He said, “One minute,” to Francesca, and stood.
She said, “Do you know her?”
“Yeh,” he said. “She’s my neurosurgeon.”
She was going to die, but she was still running.
One more block. Just one more, and she’d stop at the Thai place and order takeout, because once she had a shower, she was going to have zero energy to go anywhere or do anything else. She was going to take that shower, collapse onto the bed, and eat her food from the carton.
Naked.
That wasn’t for any kind of sexy reason. She was going to have to pull her T-shirt over her head to get into that shower, though, and she was pretty sure that would take her very last remaining shred of …
“Oy. Doctor.”
She stopped running. Or shuffling. Webster slewed around, then launched himself and started the frisking.
It was her patient. Mr. Hotness. Luka.
Oh, this was perfect. This was wonderful.
The guy had tackled Webster yesterday, but apparently, the dog didn’t bear grudges. She was holding the leash, still, being carried along with him, but he was nearly jerking it out of her hand.
She was not dropping this leash and having him escape again.
“SIT.”
It wasn’t exactly loud. It was just so commanding that she very nearly sat herself. It was Luka, of course. He grabbed Webster’s muzzle, wrapping his fingers around his damp jaws—Webster had a definite drooling issue—and shoved hard on the dog’s backside with the other hand.
Webster sat.
Luka held up a hand, palm out, stared into the dog’s eyes—he still hadn’t let go of the muzzle—and said, “Stay.”
“I don’t think he … knows that one,” Elizabeth said. “He doesn’t exactly … know much.”
“I noticed,” Luka said.
“Sorry,” she said. Stupidly, and with no surgical confidence at all. “We’ll just … go. We’ll go.”
That was because there was a woman sitting at the table opposite Luka. The kind of woman you didn’t realize actually existed until you met one. Until, for example, your father married somebody with a daughter, and she came to live in your house, apparently just to be a living, breathing example of everything you weren’t.
Except that this woman was even more polished and even more perfect than Elizabeth’s stepsister, Piper. She had perfect hair and perfect makeup, the kind that looked like you weren’t wearing any, and was wearing a perfectly casual little dress that had probably cost nothing at all and sandals with the kind of heel that made orthopedic surgeons anticipate the bill. Her legs were crossed, showing off her Certified Zero Cellulite, she was sipping a glass of white wine, and she was smiling coolly.
Elizabeth hated her.
“Hi,” the blonde said, and waggled her fingers. “I’m Francesca.”
“Sit down,” Luka said. He’d let go of Webster’s muzzle, but the dog was somehow still sitting. Back to panting and drooling, his specialties.
“You mean me?” Elizabeth said. Again, stupidly.
Jogging was terrible. Jogging stole your brain.
“Well, the dog’s already doing it,” Luka pointed out, with some humor in the crumpled lines of his face. “So I’d have to mean you.”
“Ha.” She leaned forward and rested her palms on her knees. “Oh, boy. I’m …”
“Whoa.” Luka had his arm around her and his hand gripping an elbow. “Come on. Sit down.”
“I’m not going to faint,” she said, resisting him, even though sitting sounded extremely appealing. “I’m taking a rest. I was running.” A twitch at the corner of his mouth, and she said, “Don’t say it. Do not say it.”
“I’m not saying it,” he said. “Come on. Sit.” With the other hand, he pulled out a chair, and she sat. Just for a minute. Just until she got her breath again.
Hey, it was a restaurant. Well, obviously it was, but she could order her takeout food here, and then walk home and pull off her T-shirt and take her shower and do the naked-in-bed thing and the rest of it.
No, wait. She couldn’t. Because he was clearly on a date. He was wearing a collared shirt, and he seemed like the kind of guy who wouldn’t normally do that.
The shirt was blue and cut close to his body, and it was untucked. He was wearing dark jeans with it, and the whole thing looked pretty … Well, he looked good, that was all. He had excellent hair. Thick and wavy, with a little gray at the temples. Also a very broad chest, taut abdominals, and excellent muscle definition in general.
Surgically speaking. Surgically speaking, he was a fine specimen.
“Are you really a neurosurgeon?” the other woman asked. “I’m Francesca, by the way.”
“E … Elizabeth.” There was possibly a gasp in there. “Yes. I am.”
“I thought you had to be …”
Elizabeth eyed her, but Luka got in ahead of her. “Careful. She’s eminent, apparently. That other doctor used a rugby metaphor to tell me how eminent, did you notice that?” he asked Elizabeth. “Bloody condescending, I thought.”
“Surgeons can be that way. Occupational hazard. Comes of knowing too much about people’s insides or something.” She finished off the glass of water he’d shoved in front of her and said, “Thanks. I’ll be going. Wait, though. Does that thing you did, grabbing Webster’s nose—does it work?”
“What, the dog?” When he smiled, his face crumpled even more, the creases around his eyes and on his forehead deepening. “Yeh. It does. And that’s his muzzle. It’s a dominance thing.”
“Oh.” She considered that. “Is that … all right to do?”
This time, he laughed. “Yeh. It is. ‘Dominance’ isn’t a dirty word when it comes to dogs.”
“Not a dirty word to me anytime,” Francesca murmured, almost-but-not-quite into her wine glass.
Luka’s mouth quirked again, but he just said, “He wants to know what he’s meant to do. If he’s allowed to express himself all over the shop the way he has been, he gets overexcited and out of control, like a kid up past his bedtime. That isn’t as enjoyable as you may think.”
A shadow fell over the table, and Elizabeth realized for the first time that Luka had sat down, somewhere in there, between her and the other woman. And that there was somebody else here now, too.
“Luka?” the woman said. “Hi.”
The surgeon—dog-loser—Elizabeth—scrambled to her feet so fast, she stumbled a little over her chair, and the dog—Webster—lurched to his feet as well, jarring the table. Luka grabbed for his beer glass to save it and told her, “Wait a minute. Stay and have a beer. You look like you need one.” After that, he stood, kissed yet another woman on the cheek—the only one he hadn’t kissed tonight was Elizabeth, and she was, oddly, the one he really wanted to, maybe because she made him laugh—and said, “Hi, Mona. This is Francesca. Old friend. And Webster. Dog. And Elizabeth, my neurosurgeon.”
Elizabeth coughed, half in and half out of her chair, and then she coughed some more, as if she were choking. Francesca poured a glass of water and pushed it silently across the table, and Elizabeth flapped a hand wildly over her head, waving it away, and continued to cough. Luka said, “Everybody, this is Mona. Fitness trainer. My date.”