Rebel Doc on Her Doorstep

by Lucy Ryder

  She still shuddered because, as far as she was concerned, cute was a metaphor for “fun but too ugly to date” or “you’re like a sister to me”. She wouldn’t go there if her hair was on fire and he held the only glass of water left in the universe.

  Fortunately, by the time she and Frankie had returned from their hike, her house was empty except for a thank-you note taped to the refrigerator. It had obviously been scrawled by Nate.

  Dear Paige,

  T says he’s sorry for being a bonehead and flashing the family jewels—but you’ve probably already forgotten that. He also wanted to thank you for your hospitality and for not insisting he be incarcerated like a common criminal. He has a thing about jail in this town. Anyway I’d like to thank you for knocking some sense into his thick skull—although it might take time to sink in.

  Nate.

  P.S. I was serious about taking you sailing.

  Right. Like she would actually accept. She was fairly certain it had just been to get a reaction out of Ty. Why was something she tortured herself with along with other thoughts of him. Thoughts like, if he’d returned to California. Like if he and Henry Chapman were getting along.

  Like if she’d exaggerated his “endowments” in her own mind.

  She told herself she had because no one looked that good without being “enhanced” by a photo editor.

  But she couldn’t stop thinking about something else she’d overheard him say to his friend. Something that explained why he was so grumpy. He was a surgeon who’d injured his dominant hand. She wondered what had happened and had questioned Frankie about it, but her friend didn’t know either.

  It was six-thirty and the chilly morning wind blowing right off the straits caught Paige when she left the house. She considered going back for a jacket but it was a twenty-minute drive through town on a quiet day and she didn’t want to be late for the morning briefing.

  Her aged sedan, Old Bertha, sat hunched against the curb looking both familiar and forlorn. Paige gave the roof an affectionate pat and quickly unlocked the door so she could escape the wind. Over the past week they’d had gloriously fine weather and the icy gusts coming off the straits were an unwelcome reminder of the Pacific North West’s reputation for unpredictable weather—especially this time of year.

  She dumped her shoulder bag on the seat beside her and shoved the key into the ignition. Instead of the engine turning over, all she got was an ominous click.

  Used to her car’s eccentricities, Paige said a silent prayer and tried again. Nothing.

  “No, no, no!” she begged, heart skipping a beat as she flicked a glance at the dash clock and calculated the time she had to fiddle with the engine. “Just this once, girl. Please.” Bracing herself, she silently urged the car to start, then sucked in a breath, mentally crossed all her fingers and toes, and turned the key.

  And got a whole lot of…nothing. Dammit.

  Muttering under her breath, she popped the hood and shoved open the door, grabbing her phone so she could call the hospital. Frankie would also be heading to work soon and could swing by.

  Hopefully.

  She heaved up the hood and propped it up with the metal thingy, shivering as icy wind sneaked cold fingers down the back of her neck into her snug long-sleeved T.

  Having absolutely no idea what she was looking for, she shoved her head under the hood, hoping the problem—like a loose wire or something—would jump out at her.

  “Well, Paige,” she muttered irritably, “maybe you should have taken motor mechanics at school instead of calculus. Is calculus going to help you fix Bertha? No, and neither is—”

  “Problem?”

  With a startled squeak, she jerked upright and whacked her head smartly on the hood. For a couple of seconds she saw stars before impatient masculine hands pulled her free.

  “What the hell, woman?” Tyler Reese growled in that deep bedroom voice that sent shivers right up her spine only to have them spreading further. Like everywhere.

  Or maybe it was the heat of his hands on her as he gently probed her head because her body responded—embarrassingly fast.

  Her nipples tightened—but that could easily be from the cold—and her knees wobbled. She finally gathered her wits enough to shove at the broad chest blocking her view so she could rub her own damn head. And breathe without getting a lung full of warm masculine scent that made her want to bury her face in his throat.

  Oh, boy. Not good.

