Читать книгу Two Doctors and A Baby - Brenda Harlen, Brenda Harlen - Страница 11
Оглавление“Right. The test.”
For a few minutes, Justin had forgotten the reason he was here—the only reason Avery was making dinner for him.
As if on cue, a buzzer sounded from the kitchen.
“That’s the pasta,” she said, automatically turning away.
He caught her hand, halting her before she reached the door. She glanced over her shoulder, a quizzical expression on her face.
“I just wanted to say thanks—for offering to cook for me tonight.”
“You’re welcome,” she said cautiously.
“I know that you don’t really approve of me—”
“And I know you aren’t really concerned about my approval.”
He lifted a shoulder. “But you should know that only about half of the rumors that circulate around the hospital are true.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said.
“And while I can’t control what other people say, I don’t kiss and tell. Ever.”
“I know,” she admitted.
The timer in the kitchen buzzed again.
“I really need to get that pasta off the stove.”
But he still didn’t release her hand and there was a mischievous glint in his eyes that made her uneasy.
“The noodles are going to be overcooked,” she said again, and that was when she realized what he was doing. “You’re stalling me on purpose.”
“Why would I do that?” he asked innocently.
“To wind up my torsion spring.”
“People don’t actually have torsion springs—I only said you were like a torsion spring.”
“If you don’t let me get back to the kitchen right now, I’m going to let loose all of my tension in your direction.”
He grinned. “Promises, promises.”
But this time when she turned away, he let her go.
She had a colander in the sink and a distinctly unhappy look on her face when he returned to the kitchen. She dumped the noodles into the bowl and carried them to the table she must have set when she got out of the shower.
“If dinner is ruined, it’s your fault,” she told him.
“Dinner is not ruined,” he promised, retrieving the salad from the fridge.
But she still looked skeptical as she scooped penne out of the serving bowl and into her pasta bowl. She ladled sauce on the top and waited until he had done the same before she picked up her fork.
“Did your mother teach you how to cook?” he asked, after he’d sampled his first mouthful.
She shook her head. “My mother is a senior research supervisor at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta—she can isolate a pathogen but I doubt she knows how to pound or purée.”
“So who taught you how to cook?”
“I took a few recreational cooking classes at a small culinary institute in Boston while I was doing my residency.”
“Did you graduate with top honors from there, too?”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t for grades, it was for fun.”
“For fun?” he asked skeptically.
Her lips curved, just a little. “It was more fun than starving.”
“Well, your pasta gets top marks from me,” he told her.
“The sauce was good,” she allowed. “The noodles were overcooked.”
“Maybe by about thirty seconds,” he acknowledged, smiling at her.
She smiled back, a wordless acceptance of the truce he’d offered. “Okay, maybe I could learn to relax a little bit.”
“I’d be happy to teach you.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to be that relaxed.”
He chuckled, unoffended.
“I didn’t make anything for dessert, but I do have ice cream,” she told him.
“I don’t think I have room for dessert—even ice cream,” he told her.
“It’s cookies ’n’ cream,” she said, in a tone that suggested no one could refuse her favorite flavor.
But he shook his head. “No, thanks.”
When she started to stack the dishes, he pulled the lab report out of his pocket and slid it across the table to her.
Avery’s heart pounded as she unfolded the page.
Her eyes skimmed the document quickly the first time, then again, more slowly. She’d been right. Just as she’d suspected, his results were all clear.
She exhaled a grateful sigh. There was nothing to worry about. But she’d needed to be sure—just in case there were other repercussions from that night.
“That’s it, then,” she said, almost giddy with relief as she pushed away from the table to help clear it. “There’s no need for either of us to ever again mention what happened on New Year’s Eve.”
He leaned back against the counter, holding her gaze for a long moment before he finally asked, “Are you sure about that?”
She hugged the salad dressing bottles she carried closer to her chest and eyed him warily.
“There are other potential consequences of unprotected sex,” he reminded her.
She nibbled on her lower lip, as if she didn’t know where he was going with the conversation. Because she hadn’t expected him to go there, she hadn’t expected the possibility to cross his mind. And maybe it hadn’t. “What do you mean?”
He continued to hold her gaze, his own unwavering. “I mean a baby,” he told her. “Is it possible you could be pregnant?”
She shook her head as she turned away from him to put the dressings back in the fridge. “I don’t think so.”
