He pulled it out of her hands. “That’s Dr. Trafford to you,” he told her. “And yours had a double shot. If you drink mine too, you’re going to start seeing sounds.” He twisted to turn the cup to place his lips on the rim where hers had been.
Jesus.He was losing his mind.
Wren grinned at him and gestured to the dance floor. “That was what I was trying to do. Actually, it’s a good way to describe choreography, seeing noise and interpreting it.”
Remembering her music choices, he scowled at her. “For the record, I don’t think you should dance to anything that has the word fuck in it.”
She laughed. “You heard that, right?” She tried to snag his cup again, but he lifted it out of her reach. That was the advantage of being alottaller. She pouted. “Killjoy.”
“And yes, I know I have to be judicious in choosing the song, and the routine,” she added, wrapping her arms around both bent knees. Since her feet weren’t touching the bench, she held the pose by sheer core strength, but she didn’t seem to notice. “I need to find something cool enough for the kids, but acceptable to the parents.”
“It sounds like a nightmare,” he stated. “Why don’t you ask the kids for suggestions about what music they want to dance to?”
“I thought about that, but I’m impatient,” she admitted. “It’s been a while since I felt the urge to dance, to move, to make something new, so I wanted to be on my own and experiment.”
He winced. “And I crashed your alone time.” He moved to stand up.
But her hand on his arm kept his butt on the bench. “No, I don’t want you to go. I was just trying to explain that I’m eager to dance, and that I haven’t felt like that in a while.”
He settled down again and, noticing that there was only a sip of coffee left in his cup, offered it to her to finish. She tipped the cup and wrinkled her nose when she encountered only ice. She pouted and shook the cup. “Sadness.”
“Are you referring to the lack of coffee or your lack of progress on the dancefloor?” he asked.
“Both.”
“Do you have a choreographer’s equivalent of writer’s block?”
She dropped her legs and rested the back of her head against the wall behind her. “I think it’s more accurate to say I’m having a bit of a life block right now.”
Silence, not uncomfortable, settled between them for a minute, maybe more.
“Why do I feel like you are having one, too?” she added. Dane folded his arms and sighed.
“Even if I was”—Of course he was!—“there’s no chance of me going into family medicine.”
“None at all?”
“I’d give it the same odds as me falling pregnant,” he told her. “Can you make your godmother understand that?”
Wren smiled. “I have as much chance of doing that as you have of falling pregnant,” she cheerfully told him. Then patted his arm. “She’ll get the message eventually, maybe. You just have to keep repeating yourself, over and over and over again.”
“Fabulous,” he muttered.
She turned to face him, her hip on the bench, her thigh touching his. He knew she was, at least, a little into him, but he didn’t read too much into her touching him. She was a dancer and touching people was a part of her process. “Butwhynotfamily medicine?” she asked. “What’s so bad about it?”
“It isn’tbad, it’s just not for me.” He wouldn’t tell her that he’d find it more boring than watching paint dry. Because she’d touched him first, he rested his forearm on her knee. She didn’t seem to notice.
“Apart from the fact that I studied my ass off to become a surgeon, I work in a high-stress, high-adrenaline environment, where things move at breakneck speed. I have to make quick life-or-death decisions. I can go from amputations to head wounds to crush injuries and not take a break. Diagnosing sinus infections and listening to wheezy chests would drive me nuts.” He grimaced, hoping she wouldn’t think he was being a medical snob. “Family medicine is also about being a counsellor, listening, and involving yourself in someone’s life. I’m not into that.”
She cocked her head to the side. “You like change and to quickly move on?” He heard a note of something, maybe sadness, in her tone, and saw it was echoed in her eyes.
He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling like he was wandering into quicksand and not knowing when he’d break through the top layer. “Well … yeah, I guess. Moving from one place to another—it’s what I’ve been doing for a while now.”
The second the words left his mouth, something shifted. Wren pulled her thigh away from his, then stood. Her mouth tightened, a small frown between her brows. Dane’s stomach dipped. There it was, emotional quicksand. He’d clearly stepped in it but didn’t know why. Or how. Or which way was up.
Wren rescued him by flashing a smile. “The kids will be here soon,” she said lightly. Too lightly, like she was trying to pretend everything was okay. He thought about asking why she’d retreated, but the tension in her shoulders and neck suggested that she wouldn’t welcome his question.
“I wonder if everyone who came last week will show up again today?”