  Lurching out of range, she scowled up at him. “Ouch, dammit. What are you doing, sneaking up on me?” she demanded irritably, because he clearly wasn’t feeling “it” like she was. Then, realizing he was outside her house—what the heck?—she gulped. Her eyes widened. “Are you stalking me?”

  One brow rose arrogantly. He said mildly, “Good morning to you too, Dr. Carlyle.” And when she just scowled at him, he sighed. “Okay, not a morning person. Good to know and to answer your question; no, I am not stalking you. I saw you pop the hood and pretend you know what you’re doing.”

  “I am too a morning person,” she practically snarled. “And how do you know I don’t know what I’m doing? Maybe I took a class in motor mechanics.”

  His eyebrow rose up his forehead in patent disbelief. “You took calculus instead.”

  “Yes,” she sighed. “And even if I did, Bertha is selective about who works on her.” She pulled her phone out and began thumbing through her contacts.

  “Bertha?”

  “Car,” she said absently, tapping out an urgent message to the dayshift ER supervisor. By the time she looked up, Ty had stuck his head under the hood and was fiddling around one handed, muttering about “idiots who don’t take care of their cars”.

  Ignoring his comments—because she was still mad at him—she joined him, hoping he knew what he was doing and would magically get Bertha started. Instead she was assailed by his warm masculine scent.

  Damn. She sent him a sideways glance that was filled with rebuke. It should be illegal for a man to smell so good and—despite the fading bruises—look so good.

  “What?” he asked, attention firmly on some alien engine part she didn’t recognize. Busy resenting the hell out of him, she said the first thing that popped into her head.

  “Huh?”

  “You’re staring at me,” he said mildly.

  “I was just wondering if I was having nightmares about zombie psychos or if you’re really standing here, messing with me…uh, with my engine, I mean. My car,” she said huffily, when his mouth curled. “Messing with my car.”

  Instead of answering, his head turned and suddenly his face was an inch from hers. Their gazes locked and for a breathless moment she felt herself sink under his powerful sexual spell, wondering at the heavy liquid sensations taking over her limbs…and the wild kamikaze butterflies dive-bombing her belly.

  A little voice in the back of her mind yelled, Move away from the sexy BAB, Paige. He’s trouble, remember.

  “Paige.”

  She blinked slowly, fighting the pull of him, thinking, This is bad. This is really, really bad.

  “What’s bad?” he asked, and it was a couple of beats before she realized she’d spoken out loud. Pressing her lips together, she shook her head, recalling that he’d already called her a crazy person.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, the quiet intensity in his gaze echoed in his tone.

  Her forehead tightened in confusion. “Sorry?”

  “About what you overheard the other day. I didn’t mean…well, it.”

  “Huh.” Paige stepped back from the car on wobbly legs and leaned her hip against the fender. She folded her arms beneath her breasts. His eyes dropped from her mouth and, to her horror, her nipples promptly tightened. His mouth curved and she was tempted to punch him because she wasn’t one of those voluptuous beach babes he probably dated in droves.

  His gaze rose up her neck, past her chin to linger on her mouth before meeting hers. The laser heat in them had her knees wobbling.


  No, darn it. No wobbling. You’re mad at him, remember.

  “Didn’t mean for me to hear, you mean?” she drawled coolly.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean it.”

  “It?” she enquired politely, gritting her teeth against the melting heat taking up residence in her body beneath that hooded gaze. “What exactly are you sorry for? The part where you called me a bossy pain in the ass and an annoying distraction you didn’t need or want? Or was it the part that dating me ‘would be awful, not to mention suicidal’?”

  He sighed and shoved a hand through his hair as though she was being deliberately difficult. “The latter,” he explained with more than a hint of exasperation. “Definitely the latter because you’re still an annoying, bossy pain in the ass.”

  And just when she was about to tell him that he needn’t worry about her wanting to date him even if he was the very last man in the freaking universe, from directly behind them a gruff voice asked, “Problem?” nearly giving her a coronary.

