Smoke on the Water by Lori Handeland

promise.”
    It wouldn’t be. That much I knew. But I went anyway, even though I wanted to flee in the other direction. What choice did I have? Not only had we needed a key to get in here, but I was pretty sure we’d need a key to get out, and I didn’t have one.
    My doctor stood in front of the stone birdbath. The storm of a few days past had filled it to the brim with water. The instant I’d seen the shimmery expanse of gray-blue I’d run.
    He held out his hand, and like a fool I took it. It was so damn hard not to. In my mind I knew him. In my heart I loved him.
    He smiled. I melted. Did he feel it too? This connection between us? At times he seemed to, and at other times he did not.
    His eyes were so kind, so familiar. I focused on them as he drew me closer.
    The sun was warm; the breeze was soft. He began to lower his head. I’d seen this before.
    My eyes drifted closed. My mouth lifted. I waited for the first touch of his lips, and the world shimmied with that sense of déjà vu.
    He smelled the same, like limes beneath the sun, or perhaps on ice. His hand in mine was so familiar I could rub my thumb along his index finger and feel the callus that had always been there every other time I’d envisioned his touch. The cadence of his breath was the cadence of my own. I knew exactly what he’d taste like when our lips touched.
    Then his mouth brushed my temple. His free hand patted my shoulder. “Shh,” he whispered. “Shh.”
    My eyes snapped open. That might work with Mary, but it wasn’t going to work with me. “I’m not a dog.”
    He stiffened as if he’d been poked. “Of course not.”
    He seemed like he wanted to pat me again. I narrowed my gaze, and he stepped back.
    Had everything I believed I knew about us—the kisses, the touches, the whispers, the love—been a lie? I didn’t think so. Nothing else I’d ever seen was. As this—him, me, us—was the only thing I’d ever prophesied that was good, it had to come true. It just had to. Otherwise what was the point of going on?
    â€œWillow?”
    I refused to meet his gaze. I’d see pity in his eyes and that I couldn’t bear. What kind of patient falls in love with her doctor?
    The pathetic kind. I was already pathetic enough.
    â€œDid you want to look into the water?” he asked.
    â€œHell, no.”
    There was a reason I’d run from that still blue expanse. All I’d seen in it lately were death and destruction.
    â€œThe more you face what scares you the less frightening it will be.”
    I was in no mood to be psychoanalyzed. Would I ever be?
    I fled in the direction of the picnic table and my no doubt cold cup of coffee. Why had I thought he would kiss me here in the sun? Our kiss would take place beneath the moon.
    I stepped free of the tall grass. Dr. Frasier’s assistant, Zoe, stared at our two cups, which still sat on the picnic table. She flicked me a glance. “Where is he? What have you done?”
    She seemed both frightened and furious; for an instant I wondered. Had I lost time? Had I done something I shouldn’t?
    No blood on my hands, my clothes. Why would there be? Certainly there had been once, there would be again. It would even be his. But it wouldn’t be because of me.
    Zoe stalked toward me, fists clenched. My own fingers curled. I knew better than to punch a nurse, but if she swung first the rules changed.
    â€œZoe?”
    She stopped short a few feet away. Her fingers unfurled. The set of her jaw relaxed, though the flush of anger remained.
    Dr. Frasier set his hand on my shoulder, and my own fingers loosened. I wanted to reach up and twine ours together, but I knew better.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” he asked.
    I kept quiet. I wasn’t exactly sure.
    Zoe’s gaze fixed on his hand, which he kept on my shoulder, the heat of his skin warming the sudden odd chill. “Are you all right,