Читать книгу The Temptation of Dr. Colton - Karen Whiddon - Страница 10

Chapter 4

Anticipation at seeing her again quickened Eric’s footsteps. Using his key, he entered his town house, trying to be as quiet as possible so if MW still slept, he wouldn’t wake her.

But when he stepped into the living room, she rose gracefully from the sofa to greet him. She’d opened the blinds, and the western sun streamed in so brightly it silhouetted her in a halo. Stopping short, he caught his breath, struck dumb by her beauty.

“You’re back early,” she said, smiling.

Blinking, he took another step forward.

“Ryan had to go back to work. But I brought your sandwich.” He held up the now grease-stained bag. “It’s pretty big, so I hope you’re hungry.”

“Starving,” she told him, her soft voice matching her smile. She followed him into the kitchen, taking a seat at the bar while he located a plate for her. Handing her the sandwich and some paper towels for a napkin, he asked her what she wanted to drink.

“Water is fine,” she answered. “But you don’t have to wait on me. If you’ll point out the cabinet that holds the glasses, I’ll be happy to get it myself.”

Unfortunately, he needed to keep busy to refrain from touching her. “Just sit. I can take care of this, so let me. Maybe after you’re feeling better, but for now, rest and relax.”

Once he got her water, he leaned against the counter and watched as she devoured her sandwich, trying not to eye her too intently while he attempted to figure out what exactly about her so entranced him.

As a physician, Eric believed in logic, in cold hard facts. He knew physical attraction could be due to pheromones, or physical appearance, or a combination of these things and more. Whatever the reason, he desired this woman, whom he’d just met, with a fierceness that should have shocked him. The fact that it didn’t made him wonder if he was losing his mind.

The sandwich disappeared, and MW sighed, blotting her lush mouth with the paper towel. He couldn’t help but follow the gesture with his gaze, feeling as if he might be drowning. She took a deep drink of water, then smiled at him. “Thank you so much. That was absolutely delicious.”

He swallowed tightly. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“Thank you so much for all you’re doing for me.” Impulsively, she pushed to her feet and enveloped him in a tight hug. His arms came up of their own accord, holding her close. He could feel every soft, rounded curve of her as she pressed herself against him. His body stirred, his arousal immediate and strong. Not wanting to frighten or horrify her, he quickly extricated himself from her embrace.

“You’re welcome.” Struggling to sound normal, he cleared his throat. He spied her purple umbrella, still in the stand near the doorway. “Do you recognize that?” he asked, pointing.

Frowning, she walked over to it and picked it up. “Purple with white cupcakes. Very cute. Is it mine?”

“Yes. You were carrying it the night you...had your accident.”

“Oh.” Dropping it back in the umbrella stand, she sighed. “I think I need to get some more rest.” She gave him a wobbly smile that made his chest feel tight. “I’ll talk to you in the morning, okay?”

Still battling a fierce and persistent need, he nodded. And then, feeling like a fool, he watched her walk away, all the way down the hall until she closed her bedroom door behind her.

Only once she’d vanished from view did the tightness disappear from his chest.

Some things couldn’t be analyzed, he knew, and if he’d been prone to flights of fancy, he’d think MW had been brought into his life for a reason. He’d been in the right place at the right time, and knew his quick call to 911 would have saved her life had she been badly hurt.

Imagination, wishful thinking, was as foreign to him as modern medicine might be to a witch doctor. Eric had never been anything but honest with himself. For whatever reason, he found MW attractive. His desire for her made the space around her seem electrified. Had she been anyone else, in any other situation, he’d have pursued her.

But until she had her memory back, until she knew who she was and the details of her life, he needed to keep himself under control. Somehow.

Frustrated, he considered heading down to the gym and working out, but didn’t want to leave her alone again.

Instead, he unwound by watching television, falling asleep to the ten-o’clock news. At some point near midnight, he roused himself and headed off to his own bed.

Always an early riser, the next morning, for the first time in his life, Eric tried to move around quietly so he didn’t wake his houseguest. Growing up on a ranch, he’d learned to wake before sunrise most mornings, a habit he’d temporarily abandoned in college, then taken back in medical school and residency. Out of necessity, these days he got to the hospital bright and early, sometimes even before the sun was more than a hint of light on the Oklahoma horizon.

When he walked into the kitchen for his first cup of coffee and flicked on the light, he stopped short at the sight of MW sitting hunched over a mug at his countertop bar.

“Hey.” She flashed him a weary smile. “I couldn’t sleep. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Since she looked brittle enough to crumble, he kept his movements slow. “Nope. This is when I normally get up.”

Now her eyes widened as she glanced from him to the wall clock. “At four-thirty?” She said the time with horror. “Seriously?”

