LITMIR.BIZ

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the last of the glasses aside, she faced him, knowing he spoke of his own life as much as he spoke of hers. “Sure. But I guess nothing’s guaranteed, right?”

      “Yeah. And that’s a damned bitter pill to swallow.”

      The familiar pain slid across his taut features once again. Brooke held on tightly to a thin rein of control. She couldn’t keep playing into the sympathy. She needed to stay focused. Remain objective.

      She retrieved the hot pack, wrapped it in another dish towel and applied it to his hand before going back to the dishes. She finished her chores while the allotted twenty minutes passed, enough time for the heat to relax his tendons, and all the excuse she needed to get back to the business at hand—helping him put his life back on track.

      “Did washing my dirty dishes give you some kind of thrill?” he asked as she took his hand into hers to begin the therapy.

      She stared up at him, surprised to find amusement in his eyes. “Nope, just dishpan hands. Why?”

      “You were whistling, like you really enjoyed it.”

      If the truth were known, it had given her a little boost. Because of her mother’s penchant for cleaning on a weekly basis to prevent aggravating Brooke’s asthma, she rarely did anything in the way of housekeeping, and she kind of liked the independence of not having someone standing over her shoulder, telling her she wasn’t doing it right. Not that she’d reveal that to the physician. She didn’t want him to erroneously assume that cleaning up after him would be a common occurrence. She hadn’t enjoyed it that much. And it wasn’t in her job description, either.

      “Believe me, Dr. Granger,” she said, “I’ll send you a bill for my KP duties.”

      “No problem.”

      She looked up from working his fingers and met his compelling blue eyes once again. “How much do you think I should charge?”

      “Whatever’s fair.”

      “How much do you charge for, let’s say, a quadruple bypass?”

      He smiled again, but only part way. “Are you making a comparison here?”

      “I think it’s only fair, don’t you? It took me over a half hour to consult with your dishes.”

      “At least they didn’t talk back. And they sure as hell can’t sue you if you happen to break one.”

      Another glimpse of wry humor. “Good point,” she said, pleased by the fact that his tension over her presence had seemed to ease. Unfortunately, she couldn’t say the same for his stiff, injured fingers, especially his pointer finger. She had her suspicions what the problem could be.

      She curled her own fingers into his palm. “Can you grip my hand?”

      With his brows drawn down in concentration, he moved his appendages somewhat. Not much, but enough to heighten Brooke’s optimism. And heighten her awareness of the size of his hand. Hers looked small resting in the well of his large palm. Vulnerable. She could imagine how skilled his hand once was, in various undertakings that had nothing to do with surgery.

      “Great,” she said, pulling her hand away, pushing the questionable thoughts from her brain. “You need to really tackle the home therapy more often. Your second digit is the worst, and I’d hate to think you might develop a contracture.”

      He frowned. “You really think that’s going to happen?”

      “Hopefully not, but that’s why you need to really work hard so we can prevent that from happening.”

      “I’ll try.”

      At least that was some semblance of a commitment, Brooke decided.

      After Brooke finished the treatment, she checked the clock again. More than an hour had passed, and she was beat.

      “All done here,” she said after putting away her equipment. “Guess I’d better go.”

      “One other thing,” he said. “A favor, really.” He looked as if it was costing him a lot to ask.

      “What favor?”

      “I’m having trouble doing some things. Personal things.”

      Whoa, Nelly. Brooke wasn’t at all sure what he meant by that, or if she even wanted to know. Or did she? “What kinds of things?”

      He rubbed his bearded chin. “Shaving, for one.”

      A doctor who performed open-heart surgery on a regular basis had just admitted that he had trouble using a razor. The old sympathy bug bit into Brooke once again. She tried to resist its sting. “Have you thought about hiring an occupational therapist or maybe a home healthcare aide?”

      “I don’t want to involve anyone else.”

      She could understand that he wanted to maintain as much privacy as possible, but where did she fit into this picture? “I’m not sure I can help you.”

      “I assume you know something about OT.”

      “Yes. Some.”

      “Then I don’t see why you can’t do it. I’ll make sure you receive extra pay for your time. We could make it a private arrangement.”

      It wasn’t the money that concerned Brooke, not that she couldn’t use the extra funds. The fact that she would be even more deeply involved in his recovery, his life, bothered her on some level she didn’t care to explore at the moment.

      Her mind catalogued all the pros and cons. The pros won out. She was going to do it. Help him with personal things. And of course, administer therapy.

      “Okay, I can help you shave. Shouldn’t be too difficult.”

      His expression suddenly turned serious. “First, there’s something I need to say.”

      Brooke braced for a demand, a warning, something in his tone that would help her regain her emotional bearings.

      “I just wanted to say thanks,” he said. “It’s been a long time since…” He studied the table before looking up again. “Not many people would be willing to do this for me. I appreciate it.”

      She smiled, buoyed by his gratitude. “You’re welcome. So do you want to try the shaving tonight?”

      “Yeah, if you don’t mind.” He rubbed a hand over his almost full beard. “I thought it would be easy to do with my left hand, but it’s weird how you take things for granted, like how you need fingers to lift your nose up to get to your upper lip.”

      “To be honest, I’ve never thought about it.” She stood. “You want to do it here or in the bathroom?”

      His smile came slowly, a hint of devilment in his crystalline eyes. “Where do you like to do it?”

      Brooke’s face heated to desert proportions. Had he really sounded that suggestive? Or was she simply imagining the innuendo? “Depends. How small is your bathroom?”

      “Not nearly big enough, unless we stand up. I might have a hard time maneuvering with my bum leg.” His eyes sparkled in the overhead light, full of mischief and something else. Surely not desire, Brooke thought.

      Another image filtered into Brooke’s brain, this one much more vivid. A vision of heated kisses, his hands on her, his mouth on her…

      Obviously her libido had suddenly commandeered her brain.

      Get a grip, Brooke. “I think that since you’re fairly tall, in order for me to show you how to hold the razor, you should be sitting, and I should be standing. Don’t you agree?”

      “Oh, so we’re back to shaving again.”

      “I don’t think we ever really left. Did we?” She cringed at the question, as if she were baiting him to admit that for a moment he was considering other things, too.

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