12. Caroline
12
CAROLINE
W hat a perfect comfort meal. I couldn’t ask for a more thoughtful or caring host than Brock after today’s stressful ordeal. It’s as if he senses exactly what I need and is more than willing to give it to me, except…
There’s no denying that I want more than just a simple forehead kiss from him. It was a tender and sweet gesture, but it’s not nearly enough. The more I try to deny how much I need a forbidden romance with this blasted man, the more I seem to crave it with every fiber of my being.
Shaking my head at the ridiculous notion of having a one-night stand with a patient, I mouth the words to the mantra that I have repeated numerous times per day for as long as I can remember. “I am enough. My mind is brilliant, and I am worthy.”
Deciding the situation calls for it tonight, I add, “And I don’t need a man to make my life complete.”
Almost as soon as the whispered words leave my lips, my mind shouts at me that I may not need a man, but I sure as heck want this particular one.
Frustrated by my own weakness, I eat the delicious cookie he delivered to me and try to focus on the poetry book in my lap. The words swirl before my eyes as a mental image of me boldly going to Brock’s bedroom door enters my mind and refuses to leave.
Even though I would never in a million years be brave enough to enter his bedroom without an invitation, my brain is laser-focused on that fantasy. Giving up on reading, I close the book, opting instead to stare at the interesting and informative shelves across from me.
I learned more about Brock’s past, his hobbies, and what is important to him from this single visit to his home than I have in three years as his team doctor. Granted, medical practitioners aren’t supposed to get to know their patients on such an intimate level, but this time spent in his personal space has confirmed for me that there is much more to the talented hockey player than there initially seems to be.
Almost of its own accord my head angles around to look down the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. I long to open Brock’s bedroom door and peek my head inside.
Based on the way he was looking at me earlier, I’m confident that he wouldn’t turn me away, and I’m sure a night spent in his arms would be something I would remember and cherish forever. But tomorrow morning and all of the days at work after that would be an absolute nightmare.
Besides, if anyone found out about a tryst between us, my medical license and reputation as a responsible physician would be at stake.
Reminding myself for what seems like the bazillionth time that it simply isn’t worth the risk, I stand and return the book to its spot on the shelf before shutting off the overhead lights.
I wait for my eyes to adjust to the dark rather than using my phone’s flashlight this time. I’m concerned that my light passing by his closed door may have been what disturbed Brock earlier, and I don’t want to risk doing that again. It was sweet of the man to open his home to me, so I certainly don’t want to repay that kindness by keeping him up half the night.
My efforts to be quiet and unobtrusive fail when I manage to trip over something in the hallway. The clatter brings Brock out of his room impossibly quickly. He must have either lunged out of bed or already been standing near the door. That last thought makes my cheeks heat with something more than embarrassment over my stumble.
After Brock flips on the light, he rushes to squat by my side with concern etched into his features. “Are you okay? Did you pass out? Are you lightheaded? Does anything hurt?”
His worried questions make my lips tip up as I assure him, “Yes, I’m fine… Just a ridiculous klutz, apparently. I’m sorry to have disturbed you––again.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” he assures me as he sits on the carpeted floor beside me. “I had just been wondering if it was safe to leave you alone for the night or if I should stay up and monitor you.”
His eyes search mine, just before he shakes his head, obviously disgusted with himself. “I should have known better.”
Hating it that he’s beating himself up over this, I reach out to cover his hand with my much smaller one. His skin is warm to the touch. “You have nothing to feel bad about. You are a wonderful caretaker. It’s not your fault that I tripped over my own feet and this…”
When I turn back to see what I fell over, I’m surprised by what I find. I squint and tilt my head to the side, unable to believe my eyes. “Is that a goose?”
“It is,” he answers, grinning at the dressed animal.
How did I not notice this oddity before? Being near Brock must really be messing with my head.
I’m desperate to know why he has a goose and what it’s doing in his hallway, but rather than asking, I let him explain at his own pace.
His voice sounds far away, but his eyes are lit up when he says, “My grandparents lived in an old farmhouse that Braden and I used to love visiting during breaks from school. Granny was so proud of the two painted geese that sat out on her front porch. She always dressed them up for the season or holiday. After she passed, all I wanted were Donald and Daisy.”
I take a moment to process all of the information he has shared. One of the first things that comes to mind is that Donald and Daisy are ducks, not geese, but I decide it would sound critical to point that out. Instead, I say, “From the looks of that frilly dress she’s wearing, I’m guessing that you got Daisy.”
“Actually, I had both of them. Geese mate for life, you know, so I would never willingly separate them.”
It would be humorous to think about being upset to separate concrete geese if Brock’s expression wasn’t so serious.
His tone makes it obvious that this really matters to him when he says, “Those two sat on the front porch of that farmhouse for decades, but not long after I brought them here and put them on my stoop, someone knocked over Donald and his neck cracked.”
Truly invested in his story, I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand in an unsuccessful attempt to contain my shock. After lowering my hand, I ask, “Why would someone do that?”
Brock stares down at the floor and shrugs his wide shoulders. “It was probably spoiled, bored teenagers looking for trouble. I ran outside when I heard the ruckus, which is probably what saved Daisy from being shattered, but it was already too late for Donald. After that, I didn’t want to take any chances, so I brought her inside.”
“Oh, Brock, I’m so sorry that happened.” I move my hand to his strong shoulder, hoping to ease the devastated expression on his face.
“It was just a silly goose,” he tries, but fails, to make light of it.
“Not to you, it wasn’t,” I say softly.
He gives me a half-smile, but remains quiet.
After a long moment, I say, “I’m so glad I didn’t break her when I fell.”
“Nah, she’s tougher than she looks,” he assures me.
Brock is just the opposite––softer and more vulnerable than he looks. Rather than saying that to him, I act on the demand my body and heart are screaming at my reluctant mind. I lean in and press my lips to his scruffy cheek.