“Yep.” He crossed to the Keurig coffeemaker, put his coffee pod in and pressed the button to brew. While he waited, he turned to study her. “Maybe today you’ll start to remember something.”

Her nod didn’t contain any real enthusiasm, which told him he hadn’t imagined her mood last night. “Why does that upset you?” he asked.

“I have no idea. I simply can’t remember. But for whatever reason, just thinking about it ties my stomach up in knots. That’s why I couldn’t sleep.”

Snagging his coffee, he took the bar stool next to her. “How long have you been sitting here?”

“I don’t know.” The downturn of her mouth fascinated him. He had the strangest urge to see if he could make it curve up in a smile.

Instead, he sipped his coffee. “What would you like to do today while I’m at work?”

She thought for a moment. “Do you have any cookbooks?” she asked.

Surprised, he nodded. “I can probably rustle up one or two. At one point I thought I might teach myself to be a better cook.”

“Did you?”

“No.” He grinned at her, mentally urging her to smile. “I don’t have the aptitude for it.”

Finally, one side of her mouth lifted, then the other. “I guess we can’t all be gifted in the kitchen.”

A hint? Careful not to show his excitement, he focused on his coffee. “Are you a good cook, then?

He looked up in time to catch her slight frown. “I... Maybe. It’s possible. Either way, while you’re at the hospital, I’d like to try.”

“Great.” Pushing to his feet, he dragged his hand through his hair and tried not to notice the way the frilly, brightly colored pajama shorts Greta had bought her showcased her legs. “I’ll find the books and leave them on the counter for you. Right now, I’ve got to get ready for work.”

He hurried out of the room, more flustered than he’d like to admit, even to himself.

* * *

After Eric left for the hospital, MW sat in the kitchen, lost in her own thoughts. The two cookbooks Eric had been able to locate sat in front of her, untouched. She didn’t understand why the idea of finally knowing her own name terrified her, or why a heavy weight of depression settled over her every time she thought about her memory returning. Had something bad happened to her? Or worse, what if she’d committed a horrible act? What kind of person would she turn out to be?

She didn’t know. Eric had said her memory could return at any time, but she shouldn’t try to force it. Since he hadn’t known precisely how long that would be, she had no choice but to try to be patient, even if she felt as if she were about to jump out of her own skin.

Finally, after her second cup of coffee, she reached for the first cookbook. Flipping through the glossy pages, she tried to figure out what she’d like to try making. Of course a lot of that depended on what supplies Eric had on hand.

Why this strong urge to cook, to make something with her own hands, she didn’t know. Maybe some vestige of who she really was. Either way, the idea brought her comfort.

After checking in Eric’s fridge and cupboards, she settled on a simple apple crisp. After all, she didn’t really know if she had any cooking skills.

Peeling, coring, slicing the apples she’d found in a bowl on the kitchen counter, she didn’t try to overthink anything. Her hands seemed to know what they were doing, so she let them. Measuring out the ingredients, she found herself adding a pinch of this and that, some extra cinnamon and a bit of nutmeg. When she finally placed the dessert in the oven to bake, she felt such a happy sense of accomplishment that she wished for music. Since she didn’t have any, she danced around the kitchen anyway.

She’d always loved to dance and sing while she cooked.

Stunned, the certainty of that knowledge made her freeze. An actual memory? What else could it have been?

Desperate, she tried to see if she could recall anything else. Evidently, she tried too hard, because all she came up with was a blank slate.

Meanwhile, the kitchen filled up with the fragrant smell of the apple crisp. It might have been the wrong thing to make in August, but for whatever reason it seemed like comfort food to her.

A quick glance at the clock showed noon had come and gone, and she needed to eat something for lunch. She fixed herself a salad, enjoying the selection of fresh greens she found in the refrigerator crisper. Dr. Eric Colton might be a busy man, but he sure knew how to stock a kitchen.

While she ate, she flipped through the second cookbook, wondering if she should make him something for dinner. Though she didn’t have any idea what time he actually came home, she guessed she could always keep warm whatever she prepared.

The idea energized her. She checked to see what kind of proteins he had. Once again, his freezer was well stocked. She took out a pork roast and put it in the fridge to thaw for tomorrow, and took out a packet of hamburger meat. She’d thaw it in the microwave, and whip up some kind of pasta casserole. That would be easy to reheat.

Grinning—listen to her, thinking she could just whip up a casserole—she started assembling the necessary components.

To her surprise, once she’d followed all the steps in the cookbook, again she found herself intuitively adding a pinch here and there of different seasonings. Just like with the crisp, it felt like she somehow instinctively knew they’d enhance the dish. Humming happily, she conceded the fact that since she had no idea of her past, she just might be a very good cook indeed.

