LITMIR.BIZ

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was ready to bolt.

       Cigarette burns.

      He knew nothing about this woman apart from the fact that she had an impeccable medical record—and she’d won his grandfather’s scholarship. And there’d been foster homes.

      Her scars were completely covered now, and he couldn’t ask. Maybe she hoped he hadn’t seen them.

      He had to leave it like that, but he didn’t want her to bolt. There were ghosts behind this woman’s façade, and he was intrigued.

      ‘You know, once upon a time when I finished work on Friday nights I’d head to the pub beside the hospital,’ he told her, casually moving so he wasn’t blocking her way. So she knew she could leave if she wanted to. ‘Half the medics we worked with would be there. I can’t remember a single moment of peace but I wouldn’t have missed it for quids. Noise, laughter, a general debrief of the week’s traumas. Friends.’

      He looked down at the two stubbies he was carrying and made a decision, right there and then, that the supreme sacrifice was called for.

      ‘So the drinks menu here might be limited,’ he told her. ‘But, in memory of all those Friday nights, I’m very happy to share. Do you drink beer?’

      The fear and shock were subsiding. She had herself together. Almost. ‘I need to go home,’ she said.

      ‘No, I need to go home,’ he told her. ‘But not yet.’ Why did he get the feeling she wanted to run? He was sensing his way, the same way he’d approach a scared and wounded child. Or a startled kangaroo. ‘The roster says I’m on call tonight, not you,’ he said. ‘The boys are at home, but Rose is with them and they’re happy and settled. Kit’s safely in hospital. My phone’s in my pocket and I can be there in minutes if I’m called. I have a sliver of time to myself.’

      ‘Which is why you need peace.’

      ‘Which is why I need company,’ he said bluntly. ‘Of the adult variety. Of the colleague variety. Which is why I’m making the extraordinary gesture of offering you one of my precious stubbies.’

      She stared at him for a long moment, as if trying to read his mind. Then she looked down at his stubbies.

      ‘You brought two.’

      ‘And I’m offering you one. You can’t imagine how generous that makes me feel.’

      Her lips twitched, just a little.

      ‘Beer,’ she said.

      ‘I know, a piña colada with a sliver of lime and a wee umbrella would be more appropriate, but the ice would have melted while I walked down here. You want to slum it with me?’ And before she could answer he plonked himself down on the sand.

      She stood, looking down at him. Disconcerted? She was torn—he could sense it. Part of her wanted to leave, but it would have been a rebuff.

      He set the stubbies in the sand and waited. Stay or go? He was aware, suddenly, that he was holding his breath. Hoping?

      Why? She was simply a colleague, paying her dues for two years before she got on with her life.

      Or…what? Was that a tiny sliver of hope? A resurrection of something he’d once taken for granted?

      Like a love life.

      Heather’s words came back to him. Dumb. Ridiculous. He knew it.

      Still, he kind of hoped she’d stay.

      ‘I don’t mind a beer,’ she said tentatively, and he grimaced.

      ‘Lady, you’re going to have to do better than that. I carried two stubbies all the way down here. That’s a fair commitment on my part. So now I’m offering to share, but not with someone who “doesn’t mind a beer.” It has to be “I’d love a beer” or nothing.’

      And suddenly she smiled. He’d seen her smile before, greeting patients, being pleasant, but her smiles had been tight, smiles to put people at ease. This one, though, was something much more. It was a wide, white smile with a chuckle behind it.

      Cute.

      More than cute. Gorgeous.

      ‘My lukewarm response was simply because you pre-empted your kind invitation with a vision of piña colada and umbrella,’ she admitted and, splendidly, she sat herself down on the sand again. But where most women—most anybody—would set the towel down and sit on it, she kept it firmly wrapped around her arms, a cover for what lay beneath.

      ‘Where in Shallow Bay would I get a piña colada?’ she asked, and he had to stop thinking about scars on arms and focus on what was important. Piña coladas.

      ‘Dougal’s pub doesn’t run to them, that’s for sure,’ he said. ‘I had to twist his arm to stock low-alcohol beer. Apparently, it’s for sissies.’

      ‘Or doctors on call.’

      ‘As you say. So…beer or no beer?’

      And her smile flashed out again. ‘I really would love a beer.’

      That smile… He found himself grinning to match, though he wasn’t actually sure what he was grinning about. She disconcerted him and he didn’t understand that either.

      So back to basics. He twisted the ring-pull and handed her a bottle, then did the same for himself. ‘Here’s to the end of your first week,’ he told her, clinking bottles. ‘May your next week be not so exciting.’

      ‘Apart from the first couple of hours when your son tried to stab himself to death, it hasn’t been very exciting at all,’ she told him. She took a swig of her beer and seemed to enjoy it. ‘I suspect it’s been a lot more exciting for you, and I’m so glad it’s turned out well.’

      ‘You and me both. And I’m incredibly grateful. I wish it could have been piña colada.’

      ‘I told you, I’d love a beer.’ She held up her bottle and regarded it with affection. ‘The fact that I’ve been on the beach for two hours and forgot my water bottle—and there’s no piña colada in sight—has nothing to do with it. Beer’s great.’

      And there was the smile again. He liked it. A lot.

      ‘But wouldn’t you be more comfortable drinking your beer at home?’ she queried, and he thought, She’s made the decision to come down here—alone. It confirmed what he was learning of her. She was a woman who valued her own company, which made what she’d offered to do last weekend even more extraordinary.

      ‘The kids are at home,’ he said. ‘Added to that, they have a video game which requires at least three players. It involves bombs and flames and dragon babies turning into things I don’t want to think about.’

      ‘So…’ she said cautiously. ‘They play it a lot?’

      ‘Is that a judgement?’

      ‘Hey, I’m no judge. I’m just happy to have intact windows.’

      ‘Yeah,’ he said morosely. ‘You and me both. The game’s okay. Fun, even. But, right now, they can’t play because, stupidly, I bought a game that needs at least three players. I bought it so they’d be forced to include Henry, who often gets left out. Unfortunately, Kit’s now away. Rose holds up her knitting like armour whenever they approach, so I’m their only available third man. It’s a wonder they didn’t have you playing last weekend.’

      ‘They tried,’ she said. ‘I was busy.’

      ‘Is that what you said?’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘Then why doesn’t that statement work for me?’

      ‘You’re obviously a softie,’ she told him. ‘But if you don’t like playing with them…’

      He knew what she was asking. It was the question that he asked himself

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