Radclyffe - Turn Back Time

"I switched to crew in college."

"So now you're slower."

"You like to push, don't you?" Pearce said with a hint of challenge in her voice. "You wanna come running with me some morning?"

"Any time. I've done some running myself." Wynter didn't feel like mentioning it had been four years since she'd done any serious running, and she wondered if she'd be able to keep up. She wasn't going to show her doubts, though.

"I'll give you a couple of days to get settled in, and then we'll see who can still run." Pearce stood, forgetting her earlier vow to keep her distance. Being around Wynter felt too good to be cautious. Besides, there was nothing wrong with being friendly. "Come on. Let me take you to dinner."

Laughing, Wynter nodded. Pearce was impossible to say no to.

"All right, but it's Dutch treat."

"We'll do it your way," Pearce said. "This time."

CHAPTER EIGHT

"Should we change?" Wynter asked as she and Pearce left the cafeteria.

"We don't have to. They're used to seeing people in scrubs across the street," Pearce said. "Do you have a blazer or something? That should be good enough."

"I've got something in my locker."

"Let's grab it, then. I'm starving."

Two minutes later, Pearce nodded in silent approval as Wynter pulled on an ocean blue cable knit sweater that was a few shades lighter than her eyes. The sweep of her red-gold hair against the soft blue wool reminded her of a flaming sunset over crystal Caribbean waters. She had an image of Wynter on the beach, small drops of sweat beaded on her skin. She could taste the salt.

"That's perfect."

Wynter gave her a quizzical look, then regarded her favorite, but hardly new, sweater. It wasn't her usual dinner attire, but the compliment pleased her, as did the appreciative expression in Pearce's eyes. Slightly disconcerted by that fact, she said, "What about you?"

"Oh," Pearce said, remembering why they had stopped by the locker room. She dragged her eyes away from Wynter, pulled out her baggy, faded navy and maroon Penn sweatshirt, and shrugged into it.

"All set."

The shapeless garment did little to hide her physique and reminded Wynter of the way she'd looked the day they'd met. She said without thinking, "That's pretty perfect too."

Pearce blushed. "Come on, before we get paged for something."

They were both quiet as they hurried outside. As if sensing freedom, they dashed across the street in front of the hospital's main entrance and into the lobby of the hotel. The restaurant was in the rear, and as they crossed the plush carpeted expanse of lobby toward it, the hostess stepped forward from behind her small dais and gave Pearce a welcoming smile.

"Dr. Rifkin," the blond breathed. "How nice to see you. It's been far too long."

"Hi, Talia," Pearce replied. "Can you put us in the corner by the windows for dinner?"

The hostess glanced briefly at Wynter, then seemed to dismiss her.

Wynter found the Elle Macpherson look-alike's expression verging on avaricious as her gaze roamed unabashedly over Pearce, and for an instant, Wynter contemplated stepping directly into her line of vision.

She was startled by her reaction. She'd seen women look at her husband that way on more than one occasion, and their interest had never bothered her. Irrationally, she found this woman's attention--to another woman, no less--supremely irritating. She held out her hand, diverting the hostess from Pearce. "Hello. I'm Dr. Wynter Thompson."

With a courteous but cool smile, Talia turned toward the dining room. "Very pleased to meet you. Let me show you to your table."

"Come here often?" Wynter said when they were alone.

"Every once in a while," Pearce replied noncommittally, glad to have escaped Talia's scrutiny before Wynter noticed the unwanted attention. She should have realized Talia would not be pleased to see her with another woman, even if it was just for an innocent dinner. She set the menu aside; she knew it by heart. "If you're not a vegetarian, the steak is great. If you are, they really do make a great fettuccine Alfredo."

Wynter laughed. "I'm not a vegetarian, but the pasta sounds good.

I'll have it."

"I'll stick to Coke because I'm on call, but you're not. Feel free to try the wine. Their house label isn't bad."

"Coke will be fine for me too." Once they had ordered, Wynter leaned back and regarded Pearce thoughtfully. "You don't mind being a resident, do you?"

"I'll be a lot happier in two years when I can call my own shots,"

Pearce answered. "But I knew what I was getting into, so, no, I don't mind. Why do you ask?"

"Because you don't seem angry. Most...well maybe not most, but many residents at our stage hate the work, or at least hate being on call." She looked around the restaurant, which was upscale for a hotel, probably because of the proximity to the hospital and the fact that many VIP patients' families stayed there. "Take this place. for example. You're on call, but you're about to have a very nice dinner, and it appears that's not unusual. You don't seem to let being a resident cramp your style."

Pearce grinned. "Why suffer when you can be comfortable?"

Wynter laughed. "I agree."

"What about you? Being a resident for you must be a little bit harder."

"Why?" Wynter asked, feeling the slightest bit uneasy.

"Well," Pearce shrugged. "Being married."

There. Finally. Wynter felt an unexpected surge of relief. "I'm divorced."

"Oh."

"Yes." Wynter had no idea why it should be important to her that Pearce know this about her, but it was.

"That helps, then." As if realizing what she'd just said, Pearce gave Wynter a wry smile. "Sorry. I just meant--"

"No need to apologize. I happen to agree with you. It makes quite a few things simpler."

"So I don't need to offer my sympathies?"

"I won't pretend it's been fun, but no condolences required."

"Is that why you're back a year?" When Wynter looked away, Pearce said hastily, "Sorry. None of my bus--"

"No, that's okay," Wynter said with a wan smile. "It's complicated, but that's part of the reason, yes."

"Well, you landed in a good place. Too bad about the extra time, though."

"Thanks," Wynter replied. "It hurts to lose a year, but all things considered..." She held Pearce's gaze. "I'm happy to be here."

"Good," Pearce said, feeling suddenly euphoric. She wished she weren't on call and could order a bottle of good red Bordeaux to celebrate. Celebrate what? So she's divorced. It doesn't change anything. But it didn't matter, it just felt good.

"What?" Wynter asked.

"What what?"

Wynter shook her head. "We're having the most bizarre conversation. You just looked...happy, all of a sudden."

"No reason." Fortunately, the waiter approached with their meal at that moment, saving Pearce from any further explanation. "Let's eat while we have the chance."

"Ah yes, another important surgical dictum," Wynter said, forking up a few strands of fettuccine. "See a chair, sit in it. See a bed, lie in it.

See food...eat it."

Cutting into her steak with gusto, Pearce said, "And truer words were never spoken."

"God," Wynter said with a moan, "this is great."

"Yeah, it is." And Pearce didn't mean the food.

"So," Wynter said when she slowed down enough for air and conversation, "how many sibs do you have?"

Pearce poised with her fork in midair. "None. What made you think I did?"

From the carefully neutral tone in Pearce's voice, Wynter knew immediately that she'd once again trespassed on forbidden territory with what she had thought was an innocent question. "I didn't, not really. I guess I just assumed..."

"Yes?" Pearce put her fork down, growing very still.

"Oh, I'm making this worse. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get personal."