To avoid making the situational slowdown worse by betraying any sign of impatience, Jack spun around and leaned his backside against the edge of the counter.
The place was pure pancake house: cracked, orange vinyl bathed in harsh fluorescent light. Laminated menus, laminated tables, even the food looked vaguely laminated. The air hung thick with cigarette smoke and old grease.
It was packed, too, mostly with customers in uniform, grouped by employer. They sat talking and smoking over plates sucked clean, only the occasional grease glob, yellow smear or puddle of syrup offering a clue to the thick china’s former contents.
Jack shuddered. What would Melinda say if she knew her coffee was coming from a place like this?
Oh, ha. Even at—he checked the clock on the wall—4:54 in the gad-awful a.m., he wasn’t letting something that simple trip him up. Any fool knew to transfer the java to a mug before presenting it to his new wife. Who’d be in bed. Undressed.
Jack closed his eyes against the image. It had haunted him last night, too. Kept him awake through two SportsCenters and an hour of grizzlies waiting around a stream for salmon….
Melinda Burke in bed, her glorious feminine back and—if that bride dress could be believed—an equally glorious front. Clad only in a wisp of sheer lingerie and tangled sheets….
“Here ya go, hon.”
Jack jerked around as the waitress set a large coffee on the counter. Retaining its lid in her other hand, the Hairspray Queen pressed buttons on the cash register with majestic deliberation—while he stared at the pearlescent sheen of oil spots floating atop the black liquid they called coffee.
Beverage beggars couldn’t be choosers, Jack reminded himself sharply. It was hot and contained caffeine. Close enough for today.
“Dollar thirty-nine, hon,” the waitress growled, her voice a testament to too many years spent inhaling secondhand smoke and grease.
Pulling two dollars out of his wallet, Jack flashed Polyester Patty a grateful smile as he slid the bills across the countertop.
Thanks to her, and if he hauled serious butt, he’d be back at the house with time to spare before Mel’s alarm went off.
“Keep the change,” he said, reaching for the coffee.
“Much obliged, hon.” Ignoring his outstretched hand, the waitress proceeded to carefully—meaning so slowly Jack thought he’d scream, except his nerves probably couldn’t take the noise for another hour or two—clamp the lid on the to-go cup.
Eventually, satisfied she’d secured it against any attack up to and including a well-armed rebel insurgency, she pushed the sealed drink toward him. “You have a nice day, now. ’N come back ’n see us, y’hear?”
Yeah, he heard. As the glass and aluminum door swung shut behind him.
Then he did a one-eighty and reentered the grease pit.
“Have you got any little cartons of milk?” he asked, digging for his wallet again.
The waitress, who hadn’t left her position at the register yet, pressed her chin into her neck.
Jack took that for a yes. “Great. Let me have a skim, please.” Growing up with a sister had taught him that much. “And one of those.” He pointed to a rack of single serving boxes of cereal. “Any kind.”
Too darned many minutes later, Jack threw himself and his booty into his car, cranked the engine, dropped the transmission into drive and floored the gas pedal.
As he shot out of the lot and roared down the street, he revised his schedule for his first day of wifely leisure.
Somewhere between “a little dusting” and “survey daytime television schedule,” he’d better hustle on over to a grocery store. How on earth had those cupboards gotten so bare?
Taking a corner on two wheels, Jack pondered that.
Hell, even he usually stocked some OJ in the ol’ icebox along with the beer and leftover pizza. And everybody kept cereal around!
Despite the early hour, he could draw the proper conclusion from the facts.
Melinda Burke had definitely not married him out of pity, or as a lark, he reminded himself as he parked, ran inside, poured the coffee into a Dallas Stars mug and nuked it—just in case.
Having proof that she really did need his wifely help restored Jack’s good mood. As long as he was earning his vacation, he could enjoy it. But first…
Jack tore open the cereal, dumped it into the first bowl he found, then rummaged through drawers for silverware. Snagging a spoon, he glanced up. 4:59.
