Page 23 of Just One Look
No, wait. She couldn’t. Because he was clearly on a date.He was wearing a collared shirt, and he seemed like the kind of guy who wouldn’t normally do that.
The shirt was blue and cut close to his body, and it was untucked. He was wearing dark jeans with it, and the whole thing looked pretty … Well, he looked good, that was all. He had excellent hair. Thick and wavy, with a little gray at the temples. Also a very broad chest, taut abdominals, and excellent muscle definition in general.
Surgically speaking. Surgically speaking, he was a fine specimen.
“Are you really a neurosurgeon?” the other woman asked. “I’m Francesca, by the way.”
“E … Elizabeth.” There was possibly a gasp in there. “Yes. I am.”
“I thought you had to be …”
Elizabeth eyed her, but Luka got in ahead of her. “Careful. She’s eminent, apparently. That other doctor used a rugby metaphor to tell me how eminent, did you notice that?” he asked Elizabeth. “Bloody condescending, I thought.”
“Surgeons can be that way. Occupational hazard. Comes of knowing too much about people’s insides or something.” She finished off the glass of water he’d shoved in front of her and said, “Thanks. I’ll be going. Wait, though. Does that thing you did, grabbing Webster’s nose—does it work?”
“What, the dog?” When he smiled, his face crumpled even more, the creases around his eyes and on his forehead deepening. “Yeh. It does. And that’s his muzzle. It’s a dominance thing.”
“Oh.” She considered that. “Is that … all right to do?”
This time, he laughed. “Yeh. It is. ‘Dominance’ isn’t a dirty word when it comes to dogs.”
“Not a dirty word to me anytime,” Francesca murmured, almost-but-not-quite into her wine glass.
Luka’s mouth quirked again, but he just said, “He wants to know what he’s meant to do. If he’s allowed to express himself all over the shop the way he has been, he gets overexcited and out of control, like a kid up past his bedtime. That isn’t as enjoyable as you may think.”
A shadow fell over the table, and Elizabeth realized for the first time that Luka had sat down, somewhere in there, between her and the other woman. And that there was somebody else here now, too.
“Luka?” the woman said. “Hi.”
* * *
The surgeon—dog-loser—Elizabeth—scrambledto her feet so fast, she stumbled a little over her chair, and the dog—Webster—lurched to his feet as well, jarring the table. Luka grabbed for his beer glass to save it and told her, “Wait a minute. Stay and have a beer. You look like you need one.” After that, he stood, kissed yet anotherwoman on the cheek—the only one he hadn’t kissed tonight was Elizabeth, and she was, oddly, the one he really wanted to, maybe because she made him laugh—and said, “Hi, Mona. This is Francesca. Old friend. And Webster. Dog. And Elizabeth, my neurosurgeon.”
Elizabeth coughed, half in and half out of her chair, and then she coughed some more, as if she were choking. Francesca poured a glass of water and pushed it silently across the table, and Elizabeth flapped a hand wildly over her head, waving it away, and continued to cough. Luka said, “Everybody, this is Mona. Fitness trainer. My date.”
“Oh,” Mona said faintly. “Hi.”
“Don’t mind me,” Francesca said. “I’m just going.”
“Oh, no,” Mona said. “Uh … please stay, if you like.” Elizabeth was still coughing. Webster, meanwhile, was doing some of his tail-wagging and straining at the lead, so Luka grabbed his collar and said, “Sit.”
He sat.
Elizabeth got her coughing under control, more or less, gasped out, “Got to go. Nice to meet you,” and fled up the road, with Webster stopping and looking back with every few steps, like he couldn’t believe they were leaving so soon, and being jerked back to join her again. Webster, it was clear, was a party animal.
The rest of the evening was never going to be as entertaining as this.