  She spun around with a startled gasp, forgetting that she was perched against the left headlight, and would have fallen into the road if Ty hadn’t reached out and yanked her back onto her feet. She immediately growled at him and pulled away, blinking at her neighbor who stood watching them with amused curiosity.

  Harry Andersen had been a coastguard for fifty years and now spent his time watering his plants, looking out for Paige, helping the neighborhood seniors and keeping an ear on his ham radio and an eye on the weather. He claimed his bones were better barometers for weather changes than any new-fangled instruments the coastguards used.

  In the months she’d been here, Paige had grown to love the old man. His face had that lived-in quality of someone who’d spent years squinting into the sun and wind that came off the ocean.

  His wise brown eyes were often a little bleak and lonely because his wife of fifty years had passed away a year before Paige’s arrival in Port St. John’s.

  “Hi, Mr. Andersen,” she greeted him, completely ignoring the man at her side because she was in crisis here—and it wasn’t because old Bertha was playing up. “What are you doing up so early?”

  “I’m always up early, missy. Fifty years of rising at dawn is a hard habit to break.” He came forward and peered into the engine. “Know what you’re doing there, sonny?”

  “Yeah,” Ty grunted, “but it’s hard, doing it one-handed.”

  “Why don’t you take the girl to work?” the old man suggested. “I’ll see what I can do about this old girl.”

  “No!” Paige blurted out, freaking out a little at the thought of being stuck in the intimacy of a car with Mr. Bad Attitude for more than five seconds. “I’ll just call Frankie. I’m sure she can—”

  “That’s a great idea, Mr. Andersen,” Ty interrupted, sending Paige an inscrutable look as he brushed past her and gave her a rush to rival any she’d ever had for chocolate. “I’ll just fetch my keys.” And loped up the walk.

  Paige shoved her fingers in her hair and considered doing an emergency chocolate run but she was too busy gaping after Tyler Reese…who’d disappeared through the door a few feet from hers.

  What the heck was he doing, living right…next…door? How long had he been there and how had she not known? And another thing…why hadn’t he told her?

  But she knew. He’d wanted to be alone. Besides, his father still owned the building and the adjacent unit had been empty for a couple of months. He probably also didn’t want her getting any ideas about taking care of him. Or worse, that she would think they were a “thing”.

  As if.

  He thought dating her was suicidal, for cripes’ sake, and she…well, she knew it wasn’t going to happen. Ever. Besides, the last thing she wanted was to crush on another unattainable guy like she had in the tenth grade. He might be sorry about what he’d said, but he was still a BAB. And BABs were trouble.

  Big. Bad. Trouble.

  “This old girl deserves better, missy.” Harry interrupted her mental meltdown. “Worn pipes, frayed electrics…?” He tutted gruffly. “It’s a wonder she hasn’t blown up in your face.”

  Paige sighed. And right there was something else to add to her freak-out list because the news was about as welcome as discovering the sexiest guy in America thought she was an annoying pain in the ass.

  Mentally crossing her fingers, she said as calmly as she could, “I know, I know. The question is, can she be saved?”

  Please, please, please, say yes.

  “Well… I can’t say for sure,” the old man admitted reluctantly, scratching his head. “The starter will have to be replaced and some other parts too if you really want to know.”

  Paige really didn’t want to know but she gulped and asked bravely, “Will…will it be expensive, do you think, Mr. Andersen?” while frantically calculating the balance in her account and wondering if she was going to have to forgo eating for the next couple of weeks or dip into her meager savings.

  For a moment Harry said nothing as he tightened a few more bolts. Then he straightened. “Now, don’t you worry about a thing,” he said, awkwardly giving her shoulder a rough pat just as Ty returned, car keys jingling. “I know Gus at the repair shop. I’ll work out a good deal for you.” Ty sauntered up, as if he had all the time in the world. “Off you go to work now, missy. You don’t want to be late.”

  “I’ll drive,” Paige said, reaching out to snag Ty’s keys. “You should be resting your shoulder. And don’t worry about the car,” she interrupted hurriedly when he looked like he might object. “I’ll take good care of it and have it back by tonight.”