Once she’d put the casserole in the oven, she decided to keep herself busy by concocting another dessert. A cake? Pie? In the end, she realized Eric had enough ingredients for her to make a delicious cheesecake. Since it would need an hour baking time, plus time to cool, she needed to get it going. What on earth they were going to do with two desserts, she didn’t know, but surely the sweet treats wouldn’t go to waste.

Quickly, she pulverized graham crackers, melted the butter, located a pie plate and made a crust. She put that in the oven for a few minutes, then got busy making the cheesecake itself.

Whipping the cream cheese and other components felt strangely satisfying. She again found herself performing steps by rote, as if from the memory of doing this before so many times the actions had become habit.

Since the oven temperature for the casserole was 350, she slid the casserole over and placed the cheesecake next to it. She set the microwave timer for that.

And then she sat back and waited while everything cooked.

By the time she removed the ground beef, pasta and mushrooms, all in a creamy cheese sauce, from the oven, she knew she’d made a winner. First, the fragrant smell made her mouth water, and secondly, the dish looked fit for a photographic spread in a cooking magazine—it was that beautiful.

A quick glance at the clock showed several hours had passed. She couldn’t believe the time—six-fifteen. She had no idea when Eric got off work at the hospital, but since he’d gone in over twelve hours ago, surely it would be soon.

Her stomach growled. Should she eat? Or wait? She decided to let the casserole cool slightly and if Eric wasn’t home, go ahead and have her meal. She knew he’d understand, especially if he didn’t return until much later.

Thirty minutes later she pulled out the cheesecake, pleased with the way it looked. She placed it on a rack to cool and opened a bottle of red wine. After pouring herself a glass, she walked to the window, gazing out at the busy city streets below.

The sound of the key in the front door lock made her jump. When Eric came inside, her heart skipped a beat.

“Wow.” He stopped, sniffing appreciatively. “Whatever that is, it smells great.”

His comment made her beam. Glad she’d waited, she hurried to set the table. “I made dinner.”

His green eyes twinkled. “You know you didn’t have to, but you wouldn’t believe how glad I am that you did. I barely had time to eat an apple today, so I’m starving.”

Happiness and pride hummed inside her as she placed the casserole in the center of the table. She poured him a glass of wine and took her seat across from him, watching as Eric dished up a large serving on his plate. Though her own helping was a third of the size of his, she felt a jolt of alarm as she realized she should have tasted it before serving it. Every good chef knew that.

Every good chef? What did she know about that? Shrugging off the thought, she watched as Eric raised his fork to his mouth.

He rolled his eyes, making appreciative sounds. “I didn’t know you were a gourmet chef,” he said, once he’d swallowed.

Delighted, she managed a casual shrug. “Neither did I,” she teased. “I simply followed a recipe I found in one of your cookbooks.”

One silver brow raised. “Taste it.”

After she complied, she made a pleased noise. “It is pretty good,” she admitted, having another bite.

Too busy devouring his meal to comment, Eric merely shook his head. When he’d cleaned his plate, he had seconds, which gave MW a serious case of the warm fuzzies.

“Try and leave room for dessert,” she told him, unable to keep from smiling.

“Dessert?” He followed her gaze to where the cheesecake sat cooling next to the apple crisp. “Be still my heart.”

This time, she laughed out loud. “You have a choice. I hope they’re as good as they look and smell.”

Eric opted for the cheesecake, promising to try the crisp in the morning. “Mmm. It’s even better.” Eric devoured his slice, then gave her a sheepish look as he got a second. “I’ll gain weight if I keep eating like this,” he said, sounding not the least bit repentant.

She laughed again. With surprise, she noted that despite everything, she was happy. She liked him. Not for the first time, she wondered if losing her memory gave her a much-needed opportunity to start over. A blank slate.

But that would only be needed if it turned out she had an awful past.

With that, she gave herself a mental shake. Until she knew the truth, why waste her time speculating?

When the meal was finished, she began clearing off the table. Rising, Eric helped. “We can eat these leftovers again,” he told her, smiling. “I’ll cover them and put them in the fridge for later.”

The tableau felt so cozy and domestic, she blinked. Swaying, she felt as if she watched them both from a distance, as though viewing a show on television. “Is disassociation part of amnesia?” she asked, trying not to worry.

Eric went still, eyeing her carefully. “Why do you ask?”

His stillness scared her more than anything. “Nothing,” she lied. “Just curious.”

She didn’t know him well enough to know if he believed her or not. “Do you get to take a lunch break during the day?” she asked, changing the subject while she carried the dishes to the sink.