He swore; the microwave beeped. Grabbing the coffee, he sped upstairs, halting only at Melinda’s door to rake fingers through his hair, then knock once. Softly.
No answer.
Another knock. Another no answer.
Dammit. He’d have to go in there.
For a second, Jack hesitated. Okay, he chickened. Then, dredging motivation from his memory bank, he curled fingers around the doorknob, twisted, opened the door and walked into Mel’s bedroom.
See? The perfect wife. Perfectly willing to carry out his duties.
All it took was remembering that anything—even waking the gorgeous woman he’d married but agreed not to touch—was better than working for Jugular Jensen again.
The rest will be a piece of cake, Jack told himself as he crossed the room toward the sleeping figure tucked neatly under the covers of an Early American twin bed. Just make sure she’s awake. Deposit the steaming mug on the nightstand. Get the hell out of here.
Light from the hallway revealed a plastic skeleton loitering near the closet and a disgusting anatomy poster hanging above a student desk piled high with medical journals.
Okay, Doc, he rehearsed silently, rise and shine.
MEL SMILED. She felt, mmm, sooo relaxed and she was having a really good dream for a change. There was soft music playing somewhere in the background as a wonderful, sexy man’s voice caressed her name….
She burrowed deeper into the pillow, hoping the dream guy would keep talking sweet, and look as great as he sounded.
“Come on, Melinda,” her dream man coaxed. “Here, take a whiff….”
He’s bringing me flowers? Excellent.
Mel sniffed obediently. What the—? Nothing floral about that scent. Her nose wrinkled as her eyes flew open.
Well, he did look as great as he sounded, Mel thought ruefully as she stared up at her brand-new husband…wife…whatever. Damn, the man’s looks got more appealing by the encounter.
That morning stubble alone promoted him from hunk to heartthrob!
“Your coffee. Oh, hell,” Jack added conversationally. “I forgot to ask how you take it.”
“Just plain.”
“Great. Black it is.”
Mel started to sit up to take the steaming mug being held out, then thought better of it.
Then thought better of that. Let him get used to it, she told herself as she scooted into an upright position. She’d married the man to simplify her life, not complicate it.
Besides, she wore a T-shirt to sleep in. Nothing indecent about it. And they were both of legal age, anyway.
Mel wrapped her fingers carefully around the mug. As she lifted it to her lips, she studied Jack Halloran through her eyelashes.
Oh, yeah, her myopia notwithstanding, the man’s wake-up quotient beat the Weather Channel crew any day.
Get a grip, Burke. The human body holds no secret allure, remember? A dedicated doctor wouldn’t wonder about his…well, uh, how well endowed he is.
“There’s cereal and milk downstairs,” Jack said, inching backward. Away from the bed. Toward the door. As if he was—
“Breakfast!” Mel exclaimed, inwardly jeering at her lunacy. No way a guy this hot would get nervous being in her bedroom.
Any man who looked like Jack Halloran damned sure knew his way around plenty of bedrooms.
Still…he’d brought the coffee as promised. And made breakfast. Bonus! “Careful, you’ll spoil me,” she said with a smile. For a moment, she thought the man she’d married practically sight unseen lo
oked dazzled.
Dazed, Burke, dazed. It’s five o’clock in the morning.
“Actually,” she mused after another sip of café oily, “I can’t remember the last time I ate something before traffic instead of in it.”
Jack jammed his hands into his pockets. Which only made the anatomical area behind his fly more spectacularly noticeable. “Is there, ah…anything special you want me to do today?” he asked.
How about joining me for a quick roll in the hay?
Mel choked at her own audacity, then downed another gulp of coffee, flung herself out of bed and marched herself toward the bathroom. Get real, she told herself. She didn’t know one thing about this man that made him beddable.
Well, okay, she didn’t know another thing….
But this wasn’t that kind of relationship, and Dr. Bowen had scheduled rounds for six. Sharp.
Flipping on the bathroom light, Mel made herself say, “There’s some, ah, laundry in the utility room.”
“No problem.” He was scuttling backward again.
