates from a cabinet. The motion tipped her off balance, right into Barry.

Two large hands clasped her waist and his breath tickled her neck. She wished he’d turn her around, lower his mouth and drive caution away.

Instead, he released her. A Southern gentleman, unfortunately.

She didn’t have the nerve to admit how much she wanted the embrace to continue. That could lead only one place, and she had better judgment. But almost wished she didn’t.

“Sorry I’m so clumsy.” After transferring the plates to the table, she arranged napkins from a basket.

Barry studied her. “You don’t have to apologize. Just send clear messages, okay? Whatever suits you is okay with me.”

How could she send clear messages with her impulses in conflict? “I’m so off-kilter I’m not sure what I mean.”

“Given my record, I have to be careful not to misinterpret. So I’ll follow your lead.” He was in dead earnest.

He’d hit the ball into her court. Lob it back. Kiss him. Then what? Go to bed with a stranger?

A sizzling noise distracted Sonya. “The potatoes!”

Barry grabbed a spatula and flipped them. The bottoms had gone dark brown. “Another minute and I’d have let you down.”

“Let me down?” Sonya activated the burner under her pan.

“I promised to help with the meal,” he clarified.

“We could always pick the unburnt parts off the top.”

He grinned. “There’s a girl after my own heart.”

For reasons that didn’t bear examining, she hoped so.

She tended her pans in silence, keenly aware of the narrow space between them. Sonya wished he’d talk more about what he did in—where had he said? Tallahassee? The questions that popped into her mind, however, were inane: So tell me, are your palm trees taller than our palm trees? Do you get a lot of hurricanes? How’s the humidity in Florida?

At last they switched off the burners beneath the crisp potatoes and appetizing omelet. Sonya could almost taste the spicy aromas as they carried large servings to the table.

She sampled the potatoes first. “This is fabulous. You just woke up my taste buds.”

He’d started with her creation. “Your eggs beat anything at Tacos and Burgers, I guarantee you.” Indicating the plate, he added, “Folding an omelet this neatly is an art form.”

“I learned from my parents. They used to run a restaurant.” She lifted another large forkful of potatoes.

“Glad you’re not a picky eater.”

“Surgery always works up an appetite.” Physical activity didn’t stimulate her hunger nearly as much as the intense mental effort.

“I like a woman with passion.” He dug in, leaving the double entendre hanging in midair.

She decided not to touch it. Besides, she was eager to hear more about his world. “How long have you worked at the newspaper?”

“Six years, since my mother’s accident. She was the editor. I’m the only other remaining journalist in the family, so I replaced her.”

“The only other remaining journalist?” The phrase struck her as odd.

“My father used to edit the paper. He died while I was in prison.” For an instant, Barry grew cold and distant, a glimpse of an alternate self. The loss must have hit him hard. Then he shrugged. “I was lucky to find a job in my field.”

“You’re both a reporter and an editor?”

A nod. “It’s great not having anyone with veto power over what I write. Leaves me free to needle public officials and deflate the arrogant, although they show an incredible talent for reinflating.”

She could tell he enjoyed the subject. “You’re lucky to have found your niche.”

“I can’t complain.” Upon reflection, he amended, “Yes, I can. My dream was to establish myself as an international correspondent or an investigative reporter. I still fantasize about setting the world on fire—not that it’s likely to happen.”

“What’s stopping you?”

The hardness returned. “Lack of a portfolio, and a little something called a criminal record.”

“You don’t have to be an angel to work as a foreign correspondent.” She recalled movie images of seedy types in dinner jackets, lounging in tropical bars. Barry would look incredibly sexy in an outfit like that. A woman might be tempted to seduce him out of it.

“Anyone can call himself a reporter and post stories on the Internet,” came the reply, mercifully short-circuiting her thoughts. “I’m both more practical and more egotistical, which means I’d like a real news organization behind me, along with a paycheck. So far I haven’t come close to getting hired.”

“You should go for it anyway.” Sonya had no right to give advice, she supposed. “Sorry. I’m sure you’ve reviewed all the angles.”

“Yes. Besides, I’ve got a few things to prove down home.” Scooting away from the table, he transferred the dishes to the counter.