Cathryn Parry - Out of His League

She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I’m fine, Mr. Farell.”

“Fair-ell,” he said. “And it’s Jon.”

She licked her lips and stared hard at her tablet. “Have you ever been under general anesthesia? Do you have any concerns about it?”

Dr. Elizabeth LaValley, the name stitched across her white lab jacket said. Her scrubs beneath it were bright turquoise. She was medium height, and she was attractive in a fresh-faced, studious way. Obviously she was smart, or she wouldn’t be a doctor.

“Mr. Farell?” She said the name correctly this time.

He smiled. Look at me, he willed her.

She glanced at him, then blinked, startled and went back to staring at her screen. “I’m sorry,” she said in a low voice, “you’re obviously someone famous, and I’m making you uncomfortable....” Blood seemed to drain from her face.

Usually, he would interject, reassure her and make her comfortable, but...he was genuinely interested in hearing what she had to say. And he got the feeling she didn’t speak her mind too often to people, preferring to keep things to herself.

“I’ve...had a bad morning,” she continued, still not looking at him. “I just got some...difficult news. If you’d like, I’ll have another anesthesiologist called in to assist with your surgery. But I assure you, I’m very capable at what I do, and once I’m with the rest of the team, I will be fine—”

“I want you,” he blurted.

She blinked at him. Her eyes lingered on his, then traveled the length of him very quickly, up and down. She swallowed. “Why?” she asked.

He liked the sound of her voice—soft and calming. And it was completely inappropriate for the situation, but his body was giving a sexual response....

He crossed his arms over his lap. Smiled nonchalantly at her and gave her an uncharacteristic, honest answer. “Because I’m scared as hell at what’s going to happen to me, and I don’t want anybody else but you to know. Okay?”

“Me?” She put her hand on her heart.

“Uh, I figure you’ve already seen me at my worst. I don’t want to have to explain it to anybody else again.”

She nodded slowly. “That’s logical.”

“It is.”

Their gazes held for just a split second too long. There was...something there. An attraction, and on her part, too. And no, it wasn’t as meaningless to him as overcoming a challenge—getting a woman who wasn’t impressed with his celebrity to come to his side. It was...deeper than that.

And it was crazy to think so based on a two-minute meeting. Maybe he was just so scared witless about the cancer talk, it was making him think crazy things.

Carefully, Elizabeth LaValley put down her computer tablet. He got the impression that this action in itself was significant for her.

“Mr. Farell,” she said slowly, “your surgeon is very good. He’s our best, in fact, and I can vouch for him.”

“Not all cancer can be cured,” he murmured. “People die. I’ve seen...people die.”

Again, that pale face. “I know.” Her voice caught, and her hand went to her mouth.

“Tell me, Lizzy,” he said softly. “Uh, is it okay if I call you that?”

“I... Yes. I’m fine, really. It’s fine.” She waved her hand, looking flustered. “It’s just...we had a cancer scare in our family five years ago. My three-year-old nephew had leukemia. Today is the day he gets tested, to see if he’s really cured.”

“And you’re worried?”

“My sister thinks he’s sick again.” She shook her head. “No—we’re supposed to be talking about you. This is your surgery. Your anesthesia. In a minute, your surgeon—the head of the team—will be coming to see you.”

She picked up the tablet again and very carefully sat to read his case notes. There was fresh concentration in her gaze. Her blinking had stopped. Her hands weren’t shaking.

“Lizzy, I’m sorry about your nephew.”

She shook her head again. “He’ll be fine, Mr. Farell. Today, we’ll be removing a tumor from your right ring finger—a growth on the bone—but from your tests, there are no solid indications it’s cancer. Of course, the tumor will be tested as soon as it’s removed, but that is standard procedure.”

He’d lost her. But she needed to prepare for her job performance in the minutes ahead—of anyone, he could understand and appreciate that. “How long will it take to get back the results?”

“Typically, a few days for the lab work,” she said. “But, once the doctor opens up the finger and sees the tumor, he can usually rule out cancer by sight.”

Jon drew in a breath. She was gazing at him, her forehead creased. He got a feeling she didn’t look at too many of her patients like this. Really look at them, really let herself see them as people instead of as medical problems to be solved.

“Thank you, Lizzy,” he said quietly.

She blushed. “It’s Elizabeth.”

“Call me Jon.”

Her teeth bit down on her lower lip.

And because things were looking so much better now, he pushed his luck. “I have another request that I was wondering if you could help me with.”

* * *

TALKING INAPPROPRIATELY to a patient? This was so unlike her; it was surreal.

The only thing that explained Elizabeth’s uncharacteristic unprofessionalism with Jon—with this patient—was that, silly as it sounded, her grandmother had called her Lizzy.

And her grandmother had died when Elizabeth was eight, the same age her nephew Brandon was now.

Fresh tears sprang to her eyelids. She bit down on her lip again. Control. Stay in control.

She was just so vulnerable now, ever since Ashley had told her about Brandon. She pressed her hand to her mouth, trying to stop the trembling.

The surgeon approached Mr. Farell. A professional athlete getting the most experienced doctor on staff...no surprise there. Elizabeth stepped aside, relieved to be able to step into the shadows.

Talking to the patients presurgery was the least favorite part of her job. She would as soon die as admit this to anyone, but she’d chosen anesthesia as a medical specialty because the bulk of her duties involved dealing with patients while they were unable to move or speak and therefore couldn’t interact or cause conflict with her. All that was required, interfacing-wise, was typically a five- or ten-minute consultation before the procedure. Right up Elizabeth’s alley.

But this man...Jon Farell...had just blown all her experience out of the water. Even now, as the surgeon talked on and on, regaling Jon, asking him questions, adding to his “cocktail banter stories” by interacting with a Captains pitcher, Jon kept glancing at her. Meaningfully, as if the two of them shared a secret.

She rarely stared at men. Her life was too private for that, Albert not considered. But this man...

She’d been fighting an urge to lean closer and smell him. Very strange, but she did understand the scientific principal behind it. Sex pheromones, it was called. The theory stated that Nature, in her infinite wisdom, ensured that people with complementary genetic traits were attracted to one another. Someone with a family tendency for diabetes, say, was attracted to someone else with specific immunity against it. A way for survival of the species, so to speak.

Scientifically, then, she wasn’t physically attracted to Jon Farell, but her DNA was.

Intuitively, it made sense. Jon was the physical opposite to her. He was athletic and strong, with ice-blue eyes. His face bore the fine, delicate features of Nordic ancestry, but mixed with something else—a blending of another culture that gave him bronzed, sun-kissed skin and long brown hair, mysteriously streaked on the left side with white. His hair wasn’t dyed white, but was naturally white, as in, the absence of color. Somewhere along the line, probably through blunt trauma, a small section on his scalp, about a quarter inch wide, had been injured such that he no longer had any pigment in the hair follicles.