The rarity of a stolen moment alone sent a little, forbidden thrill up Tess’s spine, and she inhaled a long, deep pull of summer air. Her body loosened by another degree at the fresh warmth of the sunshine, sending a sensation of pure goodness through her that she hadn’t felt in…God, who knew how long. A smile broke free over her face—not the kind dosed with her trademark sarcasm, or dialed down to half-intensity because her eyes got too squinty otherwise, or her crow’s feet might show, or to cover up that tiny chip in her front tooth that her mother (and only her mother) always managed to laser in on with the speed and precision of a heat-seeking missile. Nope. Not today. No, this smile was like sleeping in on Sunday morning. Like a huge slice of chocolate cake. Like an I-saw-Jesus, out-of-body, name-bellowing orgasm—no, two of them. Back to back! Like—
“Well, that’s a sight that’ll stop a man in his tracks, right there.”
The lilting Irish brogue clotheslined Tess back to the ambulance bay in less than a blink, her whole body going rigid before she’d fully released the gasp in her throat. “Can I help you?”
The man belonging to the voice stepped toward her, which did not one fucking thing by way of slowing the slam-bang of her heart. Muscle-packed body that was far more lithe than bulky. Bright, emerald-green eyes she’d swear were contacts, framed by long, black lashes she’d double-swear were fake. Darkly lined, swirling tattoos—Tess swallowed hard—covering both arms, slipping up into the snug sleeves of his dark gray T-shirt with forbidden suggestion and the weirdest hint of familiarity, and wait…
“I’m lookin’ fer Connor Bradshaw,” the guy said, his sinful half-smile as sexy as the rest of him. “Big guy. Dark red hair. The woman behind the desk at his clinic, there”—he hooked a thumb over his shoulder without looking—“said he was here today. D’you know ’im?”
Those tattoos…those cheekbones that could probably cut glass…that banked-fire stare…and he was asking for Connor, of all people…
Jesus Tapdancing Christ! This was Connor’s buddy from the Air Force, the guy he talked about all the time. The guy who was now a romance novel cover model and graced the front of all the steamy books Connor brought in for the staff.
The guy who headlined every last one of Tess’s filthiest sexual fantasies when she read said books. Over. And over.
And over again.
“Oh, shit,” she blurted, clamping down on her lip as soon as the swear had escaped.
Irish didn’t seem to mind. “I take it you do know him, then.”
Tess opened her mouth to answer—PG-13, this time—but he swayed on his feet, making her senses prick into alertness.
“Are you okay?” She scanned him from top to toes, this time medically. His face had flushed slightly, although, that could be the whole hey-look-it’s-June thing, not to mention, the duffel he had slung over his shoulder didn’t look terribly light. His gorgeous green eyes seemed to have lost their focus for a second, because he gave up a slow blink, then another, his smile fading.
“What makes y’ask?”
The words sounded the slightest bit slurred, not quite a product of his accent, but not like he was drunk, either, and nope. Something was definitely not right.
“Because”—Tess took a step toward him, then another, to bring her within arm’s reach of the guy—“you’re flushed, and swaying. And sweating,” she added, now close enough to notice the light sheen on his forehead. Shit.
Irish quirked an inky black brow. “Y’don’t think it’s because I’m lookin’ at a pretty girl?”
“Nope.” Tess’s answer was swift and sure. First of all, this guy? Calling her pretty? Was the most insane thing ever verbalized. Plus, she knew how to dodge a question with the best of them, and Irish, here, was in full-on deflection mode. “I sure don’t. But I’ll give you an A for effort.”
His smile came back, although, this time, it was loaded with deference. “You got me. I am a bit wobbly.” He set his duffel down on the sidewalk, rolling one flawlessly sculpted shoulder. “I just flew in from California, and forgot to eat, I s’pose. That’s all.”
Forgot to eat? Tess snorted. Who did that? Still, he looked far more composed now, his eyes clear and his smile back in place. Plus, it was kind of warm out here. Even she was sweating a little.
Girl, that’s so not the weather.
“Right,” Tess said, knocking the thought back and giving him one last perusal. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Of course. I’m just grand,” he replied.
And then he passed out in her arms.
2
Whoever was holding Declan Riley had really nice tits.
Unfortunately for him, his savior was all up close and personal because he’d gone tango uniform on the goddamned pavement—again, fuck him very much—so he was going to have to table his dirty ideas, at least until he could get his blood sugar under control.
Not that he’d been able to make that happen without serious medical assistance for the past two years, but hey. A guy could dream.
“Whoa! Okay, Irish. Here we go, nice and easy.” The woman, whose face was even prettier than her curves, was shockingly strong, considering he was impersonating a sack of stones right now. Shite, he needed to focus.
“M’grand,” Declan slurred, forcing himself to breathe deeply.
Right. So much for that. His brain was practically fucking oatmeal. “Uh-huh,” she said, easing a shoulder under his arm and locking her hip against his to bear his weight. “You’re freaking fantastic. We’re going to try this one step at a time, okay? I need to get you inside so I can take a closer look at you, and I don’t want to carry you unless I have to.”
His legs felt like wet ropes, loose and heavy. Still, he commanded them to move, hating how well he knew how to override a blood sugar crash when the occasion called for it. “Alright.”
Declan leaned on the woman far more than he wanted to, at least for the purposes of not wanting to crush her or look like an even bigger arse than he did. He must have lost track of the time and forgotten to eat when he should’ve. He knew better, of course. But this cross-country trip to see his former Air Force unit-mate on a frigging Hail Mary of a chance that Connor could help had him really off his game.
Declan needed a lifeline. Literally.
Damn, the woman holding him smelled good. Her head fit perfectly under his chin, and if he leaned down just a little bit, maybe he’d be able to find out if her hair was as silky as it looked…
“I need a little help over here!” she barked out, notching down on things a bit as she looked up at him and added, “You’re still with me, right, Irish? Can’t have you passing out on me twice in one day. My boss will be pissed.”
His nod was more wobbly than he’d like—wait, where was he, again? He’d been on a flight, maybe two? Okay, yeah, the woman with the pretty smile was still there, gripping him tight, and he commanded himself to focus on her eyes. Light brown. Full of fire. Like really good whiskey over ice. “You’re a doctor, then?” His tongue felt thick, barely pushing the words out.