Prescription: Marry Her Immediately - Jacqueline Diamond

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cooped up. Hang on.” A moment later, she put Greg on the phone.

      Sounding grown-up for a four-year-old, he filled Quent in on his day-care group’s adventures in making something called stone soup. Apparently it included numerous ingredients, although no actual stones.

      “We heard this story about it. The man said he could make soup from a stone,” Greg explained. “He talked this old lady into giving him stuff to make it taste better. You know, like noodles and onions.”

      “Very clever,” Quent said.

      Next, Tara babbled away happily, interposing a few recognizable words with her baby talk. Child development fascinated Quent. He’d studied the physical and emotional facts of childhood, but it was much more striking to observe them outside a clinical setting, especially when you cared so much about the youngsters.

      He wondered if Amy liked kids. As a counselor who spent her life helping people, surely she did, and she’d shown a marked interest in the newborns yesterday. Maybe someday she’d enjoy meeting Tara and Greg.

      “I’ll come see you soon,” Quent promised before saying goodbye to each child in turn.

      “They miss you,” Lucy said. She didn’t include herself. The two of them had been practically strangers until the tragedy and, although they got along fine, had little in common apart from the children.

      “How’re you doing?” he asked.

      “Okay. I’m not much of a mother type but we muddle along. Thank goodness they like macaroni and cheese,” she said.

      “I’d like to come visit soon. When would be convenient?”

      “I’m not sure. We’ve got a lot of changes at work and I’ve had to put in some extra hours,” Lucy said. “I’ll give you a call, okay?”

      “Thanks.”

      After he rang off, Quent was glad to see the rain slackening. It was growing dark, turning from daytime into Saturday night. After years of overwork, he loved to party, and rarely got the chance. Now where had he put that flier?

      He dug through a handful of papers on the passenger seat. There was a staff memo from Dr. Fingger about the Thanksgiving holiday schedule, filled with exhortations not to be late or ask for changes. The guy really needed to loosen up.

      Beneath it lay a reminder about the annual pre-Christmas soiree hosted by the Doctors Circle administrator, Patrick Barr, which this year was going to double as his wedding reception. It made sense to Quent that the guy was getting maximum bang for the buck.

      Here it was! He pulled out the flier he’d been handed by Rob Sentinel, a new obstetrician at the clinic. Rob was hosting a bring-your-own bottle party tonight, promising loud music, lousy food and nowhere near enough chairs. Perfect!

      It would be more fun if Amy could go, but he suspected she’d be busy settling in at her aunt’s. Well, the two of them weren’t joined at the hip.

      After the grind of medical school, Quent had sworn to take it easy when he got the chance. He’d had less time for fun than he expected during his residencies, and now he seized every opportunity to blow off steam.

      He put the SUV into gear and headed to a convenience store. He’d better pick up some taco chips and spray cheese in case Rob ran short. It wasn’t fair to let one guy shoulder the whole work of staging a party by himself.

      Chapter Three

      Amy was almost asleep when the cell phone rang on her bedside table. Thinking it might be one of her clients, she shook off her daze as she grabbed it. “Amy Ravenna,” she said.

      “Quentin Ladd,” came the response. He sounded utterly mellow. The background noise of conversation and music gave her a clue why.

      Amy checked the clock. Nearly midnight. “You went to that party of Rob Sentinel’s, didn’t you?” She tried to quell a spurt of jealousy that came from knowing plenty of single nurses must be present.

      “Bingo,” he said.

      “And you’ve had a few beers.”

      “Two,” he said. “I never have more than two.” He made a point of never drinking to excess.

      “Is something wrong?” she asked sleepily, and hoped the ringing phone hadn’t disturbed her aunt Mary or seventeen-year-old cousin Kitty, who’d both gone to bed an hour ago.

      “Yes,” Quent said. “You’re not here.”

      Warmth seeped through Amy. “I thought of going, but Aunt Mary and I were figuring out what to fix for Thanksgiving.” It was only a few days away.

      “Throw on some clothes and come join me.”

      She’d rather he took off his clothes and joined her. Uh-oh. She hadn’t said that aloud, had she? “I’d better not,” Amy said. “I’m tired and it’s raining.”

      “It’s stopped. Besides, we have some unfinished business.” His tone wasn’t exactly suggestive, and he certainly wasn’t applying pressure. It was more of an open invitation, leaving the decision to her.

      Amy knew how she had to respond. “It’s best left unfinished.”

      “We’ll see.” A couple of short breaths revealed that he was yawning.

      “You’re tired,” she said. “Go home.”

      “I needed somebody to tell me that,” Quent admitted. “I hope I’m not getting too old to party hearty anymore.”

      “You’re nearly thirty.”

      “Ouch!”

      “A little maturity will look good on you,” she said.

      “That’s encouraging.” In the background, someone turned up the volume. Nearly shouting, Quent added, “That could damage my hearing!”

      “You’re definitely too old for that scene,” Amy said. “Go put on your tasseled nightcap and heat a water bottle for your tootsies. I’ll see you on Monday.”

      “Count on it,” he said.

      After ringing off, Amy couldn’t resist picturing what might have happened if she’d accepted his invitation. They’d have ended up alone at his apartment, stroking each other, kissing, sinking onto the couch with no one to interfere and no inconvenient tree to collapse on top of them….

      She pushed the image away and picked up a psychology journal from the bedside table. It was half an hour before her eyes drifted shut again.

      SHOES. Who knew they could be such a problem?

      Amy’s size must have been wildly popular, because on Sunday her favorite department store was out of stock in all the pumps that appealed to her.

      She didn’t blame Quent. She hadn’t mentioned packing her shoes, although heaven knew what the guy had been thinking.

      Uh, wait. She did know. He’d been thinking about their hot-and-heavy madness on the couch. What else was a twenty-something guy supposed to think about?

      Not to mention a thirty-something woman.

      Amy tried not to survey the men as she raced down the mall to a specialty shoe store. She didn’t want to compare their butts—unfavorably—to Quent’s, or to notice how their hair lacked the wild springiness of his.

      She was not going to view him as a sex object. He was her buddy and her respected colleague. And way too eager to make love to the woman of the world he assumed her to be.

      If only they had met in an alternate reality where mindless fun carried no consequences, they could indulge themselves and go right on being friends and coworkers. If that were true, her images from last night would already have become a sizzling reality.

      Giving

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