Which behavior Mel still didn’t get as she watched him pivot and head for the exit about as fast as that Indiana Jones guy vacating the booby-trapped ruin with the big rock chasing him.
Then she caught a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror.
Oh. No wonder. She looked like a street freak, her hair every which way, her eyes like a raccoon’s—apparently she’d missed the tenth layer of mascara when she’d scrubbed off Raoul’s makeup last night. And the T-shirt was way old. Not quite as “decent” as she’d thought, maybe.
And here she stood, ordering the man around like a War College general just off Prozac. So? We made a deal, she reminded herself. He agreed. And she was desperate. “If you wouldn’t mind—”
“’Swhat I’m here for.” He’d paused in the doorway but hadn’t turned around.
Just as well—easier to say the rest of this to his tapering, muscular back than to his too attractively masculine face.
“Could you, um, do some underwear…ah, in the first load, I mean?”
“Right! Sure! Will do.” With that, Jack threw himself out of the room.
Thanks to her years of medical training, after a nonplussed second, Mel set aside the puzzle of his odd behavior for later consideration; she went into make-ready mode: start the shower, gather clothes and finish off the Juan Valdez while the water heated.
Not that the coffee had been exactly gourmet, but she did appreciate the gesture. And the feeling that she wasn’t the only person who cared if she was up at this unearthly hour.
Shucking her T-shirt, Mel climbed into the shower.
As she sped through the wet-soap-rinse routine, she imagined clean underwear. And wearing her own clothes again.
And eating breakfast. In the morning. Every day.
She’d died and gone to heaven, Mel decided as she toweled off.
Now if she could just forget that incendiary ceremonial kiss and get herself inured to the bold male aura that hung around Jack like groupies stalking a pop star.
It’d be nice knowing there was someone here for her, Mel thought as she pulled on the last clean underwear she had, clunky shoes and another of her mother’s old dresses, even if she mostly wasn’t. Someone more interested in solving her problems than creating them, which seemed to be Dr. Bowen’s favorite hobby…
“Come on, Burke. It’s a little late for the helpless female routine.” She rounded up her lab coat, stethoscope and pager. “You couldn’t pull it off anyway. So just go to work, where you’ve got tougher things to face than a gorgeous babe magnet who’s pleasing you for reasons of his own.”
And who was lurking, she discovered when she got there, in the kitchen. Ready to pull out a chair for her before moving to sit across from her.
Eat with him? Make conversation? N-not yet.
“Darn!” Mel exclaimed, pretending to look at her watch. “Gotta run. I’ll take it with me.”
Her glasses slipped down her nose as she leaned forward to scoop up the bowl of garishly colored grain blobs and the spoon. Giving her two Jack Hallorans to try to ignore.
They were both frowning, but all he said was, “What time will you be home?”
Leapin’ liposuction! His deep male voice touched off another round of X-rated anatomical exploratory ideas.
“I’ll, uh…” Mel grabbed the mini milk carton. It reminded her of elementary school, and her brother Harry. The familiar stab of loss managed to reorient her enfeebled brain from its sudden, inexplicable lapse. Momentarily, at least.
“Don’t expect me before ten.” There. Nice and cool, professional.
Then Jack blinked his dark blue eyes at her and all traces of professionalism fled.
So did she.
JACK GAZED after her. What an incredible woman! Melinda Burke made that whole caterpillar-to-butterfly thing look like a slacker activity.
She’d transformed herself from seductive bed-nymph to professional superdoctor in—what?—ten minutes?
A yawn intervened. He should have gotten two coffees at the pancake house, Jack realized. Oh well, maybe he’d go out to breakfast. Celebrate his retirement.
Grinning, he pumped his fist in a victory gesture. He was a free man!
Oh, he’d do all the stuff he’d promised Mel, but in his own sweet time, according to his own sweet schedule. With plenty of breaks to study for his CFP exam and to coax Tess back to the land of the living.
Plenty of breaks. Jack gave a hoot of laughter. What a scam this housewife stuff was! Cup o’ coffee, a load o’ laundry and he’d be done for the day.