  His eyebrows rose up his forehead. “I’d be worried if it wasn’t a rental,” he drawled as she scurried off to grab her shoulder bag. “Considering the condition of yours.”

  Paige rolled her eyes and muttered through an interminable few minutes while she adjusted the seat. Damn long-legged freaks. And then when she finally turned the key, the SUV jerked forward a couple of yards and promptly stalled.

  Snickering at the way Ty leapt out the way, the expression on his face priceless, Paige called out a strangled “Sorry” and managed to restart the car and shove it into gear without further embarrassing herself, giving Ty a coronary, or injuring more than just his pride.

  She alternately snickered and moaned with embarrassment all the way to the medical center across town because if Tyler Reese had suspected her of being a crazy woman, he would now be certain.

  Unfortunately, the morning shift was quiet, giving Paige way too much time to stew over the fact that he’d been living within feet of her the last few days and she hadn’t known.

  But then again maybe her subconscious had detected that potent combination of smoldering male pheromones and seething testosterone seeping through the wall because…well, because. Her breath whooshed out audibly, causing a nurse to send her a curious look.

  Realizing it was the fifth time she’d sighed, Paige mentally slapped herself. Okay, fine. So she’d had a few hot dreams and a couple of bad moments in her shower imagining him—yikes, her heart rate doubled and heat raced across her skin—naked and running his hands all over her slick flesh.

  She scowled at her body’s traitorous response.

  Big freaking deal.

  It didn’t mean a thing because she’d had the same dreams about that black-haired guy who’d starred in a vampire TV series.

  And then because she was fantasizing about lying on a warm deck while Ty and the vampire hottie massaged oil into her tingling skin, Paige tore out of Radiology, fanning herself with the report she was supposed to be reading.

  And promptly collided with a large frame.

  She gave a squeak of surprise and lurched backward, dropping the report. “Omigosh, Dr. Ch-Chapman, I’m s-so sorry,” she spluttered in shock, blinking up into familiar blue eyes peering at her with concern. Familiar because just that morning she’d felt herself being drawn unwillingly into eyes that exact color.

 
She hoped, really hoped the medical director couldn’t read minds.

  “No need to apologize, Dr. Carlyle,” the older man said cheerfully as he bent to retrieve her report, “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  Thinking he was referring to her hot thoughts about his…gulp…son, Paige fought the heat of embarrassment creeping into her cheeks. She bit lip and asked warily, “Why do you…um…ask?”

  “It isn’t every day I get bowled over by a beautiful young woman,” he said, chuckling, nodding to the file he handed her.

  Realizing he’d been talking about the report, Paige spluttered out a relieved laugh. “Oh, this. Um…” Holy cow, she had to get a grip—especially in front of the big boss. “A young patient fell off a trampoline onto his head,” she explained breathlessly. “I was just on my way back from Radiology.”

  “Problem?”

  “The X-ray detected an odd shadow. I don’t think it’s anything to worry about,” she explained, “but I’m going to recommend a CT scan just to be safe.”

  “Excellent decision,” he said, shrewd blue eyes twinkling at her. “I’m glad I ran into you.” He chuckled a little at his own joke. “I heard you had a breakin the other night.”

  Paige gulped, fighting the heat of embarrassment creeping into her cheeks because the last thing she wanted to discuss with this man was the one she’d just been imagining naked.

  Not that she had to imagine anything, especially as she’d already seen him naked. “Oh…um.” She stifled a hysterical giggle and felt her face heat.

  “Are you all right, Dr. Carlyle? You’re looking a little flushed.”

  Her flush deepened. “It’s… I…um, it’s been a hectic day,” she began, only to be interrupted by her pager. “Emergency,” she explained after a quick look at the screen, hugely relieved to be saved by the pager.

  He nodded. “Go see to that. We can talk another time,” he said, and Paige bolted, wondering what the heck they had to talk about. That she’d given his son concussion and a dislocated shoulder? Or that she’d called the cops on him?