Please Release Me by Rhoda Baxter Page A

good.
    She hadn’t expected the abseil to stress her out like that. It wasn’t as though it had been really dangerous. How stupid to forget that she might have an anxiety attack. If she’d been expecting it, she would have been able to prepare for it. Thank goodness for Peter for giving her a lift. She poured water into the mugs and prodded the tea bags, making the tea seep out.
    Peter seemed to be helping her move on in more ways than one. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this way about a man. But he was married. He saw her as just some woman he’d befriended at the hospice. There was no chance of her getting any nearer to him than that.
    She reflected that she shouldn’t want to anyway. Sneaking off with someone whilst his wife was in a coma was just a bit too sordid for her. That wasn’t the sort of person she was. But it didn’t stop her wanting him.
    ‘Do you want more biscuits?’ she said, over her shoulder.
    There was no response. Wondering whether he’d somehow slipped out to get away from her, she went back to the living room to find him asleep on the sofa, head flung back against the cushions. The late afternoon sun cast his face in planes of light and dark. She snatched a moment of indulgence and took in the perfection of his profile, the hint of gold on his long eyelashes, the little worry lines that were in sharp contrast to the crow’s feet at the sides of his eyes.
    Her hands flexed with the urge to touch him and stroke the ridge of his cheekbone and feel the evening stubble. To run her fingers through his sensible blonde hair. But that was an indulgence too far. She clenched her fists and turned away. Peter was not for her. She may as well enjoy being his friend. It was the best she was going to get.
    Peter had no idea how long he’d been asleep. He woke up to find the room in semi darkness. For a moment he wondered where he was. The sofa was hot and embracing. That might explain the dream. He’d had dreams like that when he’d first met Sally. This time they featured Grace. He rubbed a hand over his face and slowly sat up.
    He was still in Grace’s living room. The light was on in the kitchen and he could see Grace moving around. The radio was on. She was dancing a little as she leaned against the counter, reading something. She seemed to glow in the yellow light of the kitchen. He watched her for a moment, trapped between reality and the dream of a few moments ago, when she’d been wrapped around him. She was beautiful and he wanted her so much it was almost a physical ache now. He squeezed his eyes shut. This had to stop. It was lust, that was all. The best thing he could do was get away.
    He made his way to the kitchen, feeling bleary from afternoon sleep. ‘I should head off.’
    Grace turned. A bit of his dream sprang back into his mind. He tried to focus on something else. Anything.
    ‘Stay for dinner?’ She pointed at a pan on the hob. ‘I’ve made enough for two.’
    He hesitated.
    ‘It’s only pasta and pesto,’ she said, misunderstanding. ‘Nothing special. So, don’t feel you have to.’
    ‘Excuse me a minute. I really need to wake up properly.’ He hurried off to the bathroom where he splashed his face with cold water. He glared at himself in the mirror and told himself to pull himself together. He liked Grace and found her attractive. Fine. He was allowed to look. But he couldn’t put himself in the position that he felt anything more than a passing attraction. He had to think of Sally. A small voice pointed out that he rarely thought about anything BUT Sally, but he squashed the thought. He should go home. Staying for tea until she recovered was acceptable. Dinner, probably not. He nodded at his reflection. ‘Go home Peter.’
    When he returned to the kitchen, he could smell the pesto. His stomach rumbled. It was such a clean basil smell. But he had to be strong. ‘Thanks for the offer of dinner, but I really had better head off,’ he said. He