Still chuckling about the “demands” of his new position, Jack strolled over and gave the utility-room door a push. It refused to open.
He frowned briefly, then, in typical male problem-solving fashion, put his shoulder to the door and forced it open.
Some laundry? Jack felt his jaw drop.
Pediatric surgeon, my derriere, he thought as he stared at the mountain of fabric filling the small room. Melinda Burke was the queen of understatement!
Fine. He’d still keep his part of the deal. Be her perfect wife—no matter how much TV he had to miss. Virtuously, Jack kicked aside enough clothes to reach the washer.
He knew how to do this, even if he’d always sent his dress shirts and slacks to the cleaners. Locating detergent in the cabinet above it, he poured in a generous capful.
There. Now just throw in the clothes and start the machine.
Jack looked at the vast pile of laundry.
Hmm. Real wives sort. He was sure of it. But how? On what basis?
Size of garment? Nah, he washed socks with jeans; they all came out fine.
Style? Doubtful. Too hard to categorize, even for women. Every year, the fems at Loeb-Weinstein spent hours discussing the Christmas party dress code—like they needed a Rosetta Stone or Oprah to explain the true meaning of “semiformal.”
For a second, he considered calling Sherry for advice, but she was even less domestic than he was.
His sister? At dawn?
No way. This was laundry, for cryin’ out loud.
Sure he could figure out something so simple, Jack plucked an item off the top of Laundry Mountain.
Oh. My. God.
His throat tightened. So did his jeans—again—as he stared at the tiny scrap of silk and lace dangling from his fingers.
This was not his sister’s underwear.
And he sure as hell wasn’t picturing his sister in it.
He was picturing those mile-long legs Mel had flaunted less than thirty minutes ago as she sashayed across her bedroom on her way to…being wet and naked. After which she slid one of these hot little confections up those columns of smooth female flesh to—
“Chill, Halloran!” Jack ordered himself. This was a platonic, business relationship, with no room for erotic fantasies. Besides… “The sun’s not even up yet.”
But something else was—the old divining rod was way up! Much more of this unautho
rized fantasizing and he’d explode.
Jack dropped the lingerie like a hot CheezPocket. Only the darned thing was so weightless, it didn’t even fall. More like drifted downward to join its fellows, nestling amidst thick terry towels, worn jeans, sleek short skirts and slinky silk blou—
“Eureka!” Jack whispered shakily, suddenly inspired by his desperation to get this task done. Before he suffered some kind of testosterone meltdown.
A glance at the washer and dryer controls confirmed the validity of his newborn theory. Delicate, Regular, Heavy.
Professional wives sorted laundry by fabric weight. As his heart rate returned to normal, Jack grinned victoriously.
He’d solved his first housework mystery without any help.
Scooping up an armful of laundry, he divided it rapidly, tossing delicate—as in thin and slippery—stuff into the washer, dropping the rest back on the floor. When the machine looked pretty full, he slammed down the lid, pulled out the knob and booked.
Now what? Jack wondered.
The microwave reported the time was only 5:42. In the morning.
Sunday morning, at that. Nuts. Jack headed upstairs to rest on his laurels, leaving the washer chugging away, doing its thing.
WHEN DR. BOWEN APPEARED around the corner, marching toward the small group of surgical residents like Sherman heading for Georgia, Mel breathed a sigh of relief. Now all those unnerving thoughts of hunky husbands and bone-melting kisses would vanish. Like ice cubes.
“I sure as hell hope nobody’s missing,” Bowen snarled.
On asphalt. In August.
The program chief’s bald head swiveled, glistening as he scanned the group. Choosing today’s ambushee, no doubt. “Who’s first? Let’s go.”
So much for chitchat.
As she trailed the others down the corridor, Mel recalled that awkward scene with Jack’s sister at the reception. Light social conversation did have its uses, she conceded.
Not that she’d ever need chat skills with Bowen. The man was all business all the time, Mel reminded herself as the group crowded into a room with two small patients in two large beds. The business of saving lives.
Daddy By Design? & Her Perfect Wife Page 22