‘Of course,’ she said briskly in her thick Scottish brogue.
Claire pulled out her phone and immediately saw the reminder on her screen. Her stomach fell through the floor. She’d been so obsessed by the fact she’d landed in Alistair’s lap last night and tickled his tonsils that she’d totally forgotten about boot camp.
Andrew’s face drained of colour. ‘Surely someone needs to be on duty on—’ he read the black and purple writing on his boss’s T-shirt ‘—the tenth. Happy to volunteer, sir.’
‘Already got that covered, Bailey,’ Alistair said in a tone that brooked no argument. He swung his clear sea-grey gaze to Claire.
Be professional. She clenched her fists and willed herself not to drop her gaze. Willed herself to act as if this was just a regular morning instead of the one after her worst ever career folly. Memories of last night—of the way his eyes and then his mouth had fixed on hers—rolled back in, foaming and bubbling like a king tide.
Let it go. It didn’t happen.
Oh, but it did. She had the sweet and tender bruises on her lips to prove it.
Now, faced with all six foot of him standing there in front of her wearing athletic gear and with the scent of his cologne invading her senses, it was increasingly difficult to focus on her plan to banish every delicious thing that had happened between them. Remember the embarrassment. Remember he’s your boss. That will do the trick every time.
‘It’s not like you to forget an appointment, Mitchell,’ he said, using her surname in the British public school way as he did occasionally. ‘It’s important we all attend for team spirit,’ he added politely.
Despite the well-modulated parameters of his very British accent, she heard the unmistakable tone of an order. Was this his way of saying that he agreed with her that last night was an aberration? That it was a shocking mistake they both needed to forget and move on from? That it was over and done with and she needed to remember that the cohesion of the workplace team always came ahead of everything?
Please let it be so. ‘We won’t let you down again,’ she said brightly. She sent up a plea that Alistair had caught her double meaning and knew that she understood they were both on the same page about last night. ‘We’re looking forward to the next boot camp, aren’t we, Andrew?’
Andrew stared at her as if she’d completely lost her mind. ‘Wouldn’t miss it,’ he said glumly.
Alistair grinned and clapped his hands together once. ‘Excellent. Let’s start rounds.’
As they walked towards the first bay, Morag handed Claire a tablet computer. Archie McGregor’s medical history was open on the screen, but before she could silently read the first sentence, Alistair was saying, ‘Lead off, Dr Mitchell.’
Eight sets of eyes swung her way. Even before her mouth had dried, her tongue had thickened and her throat had threatened to close, the words on the screen had jumbled into an incomprehensible mess. Long ago voices boomed in her head, deafening her.
Moron. That girl’s a sandwich short of a picnic.
Panic eddied out from her gut and into her veins, stealing her concentration. She broke out in a cold sweat. Her greatest fear, which lurked constantly inside her and was never far from the surface, surged up to choke her. You knew you’d get found out one day. This is it.
No! She’d fought too hard for it to end like this. She’d set up strategies so this situation would never happen to her and she wasn’t about to let years of sacrifice go to waste and have it fall apart now. Not here in London where it was too easy for people to make cheap shots at her being a colonial. Not when she was the recipient of one of the most prestigious scholarships on offer for neurosurgery. Not when she was so close to qualifying.
Think!
‘Actually,’ she said, shoving the tablet at her junior houseman with a hand that trembled. ‘Archie is Dr Bailey’s patient. He admitted him overnight.’
Andrew, who’d accepted the tablet without question, glanced at the screen. ‘Archie McGregor, age seven, admitted last night post-seizure and with suspected juvenile myoclonic epilepsy. Observations stable overnight and...’
Claire wanted to relax and blow out the breath that was stalled tightly in her chest but she didn’t have any time to spare. As Andrew was fielding a battery of questions from Alistair, she was trying to calmly and surreptitiously read the next patient’s history.
* * *
An hour later she was helping herself to a delicious currant bun from the nurses’ breakfast platter. As she bit into the sticky sweetness, she gave thanks that she’d not only narrowly avoided disaster, she’d also survived the round. Alistair had appeared happy with both her and Andrew’s treatment plans and now, emergencies excepted, her boss was gone for the day. She was thankfully home free. She had some medication charts to write up, some test results to read and then, fingers crossed, she was going to take advantage of the relative calm and spend some time in the library studying.
‘Oh, good.’ A very familiar voice rumbled around her, its timbre as rich and smooth as a Barossa Valley cabernet sauvignon. ‘There you are.’
Shock stuck the sticky bun to the roof of her mouth and she tried desperately to dislodge it with a slurp of tea. The hot liquid went down the wrong way and she coughed violently, trying to get her breath. The next minute, Alistair’s face was pushed in close to hers with his brows pulled down sharply.
‘Can you get air?’
She shook her head but he misunderstood and the next minute the side of his hand sliced down between her shoulder blades like a karate chop. The snaps on her bra bit into her skin. ‘Ouch.’
‘Good,’ he said, cheerfully reappearing back in front of her. ‘I need you alive today.’
‘Just today?’ she said waspishly as the tangy scent of his sweat hit her nostrils. She worked hard at resisting the urge to breathe in deeply. ‘I rather like being alive every day.’
‘As do I. Live every day as if it’s your last.’
She took a careful sip of tea. ‘I’ve often found people who say that use it as an excuse to be selfish.’
His smile faded and a line of tension ran along his jaw, disappearing up behind his ear. ‘That’s a very jaundiced view of humanity.’
She welcomed the familiar antagonism vibrating between them and relaxed into it, giving thanks that everything was back to normal. ‘Not at all. It’s merely an observation about how some people live their lives with little thought or regard for how their actions impact on others.’
His eyes darkened and he looked as if he was about to say something when he suddenly helped himself to a currant bun. She was oddly disappointed that he wasn’t going to take the discussion further. Sparring in a robust debate with Alistair North was far safer than confiding in him.
Or kissing him.
She suddenly felt stranded standing there in the small pantry. She was far too aware of him and how his mouth, which had savoured hers so thoroughly last night, was now relishing the currant bun. Too aware of how his tight behind was pressed hard against the bench and how his long, running-fit legs stretched out in front of him. She suddenly wanted to invoke the staff dress code she’d been lectured on during her orientation program.
He raised his hand to his mouth and one by one he meticulously licked the sugar from the bun off his fingers. She swallowed a gasp as her body clenched and then sighed in delight. The memory of how he tasted was burned on her brain—spicy with a hint of citrus zip. And hot. Oh-so-flaming hot.
I thought the kiss never happened so why are we doing