Page 15 of Doc Hollywood

She had stood in the anaesthetic bay, peering in the window to her theatre, constantly watching the monitor as she gratefully ate the sandwich. The grease and starch helping the exhaustion that dragged at her bones.

“He stayed with me on call yesterday until two in the morning; he obviously felt sorry for me.” Clara’s eyes involuntarily veeredto the doors that Taylor had just left through after she had insisted he go for lunch.

“Uh-huh.” Helen’s mask couldn’t hide her smirk as she nudged Clara’s shoulder.

“He doesn’t like me.” Clara’s reply was a little more flustered.

“He keeps touching you.” Helen had a mischievous look on her face.

Clara didn’t answer Helen this time, merely glaring as she didn’t want to admit how aware she was of Taylor.

Whenever he stood near her, she had to force herself to act normally. And when his hand brushed hers or his arm touched her shoulder, her body’s reaction was to freeze and blush.

So every few minutes, she gave herself a stern talking to; he was a very attractive movie star with eyes that, even when hidden behind black-rimmed glasses, twinkled with good humour.

Of course she found him attractive; part of his appeal on screen was that most women found him attractive, and most men wanted to be him.

And maybe she had a small crush, which she found intensely embarrassing. At thirty-five years old, she had a crush on a man because he was handsome. And nice, her inner voice added, which she quickly shushed. It didn’t matter if he was nice or not; he wasn’t for her.

She needed to keep her head out of the clouds and try not to develop crushes on unattainable men.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t an easy task, as no one since Jack had even made her look at them twice.

Clara opened her mouth to deny again that Taylor liked her, when the actor walked back into theatre. She frowned at him and checked the clock. He had only been gone for fifteen minutes, not long enough to eat lunch.

Helen winked at her and spun around, heading back to the anaesthetic bay.

“Why are you back so soon?” Clara snapped at him and cringed. She hadn’t meant to sound so bitchy.

But Taylor took it in his stride and nudged her shoulder with his muscled arm. “Funny story. I took my mask off to eat my sandwich, and a few ladies at the table beside me started whispering and pointing at me. So I, well…” he cleared his throat, “I may have run away and come back up here. Can I eat in the anaesthetic bay?”

Clara peered through the window to the bay, where Helen was wandering around the room, going through all the drawers and checking what equipment and drugs they needed to restock.

She thought quickly. There was no way if Helen saw Taylor without his mask that she wouldn’t recognise him, as they had, in the past, had several very detailed conversations about how if Helen wasn’t sixty and married, Taylor Anderson would be her hall pass.

Clara shuddered at the thought of Helen working out who he was; while she wasn’t Deloris, she did have the horrible feeling that the nurse wouldn’t be able to stop herself from doing or saying something inappropriate.

“Yeah. Hang on.” Clara pushed the doors to the anaesthetic bay open. “I’m sorry to be a massive pain, but the next patient has a risk of phaeochromocytoma, and I’ll need some phentolamine just in case. Do you think you can nip up to ICU now and grab some?”

Helen stared at her hard. “The skin cancer man?”

“Yeah.” Clara kept a straight face. “I know it’s super unlikely as it’s only local and sedation, but I think we should have it.”

Helen huffed and put down the list she had been making for missing equipment that needed replacing. “Fine. I’ll go grab it now.”

“Thanks, Helen. I appreciate it.” Clara waited until Helen had left the anaesthetic bay before she went back into theatre and whispered, “The coast is clear, Superman. You can eat your lunch in safety.”

“Thanks.” Taylor grabbed hold of her hand and squeezed it.

Clara looked down at his fingers, staring at the huge hand enveloping hers and marvelling at the muscles that bulged and tensed in his forearm as his fingers flexed on hers.

“No problems,” she muttered without looking up at him.

She was so embarrassed; she felt a jolt of electricity run up her arm at his contact, and it confirmed what she already knew, she had a crush—a huge, bloody crush on him. She was such an idiot. She wanted to squeeze his fingers back. She wanted to hold hands with him; however, she stopped herself and made her hand remain limp in his.

She glanced up in time to see him staring at her, a frown pulling his brows together.

It felt like forever before he let go of her hand and walked out to eat his sandwich.

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