Susan Crosby - Marriage On His Mind

“Want to kiss it and make it better?”

She smiled at the windshield, grateful there wasn’t time to relive the past. “You wish,” she said, tossing a grin his way.

The hospital came into view.

“Coach—”

“I’m going to stop at the emergency entrance and find someone with a wheelchair,” she said, swinging into the well-marked driveway.

“Before you go—”

“Don’t.” She shifted into neutral, and pulled up the emergency brake, then turned to look at him. “It can’t go any further than this. I’m sorry. More sorry than you can imagine.”

“Just tell me why.”

“It’s too complicated.”

“Are you married?”

“Of course not.”

“Significant other?”

“None. I meant it when I said I’m in transition. There’s just me. There can only be me. I’ve really enjoyed the time we’ve shared, though. I hope I wasn’t too hard on you.”

“On the contrary, I’m grateful for your prodding.” He touched her shoulder lightly and trailed his fingers down her arm, crossing from fabric to skin on his journey, then locked his fingers over hers as she clenched the gearshift. “A favor?”

Her body reacted to his touch in ways she had thought dead and forgotten. Breath became hard to control; her pulse went from zero to sixty in less than five seconds; even her breasts swelled. She watched him take note of her response, one visible reaction at a time, which served only to make her breathing more shallow, her pulse speed uninhibited down an empty freeway and the tips of her breasts harden painfully.

His voice turned to velvet. “Could we share one kiss in private?”

She didn’t want to give him permission, but to relinquish responsibility to him and not be able to blame herself later. She wanted him just to take. He waited patiently for her to answer.

Jack heard the whisper of a yes only because he was watching her mouth. Not in any hurry, he pushed the bill of her cap around and pulled off her sunglasses. The pupils of her eyes constricted in the sunlight as he watched; her lips parted. Slowing his need, he pressed his mouth to the tender skin below her ear and felt her quivering response. Sliding his mouth along her jaw, he heard her whispered encouragement.

“Yes. Oh, God. Yes,” she breathed, exciting him beyond his dreams with her need.

First came the arousing feel of her lips against his, soft and fiery, then a sudden stillness as she held her breath, then a slow exhale accompanied by the slightest taste of an inquisitive tongue. She glided a shaking hand up his arm to his shoulder; her fingers dug into him. Oh, yes, this was heaven, he thought, curiosity somersaulting into desire as he slanted their mouths differently to deepen the kiss. We fit perfectly. The revelation meandered through his mind as they pulled each other closer across the center console. He slid his palm to her throat, felt the hammering pulse, then glided down—

Someone knocked on the windshield.

“You the one Doc Lansing called about?” a uniformed attendant asked through the glass.

Murder came to mind. Jack nodded in the affirmative, but his gaze stayed on Coach, who seemed to be taking a long time drifting down from her own clouds. “Who are you?” he asked her as the attendant pushed a wheelchair around to the passenger side of the car.

Her hands shaking, she fitted her sunglasses back in place and lifted her cap to turn it around and resettle it. “I’ll park your car and leave your keys with the ER receptionist.”

He couldn’t say goodbye, so he brushed a hand down her cheek and turned from her to shift himself into the wheelchair. He never looked back.

Mickey watched him disappear through the electric doors, then leaned her forehead against the steering wheel for a minute to get her bearings.

His kiss should be labeled by the government as hazardous to one’s health, for surely her temperature had elevated to a life-threatening degree. She leaned back and blew out a breath, her arms stiff, her hands locked on the steering wheel. He would be a significant roadblock in her need for independence. Too significant. She shoved the car into first gear.

After finding a parking place nearby, she sat on a bench under a tree for more than half an hour, giving him a chance to be taken into a room, then she climbed the ramp and entered the hospital. She glanced furtively around her but the waiting room yawned empty. She swept off her hat as she approached the reception window. “Excuse me,” she said to the woman working at a computer behind the counter.

“Yes? May I help you?”

“I, ah, I wanted to know about a patient who was just brought in with an ankle injury.”

“Are you a relative?”

“No. Just a...friend. Is he all right?”

“Let me check. Have a seat, okay?”

Mickey sank onto a bench. Dropping her cap on the table beside her, she picked up a magazine and flipped through it, seeing only a blur of words and pictures. Stark images of her last visit to a hospital emergency room flashed before her eyes. I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do. Sorry... Nothing... Sorry...

Nothing.

The door from the ER parking lot whooshed open, startling her. She brushed a weary hand down her face and stood as Scott Lansing approached.

“How’s he doing?” he asked, his eyes asking questions he must have sensed she wouldn’t answer.

“I don’t know. He’s inside. Did you win?”

“Amazingly, we did. I’ll go check on him.”

“Wait.” Mickey caught his arm. From her pocket she dug out a set of keys. “Give these to him, please. I’ll be on my way.”

He hefted the keys lightly. “Hang tight. I’ll see how he is.”

After a few minutes, he returned. “We haven’t been introduced.” He extended his hand in greeting. “I’m Scott Lansing.”

“Yes, I know. How is he?”

“Ornery.”

“Please.” She realized how pathetic she sounded when the man dropped his attempt at humor and started speaking in soothing doctor tones.

“He’s going to be just fine. No break, just a bad sprain. You can go see him, if you want. He’s having his crutches fitted, then he can leave.”

She had to get out of here, away from the reminders, away from the past. “I...can’t stay. Tell him...tell him I’m glad he’s all right. And I’m sorry I caused him to be hurt.”

“Why don’t you tell him yourself?”

She could hear Jack’s voice as he called thanks to someone, then the sound of the electric doors swinging open. She took three steps back, turned and ran.

Jack concentrated on negotiating the metal crutches through the door, and looked up only in time to catch a glimpse of Coach’s tempting backside. He glanced at Scott.

“Stubborn as you, Jack, old buddy. Do you want to go to Chung Li’s or home?”

Jack moved toward the glass exit door, but she was already out of sight. “Pizza, I guess.”

“Sit down for a second while I pick up your prescription. Elevate that foot.”

Jack maneuvered himself to a cushioned bench. Beside him on the low table laden with well-used magazines sat an L.A. Seagulls baseball cap. He picked it up and turned it in his hands. Coach’s? It had to be. He checked it for a name tag; finding none, he lifted it to his face and breathed in the sweet, subtle fragrance of shampoo that lingered in the fabric. His body reacted with lightning speed to the scent, to the remembered taste of her mouth and her uncontrolled response. If they’d just had a little more time alone in the car, maybe he could have convinced her to trust him, or at least to meet with him again.

He spun the cap that his reluctant Cinderella had left behind. Folding it, he jammed it into his waistband, knowing he had to find her. Ignoring his long-trusted intuition, which told him he was inviting trouble by searching her out, he decided she was a woman in need of a happy ending. And he’d make a helluva Prince Charming.