hands on his desk and clenched them, seeming to strive to get himself under control. “What can I do for you?”
She thought about using a throaty voice to answer that she surely could think of something except feared he might go into apoplexy.
"I was in the vicinity and thought you could take me to lunch," she said, which was true only because she'd made it her point to be in the vicinity. She put some oomph into her steps as she moved toward him, enjoying the way his jaw loosened even more. “I’ll let you pick the place.”
He started shaking his head before she finished speaking. “I can’t.”
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who eats lunch at his desk.”
He hesitated, causing her to peer at him more closely. Behind his glasses, his right eye looked red and watery. Moisture glistened on his cheek.
“What happened to your eye?”
“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head.
“Something happened.”
“I got poked, that’s all. It’s not a big deal.”
“It is, too, a big deal.” She came around the desk, not stopping until she could reach out and touch him. “Take off your glasses,” she ordered.
“That’s not necessary.”
“I say it is. Now take them off so I can see what you did.”
“It was only a finger—”
“Take them off,” she repeated with even more authority. This time, he complied.
He squinted, obviously sensitive to the overhead florescent light. She leaned close. She loved a man who wore cologne but couldn’t smell any on his skin, which had a clean, appealing scent nevertheless. Breathing it in, she gently pried his eye open with her thumb and forefinger.
The color of his iris reminded her of the cherrywood dining-room furniture at her parents’ house. The white of his eye, however, was red and inflamed.
Excessive tearing made it difficult for her to get a good look at the injury.
“I think your cornea is scratched,” she said. “You need to see an eye doctor. He’ll give you some medicated drops and it’ll heal in a couple of days.”
“Are you a nurse?”
“Me? A nurse?” She took her hand from his face and straightened. “Why would you ask such a silly question?’
He wiped the moisture from under his eye with a fingertip and put his glasses back on. “You seem to know what you’re talking about.”
“I volunteered at a hospital for a summer when I was in high school,” she confessed, “but it was so not me.”
“I don’t know about that. You have a nice bedside manner.” He didn’t quite meet her eyes.
The guy was so shy he’d probably hide under his desk if she informed him she was better in bed than beside it. Okay. That was too forward. But she was making inroads here.
“Does that mean you’ll go to lunch with me?” she asked.
He stared down at his desk, not a good sign. Before he could refuse, she continued, “No, of course you can’t go. What was I thinking? You need to have that eye looked at.”
He nodded, obviously relieved.
“How about dinner?” she asked.
“Dinner’s not a good idea,” he said quickly.
“Why not?” she asked before a terrible possibility occurred to her. “Oh, no. Grady was wrong, wasn’t he? You are married.”
His brows knitted, and she braced herself to hear that he was off limits. Despite the free-and-easy act she sometimes put on to get Grady’s goat, she wouldn’t date a married man.
“Are you related to Grady Palmer of Palmer Construction?” He phrased it as a question but it sounded like an accusation.
"He’s my brother,” she said, “and you didn’t answer my question.”
His reluctance either meant he didn’t want her to know he was available or he was already taken. She suspected it was the former.
“For the record,” she continued, “I asked if you were married.”
“I’m not married,” he finally said.
“Engaged?”
“No.”
"Gay?"
"No!"
“Seeing somebody exclusively?”
“Well, no.”
“Then what's the problem? Don’t you find me
She thought about using a throaty voice to answer that she surely could think of something except feared he might go into apoplexy.
"I was in the vicinity and thought you could take me to lunch," she said, which was true only because she'd made it her point to be in the vicinity. She put some oomph into her steps as she moved toward him, enjoying the way his jaw loosened even more. “I’ll let you pick the place.”
He started shaking his head before she finished speaking. “I can’t.”
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who eats lunch at his desk.”
He hesitated, causing her to peer at him more closely. Behind his glasses, his right eye looked red and watery. Moisture glistened on his cheek.
“What happened to your eye?”
“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head.
“Something happened.”
“I got poked, that’s all. It’s not a big deal.”
“It is, too, a big deal.” She came around the desk, not stopping until she could reach out and touch him. “Take off your glasses,” she ordered.
“That’s not necessary.”
“I say it is. Now take them off so I can see what you did.”
“It was only a finger—”
“Take them off,” she repeated with even more authority. This time, he complied.
He squinted, obviously sensitive to the overhead florescent light. She leaned close. She loved a man who wore cologne but couldn’t smell any on his skin, which had a clean, appealing scent nevertheless. Breathing it in, she gently pried his eye open with her thumb and forefinger.
The color of his iris reminded her of the cherrywood dining-room furniture at her parents’ house. The white of his eye, however, was red and inflamed.
Excessive tearing made it difficult for her to get a good look at the injury.
“I think your cornea is scratched,” she said. “You need to see an eye doctor. He’ll give you some medicated drops and it’ll heal in a couple of days.”
“Are you a nurse?”
“Me? A nurse?” She took her hand from his face and straightened. “Why would you ask such a silly question?’
He wiped the moisture from under his eye with a fingertip and put his glasses back on. “You seem to know what you’re talking about.”
“I volunteered at a hospital for a summer when I was in high school,” she confessed, “but it was so not me.”
“I don’t know about that. You have a nice bedside manner.” He didn’t quite meet her eyes.
The guy was so shy he’d probably hide under his desk if she informed him she was better in bed than beside it. Okay. That was too forward. But she was making inroads here.
“Does that mean you’ll go to lunch with me?” she asked.
He stared down at his desk, not a good sign. Before he could refuse, she continued, “No, of course you can’t go. What was I thinking? You need to have that eye looked at.”
He nodded, obviously relieved.
“How about dinner?” she asked.
“Dinner’s not a good idea,” he said quickly.
“Why not?” she asked before a terrible possibility occurred to her. “Oh, no. Grady was wrong, wasn’t he? You are married.”
His brows knitted, and she braced herself to hear that he was off limits. Despite the free-and-easy act she sometimes put on to get Grady’s goat, she wouldn’t date a married man.
“Are you related to Grady Palmer of Palmer Construction?” He phrased it as a question but it sounded like an accusation.
"He’s my brother,” she said, “and you didn’t answer my question.”
His reluctance either meant he didn’t want her to know he was available or he was already taken. She suspected it was the former.
“For the record,” she continued, “I asked if you were married.”
“I’m not married,” he finally said.
“Engaged?”
“No.”
"Gay?"
"No!"
“Seeing somebody exclusively?”
“Well, no.”
“Then what's the problem? Don’t you find me
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