“I’m sorry” was all he said before she led him out to the reception area, turning lights off as she went.
“You’ll need petroleum jelly. Thick layers, reapplied often. Like I said, it’ll blister and then scab, but whatever you do, don’t pick at it. You don’t want to scar.”
“Right. Don’t need any more of those.”
“For the…” She swallowed, remembering the skin of his back. “For the rest, I recommend that patients purchase a pack of cheap, breathable cotton T-shirts, because you’ll need the jelly all over, and you don’t want to ruin your clothes.”
Night had almost descended when they finally made it outside, Andrew Blane holding the front door open for her and waiting as she locked it behind them.
“Have to pay you,” he said.
“No need.”
“No way, Doc. You’ve gotta let me pay for your services. I’m not a—”
“You wanted this off the books?” she cut through.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“If you’re off the books, then you’re pro bono, which means—”
“On the books, then. I’m not a charity case.”
“Look, Mr. Blane, I can’t accept money from you and not include it in my accounting. It’s just not ethical.”
He looked to the side, shook his head, and shut his eyes hard on a sigh. “I appreciate it, Doctor. And I apologize for scaring you earlier.”
“You didn’t—”
“You were a woman alone and I pushed you to take care of me. I appreciate that.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Blane. Look, if there’s anything you need, anything else I can do…”
“Just need the tats gone.”
“That I can do.”
“That’s it.”
She wanted to argue, wanted to ask him if he had a place to stay, give him dinner, make sure he was okay, but he clearly wasn’t the sort of man who accepted help. Besides, he was big and he could be frightening—she shouldn’t want to be around him, no matter how attractive he might be.
“So, you’d like to come in again, I imagine?” she forced herself to ask.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Why don’t you call the office on Monday, and Cindy can—” She stopped herself, remembering. “Actually…we need to get you in after hours, don’t we?” And something about that idea had her pulse picking up.
“Whatever you can give me,” he said, sounding so eager that she had to flush. What on earth is wrong with me? “The sooner the better.”
“Monday?” she offered. “Five p.m.?” She pictured Mrs. Venable running into him in the waiting room and amended her offer. “Actually, make that closer to six.” She’d do paperwork while she waited. “Oh. Wait.” She pulled out a card and found a pen, then scribbled her cell on it. “I give my cell to after-hours patients. It’s easier to call me directly, once the answering service kicks in.”
“Monday. Great.” He took the card, and when he reached out with his other hand, she thought he meant to grab her arm. The few seconds he waited were awkward before she finally understood.
Gently, avoiding his gel-covered knuckles, she clasped it. Warm and firm around hers, his grip reminded her of why she did this, why she’d gone into medicine, why she offered these services: to help people.
And more than almost anybody she’d ever treated, George knew this man was in trouble.
The other thing she felt, the shimmer of excitement, she chose to ignore.
