Allen and Jake watched in amazement from the hallway. “Son of a gun,” Allen said. “Maybe we did need a receptionist.”
Only an hour later, Amy was beginning to feel comfortable. She had established some semblance of order to the office, and she was surrounded by people and animals, which, she decided, was actually quite nice.
The door opened and a small boy stumbled in carrying a shaggy inert form. Tears streamed down the child’s face. Blood dripped from the animal, staining the boy’s shirt and jeans.
Amy had survived a cat fight and Jacob Elliott’s bare chest, but she wasn’t up to a bloody animal. “Merciful heavens,” she whispered. She shouted
“Amy!”
Lord, someone was yelling at her. There were bells ringing and gongs gonging, and she couldn’t seem to wake up. She struggled upward, through the murk of semiconsciousness, and finally blinked her eyes open. Her first sight was Jake, white as a sheet.
“Goodness,” she said, “you look terrible.”
He expelled a shaky breath and shook his head. “You scared the daylights out of me. Don’t you dare ever faint again.”
“I fainted? I never faint.”
“Yeah. And you never drink, either.
Amy supported herself on her elbows and gave him her most withering glare. “Are you laughing at me?”
“Maybe a little. But only because you’re adorable. How do you feel?”
“Totally humiliated.” Adorable, huh? She was in his office, on his floor. “Did you drag me in here?”
“I carried you in. And it wasn’t easy; my legs were shaking so bad I could hardly walk.”
Amy watched his eyes soften as he continued to gaze at her. Color was flooding back into his cheeks. He’d been worried about her, really worried. And now he looked… affectionate. Not passionate. Not relieved. Just affectionate. As if some wonderful treasure had been returned to him, and he was thoroughly enjoying this moment of reunion. She was afraid to admit how happy that made her.
Suddenly she remembered. “That poor bloody animal, will it be all right?”
“It’s a dog. A cockapoo puppy that was hit by a car. Allen’s downstairs, preparing it for surgery. I should be down there helping him. Will you be okay now?”
“I’m fine.”
Jake paused at the door. “Don’t get up until you’re sure you’re ready.”
Amy waved at him. I’m ready, she thought. Boy, am I ready. I’m ready to fall in love.
She stood up slowly and placed a wobbly hand on his desk. Falling in love wouldn’t be the smartest thing to do right now. Her life was unstable, her emotions were unusually close to the surface, and besides… it wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Falling in love was supposed to be a slow process. Falling in love came after a lot of dating. What she was experiencing here had to be lust, and some sort of romantic infatuation with the modern-day equivalent to Sir Galahad.
Jacob Elliott had rescued her. He’d assumed heroic proportions in her mind. Okay, his chest was great. That was it! The Superman syndrome. She was falling in love with a mythical Superman.
She smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her shorts. Yes, she thought, she felt much better now that she had had this little talk with herself. Everything was crystal clear in her mind. Next time Jacob Elliott entered the room, she would be able to breathe normally. She would be able to speak in complete sentences. And she was
Chapter Three
Amy closed her front door behind her and momentarily leaned against it, appreciating the peace and tranquillity of home. She’d survived teaching first grade and had thrived on the hectic pace of television, but she’d never encountered anything like Jacob Elliott’s veterinary clinic. It was a looney bin.
After just a half day on the job, Amy had come to realize Jake never refused a patient. Consequently, he continually ran late, and his small waiting room was always packed to overflowing with howling dogs, frantic cats, and chattering humans. Actually, the humans didn’t seem to mind. They swapped pet stories and read pet magazines. Only occasionally did they glance at their watches with annoyed expressions. Usually this was followed by resigned smiles and a settling of their bodies deeper into the soft leather couch.
Jake seemed oblivious to the chaos, giving each animal his full attention, looking unhurried and unruffled as he amiably moved from one examining room to the next. Clearly a man who loved his work and staunchly ignored structure and time limits.
Fortunately, Amy thought, she was good at organizing details. She’d been raised in a military household where frequent moves necessitated efficiency. Her closets and drawers were neat, her laundry done on schedule, her shopping lists were all-inclusive. She looked the stereotyped image of a dizzy blonde, but under the curls was a level head with quick intelligence, high standards, and tidy emotions. Until that chicken and Jacob Elliott had entered her life, anyway.
“I’m not myself,” she explained to the empty house. “I’ve turned into an airhead. Ugh, how awful.” She left her shoes in the small foyer and padded barefoot to the kitchen.
An hour later she had rolled out two homemade pizza crusts; covered them with a coating of spaghetti sauce, thin-sliced onions, peppers, and mushrooms; topped the pizzas with a thick layer of mozzarella cheese; and popped them into the oven. She laid a place setting on the little kitchen table, delighting in the familiar ritual of eating peacefully, and breathed a sigh of relief that her life was coming back together.
Everything about her was normal. Normal kitchen table. Normal kitchen light. Normal kitchen clock. She slouched into a chair. “Hmmm.” She didn’t feel normal. She felt… agitated. She needed exercise. The soles of her feet fairly buzzed with the need to move.
“Okay feet, now what?” Her bare feet did a little tap dance on the tile floor and led her to the discarded running shoes. Amy changed into running shorts and a T-shirt, laced up her shoes and remembered the pizza. She pulled the aromatic rounds out of the oven, set them on the counter to cool, and let her feet carry her out the front door.
Twenty minutes later she returned to find Jake sitting in her kitchen, eating her pizza. “The door was open,” he explained.
“That’s what Goldilocks said.”
“You shouldn’t go out and leave your door open. Some pervert could waltz right in.”
Amy bit her lip.
Her hair was dark with sweat and plastered to her face in Betty Boop ringlets. Her shirt was soaked through, a sheen of moisture clung to her flushed face and bare arms, and her breathing was slightly labored. It was the first time Jake had ever gotten turned on by sweat.
“Been running?” he asked, making an effort not to spring out of his chair and pin her to the floor.
Amy wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Yeah.” She took a deep cleansing breath. “I love to run. Running always relaxes me.”
“Me too.”
Amy looked at him in delighted surprise. “How often do you run?”
He crossed his fingers under the table. “Every day. Couldn’t do without it.” The truth was, he hated running. He found it incredibly boring, preferring to get his exercise in a pickup game of football or a fast sprint to the refrigerator. But the prospect of laboring alongside Amy was irresistibly appealing.
“Maybe we could run together. I don’t live far from here. We could run every night after work,” Jake said.
“You sure you want to run with me? I’d probably slow you down.”
“I wouldn’t mind slowing down some. It’d be nice to have someone to talk to, to pace myself with.” Was she buying this? Jake wondered, nonchalantly dabbing at his mouth with his napkin.
Amy cut herself a slice of pizza and nibbled at the end. She ran to relax. How could she relax if Jake was
