Cindy Kirk - One Night with the Doctor

On the surface, he’d offered a simple compliment. But the look in his eyes told her it wasn’t just her voice he found sexy.

The truth was, she found him sexy, too. When she saw him sitting in the audience, dressed simply in black pants and a sweater, her heart had quaked. This was a man who looked good in everything...and probably even better in nothing at all.

Poppy’s cheeks heated. She dropped her gaze toward the roses, now protected from the cool night air by a tent of cellophane. “Thank you for the compliment. And for the lovely flowers. They smell every bit as good as they look.”

When Benedict didn’t immediately respond, a horrible thought struck her. What if he wasn’t the “Ben” who’d sent them?

Before she could backtrack, his lips stole upward in a pleased smile. “The florist assured me you’d get them before the competition started. I’m happy to see he kept his word.”

Break a leg, the note had said. Yes, Ben would have wanted her to receive them before she stepped onto the stage. Poppy saw no purpose in telling him the roses hadn’t arrived until after her performance.

“I was cheering for you tonight,” he added in a deep, sexy rumble. “Congratulations. You deserved the win.”

Although Poppy had friends in the audience tonight, most—like Tripp—were there to support other contestants. The fact that Benedict had been there for her thrilled and terrified her.

“It was fun. Definitely a good cause.” Poppy moved around him to open her car door, trying to ignore the alarming rush of sheer physical awareness at his nearness.

In a self-preservation move, she took an obscene amount of time placing the flowers—secured in the cardboard carrier the florist had left—on the passenger-side floorboard. Yet when she straightened, Benedict was still there.

Poppy raised the collar of her coat and shoved her hands into the pockets. Taking a steadying breath, she cocked her head. “What is it you want?”

Her question was blunt, to the point and totally unnecessary. The look in his eyes proclaimed in big neon letters exactly what he wanted, or rather who he wanted.

He wants me. She fought a surge of pleasure at the thought, a pleasure that sharply spiked when Ben pulled her to him.

“I’d like—” he paused and a slight smile lifted his lips “—to know if you have plans for the rest of the evening?”

He smelled like soap and an indefinable male scent that made her want to lean into him. Instead she made herself focus on the question.

Plans? Yes, she had plans. Of course she had plans. But what were they? And why, now basking in the heat from his body, did they suddenly seem so irrelevant?

“I—I do,” Poppy finally managed to stammer.

His hands dropped and he moved from her, taking the warmth with him.

“I wasn’t aware you were seeing anyone.” An emotion she couldn’t identify flickered in the molten silver of his eyes. “Who is he?”

“Rocky.” Her grin came quick and fast, surprising them both. “Rocky Road.”

Beneath the expensive cut of his dark wool coat, Ben’s shoulders relaxed. The harsh planes of his face softened, making him look younger and more vulnerable. Approachable.

“You may not be aware—” He reached out and adjusted her collar. When his fingers brushed her neck, Poppy was disconcerted to feel her breath quicken. “—that Rocky and I are well acquainted.”

“Yeah, well, Rocky gets around.”

He chuckled, a low pleasant rumbling sound, his gaze lingering on her lips. “Have dinner with me. Rocky can wait.”

“Ben.” While he hadn’t given her permission to use it, the name came easily. Poppy liked the way it felt on her tongue. Liked it a little too much, she realized.

Poppy started to rake her fingers through her hair then stopped when she realized she’d muss the waves Cassidy had labored so hard to perfect. God, she was confused.

The only certainty was that accepting a dinner invitation from this man would be a first step down a path she had no intention of traveling. Spontaneous was one thing. Foolhardy quite another. “I don’t believe our having dinner is a good idea.”

Poppy immediately realized her mistake when puzzlement filled his gray eyes. She should have simply lied and said she’d eaten before the show. Or been completely honest and confessed she was fighting an urge to feast on him.

“Why isn’t it a good idea?” he asked, leveling a steady gaze.

While Poppy was telling herself to shut this down and get in her car, Ben shot her a wolfish grin showing a mouthful of perfect white teeth.

“I promise I won’t bite.” He lifted his right hand and offered a two-fingered salute. “Scout’s honor.”

The thought of this prominent physician ever sleeping in a tent or starting a fire with sticks brought a laugh to Poppy’s lips. “You were never a scout.”

“I made it all the way to Eagle.”

“I was a Brownie.”

This time it was his turn to laugh.

Poppy tilted her head. “Do you have badges?”

“A whole box of them,” he said with a sheepish smile. “How about you?”

“I have a whole box, too,” Poppy said rashly.

“Really?”

His tone was clearly skeptical and, well, it rankled. She was positive—or almost positive—that she had five or six badges packed away...somewhere. And six was almost a boxful.

Feeling suddenly relaxed, Poppy ignored the warning flags popping up in her head.

“I’ll show you my badges if you show me yours,” she taunted.

“You’ve got a deal.” He caught her hand in his, lifted it to his mouth and pressed a kiss against her wrist before she could stop him.

She jerked her hand back, the warm moist imprint of his lips searing her skin.

He smirked. “If there’s going to be a badge showing tonight, we’ll need to fuel up. Dinner then badges. It’s part of the deal.”

Deal? For a second, panic clogged her throat. They didn’t have a deal. She’d been merely enjoying a little lighthearted conversation. Okay, and maybe practicing her rusty flirting skills. Some very rusty skills. Even a high-school girl would know better than to bring up scouting badges.

Poppy cleared her throat, searching for a painless way out of this mess. “Even if I agreed to dinner, all the restaurants in Jackson Hole are booked for the evening.”

“A challenge.” His gray eyes reminded her of a shimmery fog. “Do you like Italian?”

Though the wind had picked up, Poppy wasn’t cold. Heat, mixed with an intoxicating dose of testosterone, rolled off him and wrapped around her. “Doesn’t everyone? But—”

“Hold that thought.” He pulled a slim phone from his pocket, waited a few seconds for the call to connect then asked for Angelo. “Tell him it’s Ben Campbell.” A moment later, he confirmed a table for two.

He pocketed the phone. Satisfaction blanketed his face. “We have a reservation at the Trattoria.”

Poppy’s resolve to keep her distance wavered as her stomach emitted a low growl. Visions of her favorite pasta dish danced in her head. “The Ravioli di Granchio is my favorite.”

Ben smiled. “What’s not to love about large ravioli stuffed with stone crab and shrimp in a creamy lobster sauce?”

“I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be,” he said with a laugh. “My familiarity with the menu merely tells you how often I eat out.”

“How did you get a reservation? The place was booked solid for tonight.” Poppy distinctly remembered Lexi mentioning that fact to her only last week.

He merely shrugged.

Poppy wondered who Angelo was and what his connection was to Ben. Before she could press for details he slanted a dismissive glance at her small Ford. “We’ll take my vehicle. I’ll bring you back after dinner to pick up yours.”