Page 49 of Just One Look
“Yes,” Jordan said. “I see that.” He sighed. “Pity. Still … promising, for the reboot. Very promising.”
Right. That was a no, then. Definitely a no. No texting. No flirting. The end.
* * *
Luka wason the couch on Thursday evening, half-watching basketball on TV and half-reading a book by Anthony Bourdain about the hinterlands of the world and the food you found there. The stories had him smiling and wishing that his own world travel weren’t quite so focused on hotels and stadiums, and also thinking that when he stopped playing, he’d have time to explore those hinterlands himself, and wondering why that wasn’t more appealing.
The book also had him hungry, because healing from injury took extra energy, and doing it after a full day of training took more. He was about to get up and fix himself a quick steak, in fact, when his phone chimed.
If I’m going to do this,the text said,you’re going to have to do it with me, because it’s not working.
Elizabeth.
He hadn’t seen her since Sunday. He’d assumed they were done. He hadn’t even kissed her on the cheek that night, had just turned around and headed back to the car. Despite what he’d thought was some romance happening in that restaurant, he was moving backward with her, not forward. He could have rung her, but all those things that had been true Sunday night were still true, and it was pointless. He was out. And all the same, he was swinging his legs off the coffee table even as he texted her back.
Tell me Webster hasn’t swallowed something else,he said.
No. I consulted remember? With you. I know how to induce vomiting in a dog now. No I’m perfume shopping. At least I tried. There are too many to choose from though. Can’t smell anything anymore. Nose too confused. Self same. About to walk out.
He was heading to the bedroom, swapping out his shorts and T-shirt for jeans and a collared shirt even as his thumbs moved.
Don’t walk out. Wait for me. 15 minutes.
* * *
He foundher sitting on a bench in front of the store, dressed in black trousers, a white shirt, and comfortable shoes, reading a medical journal. Her hair was in a ponytail again, the sleeves of her shirt were shoved above her elbows, and for some reason, her forearms were covered with black scribbles.
She looked like nobody’s dream date ever, especially since the expression on her face could best be described as “frowning intensity.” And all the same, he was already smiling. Maybe it was those scribbles, maybe it was that she hadn’t even bothered to pull her hair out of the ponytail before meeting him, and maybe it was the way she was so absolutely and completely herself.
He said, “Hi. What are you reading?”
She looked up and said, “Oh. Hi. An article about asymptomatic spinal cord compression in athletes, and whether surgery is necessary for them to return to play. They discuss MRI criteria to help identify those most at risk of further injury without surgery, which is helpful. No exact answers, because it’s a developing field and the research is thin and inconclusive, but it certainly seems possible to get closer than a hunch.”
He was getting more of that intensity. Also apprehension. Again, if he’d been identifying the perfect expression to see on a woman’s face as you approached her, it probably wouldn’t be “scowling apprehension.” She closed the journal and stood up, though.
“Answer’s no,” he said. “On whether surgery’s necessary. If it doesn’t hurt, you’re all good. And if it doesn’t hurt enough to stop you, you’re still good. Mind if I kiss your cheek again?” Heading straight into that minefield like … well, possibly like a man who ran into tacklers for a living.
“Oh.” The scowl vanished, leaving only the apprehension. “Well, fine. But I think I smell pretty overpowering.”
He smiled, and then he put one hand on her shoulder and brushed her cheek with his lips. This time, he got a little tremble from her. Also, shedidsmell overpowering. Not bad. Just … extremely strong.
He drew back and asked, “All right so far?”
More scowl. “I can handle a kiss on the cheek.I’m notthatdevoid of the basic skills of social intercourse.”
“Mm.” He tried to hold his smile in check. It wasn’t easy. “What are the marks on your arms? Surgeon’s notes? ‘Remember cut off right leg not left?’”
“No,” she said, placing the journal back into her bag. The picture on the cover was fairly disgusting, in his opinion. “First, because I do very few amputations. A neurosurgical amputation is known as a decapitation. You so rarely get a positive outcome. And second, because I don’t normally need notes. My notes are the films and what I’ve practiced and what’s in front of my eyes and under my hands. Probably exactly like rugby.”
“Well, no,” he said. “You do make notes in rugby. What you want to do in the game, what you’re watching for. You’re right that you aren’t looking at it during the game, though. A plan’s good, but you can’t play a plan. You can only play what’s in front of you.”
“Same, then.”
“Same. So these marks are …”
She held out one forearm, and another powerful waft of scent reached his nostrils. “How would I remember what I’d sprayed where if I didn’t label them? Otherwise, they’d all blend together.”
“Ah.” Her forearm, in fact, was bisected by neatly drawn black lines, with initials in the midst of each target area. “Very, uh, scientific.”
