He nodded, and she focused on a shoulder blade.
“George…could you…could you put your hand on me again?” he asked, his effort audible in the gravelly strain of his voice. “Please?”
At those words, she lost every last ounce of resentment. Every stored up grain of hurt at him leaving the other night poured out of her, and with a big expulsion of breath, she put her palm on his arm, squeezed, leaned in, and finished the job.
They were done in less than half an hour, and after spreading a thick layer of petroleum jelly over his back in a sad, quick parody of the last time, George left the room to let him pull on his shirt and get himself together again.
Get herself together again.
When, a few minutes later, she emerged from her office, purse in hand, he stood waiting in the hall, big and beautiful and wounded. How strange, after all of it—the back thing, the dinner, the leaving, his pleading—to see him as this intimidating monster again, ugly lines and scars marring what would have been quite the canvas. This man…he was a tragedy of a human being, whose bark was so much worse than his bite, and loathe though she was to admit it, his bite was something she wouldn’t have minded feeling right then.
Crap, how had this happened? How could she let herself feel so much for this person? And not with her usual clinical empathy, but…
“Walk you to your car.”
“You don’t need to.”
Ignoring her, Andrew followed her as she turned off lights.
He opened the door, letting them out onto the sidewalk. George locked up, then turned and stopped.
It was a taut moment, that second when her eyes landed on his and she saw desire there, raw and painful.
He wants me, she thought with a sad sort of elation.
Overhead, the light buzzed with insects, their drone a comfort to her, their tap-tap-tapping on the glass globe a welcome sound. Somewhere, a car drove by, a shout sailed down from the direction of the Nook, a train whistle blew, and beyond all of that, the usual nighttime hum of life had expanded, bigger than usual, with the overwhelming and beautiful swell of the cicadas’ song.
They moved along the sidewalk, into the street to her car. His was nowhere to be seen. “Need a ride?” she asked, ignoring his sigh at her unlocked car.
“I’m good,” he said, but something didn’t ring true. He didn’t seem good at all. His limp, for one thing, looked like it hurt.
“You sure?”
“Guess I won’t need to come in to see you for a while.”
“Right,” she said, saddened at the thought and relieved too. “Give me a call in a few weeks, and we’ll set you up to come back in.”
He nodded. “Night, George. And…thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Andrew,” she said, letting him close the car door. She hesitated before rolling down the window and saying the thing she’d been thinking all night. “If you need anything…help or—”
“I’m fine, Doc. Thanks.”
She cleared her throat again and went on, watching his face, girding herself for his response. “Your back. The uh…the tattoo. I looked it up, and the Sultans are no—”
Her car door swung back open. He ducked down, in her face, looming over her body faster than she’d imagined possible. “How do you know about that?” he demanded.
“Online,” she stammered, her breath coming fast, too fast, and her throat tight with anxiety. “I looked up the image on your back.”
“Don’t. Ever. Say that word again. Ever. To anybody.” His grip on her shoulder was tight, the urgency in his voice frightening. “You understand?”
George nodded and whispered, “Yes,” before he let her go. “I’m sorry.”
“That part of your job? To look me up?”
“N-no. Of course not.”
“Well, don’t do it again.”
