A Forever Family for the Army Doc Page 7

  She knocked on the bathroom door, and opened it a crack.

  ‘Do you want me to run you down to Shan’s?’ she asked.

  ‘No, Hallie and Pop are going to the restaurant for dinner, so they’ll drive me, but thanks.’

  Izzy was closing the door when Nikki spoke again.

  ‘Do they know about your non-date?’

  ‘Well, no, but that’s only because I haven’t seen them today. There’s no reason not to tell them.’

  ‘Good,’ Nikki called after her, ‘because everyone in town will know, probably before you get to his house.’

  Brat indeed, but she was right.

  Izzy sighed. How on earth had she got herself into this situation? Why on earth had she said yes? He was a grown man, ex-army, he could find his way around a small town!

  So this would be the last time they had a—what?

  A rendezvous?

  And to ensure he couldn’t use the ‘no time to shop’ excuse again, she’d take the car, and they could do his shopping either before or after dinner.

  Which was possibly one of the stupidest ideas she’d ever had, she realised later as she pushed the trolley around the supermarket while he threw in things he wanted.

  Too domestic by far!

  Too intimate somehow, especially as she kept running into people she knew and having to introduce Mac.

  Which was when she realised that shopping together—although they weren’t really shopping together—made them look like a couple. She couldn’t keep adding ‘I’m just pushing the trolley’ to the end of every introduction, now, could she?

  ‘What kitchen paper do you use?’

  She was so lost in her ‘couple’ conundrum it took a moment to realise he was talking to her.

  ‘Whatever’s on special usually, although I do like it to be three-ply.’

  ‘Kitchen paper comes in different plies?’

  ‘Of course—the more plies, the thicker it is.’

  ‘Well, what do you know?’

  Mac was shaking his head, but now searching each pack for the little sign that gave the ply.

  And Izzy, looking into the trolley for the first time and seeing the random selection of goods, forgot her worries over how shopping with him would look to the town and began to sort the contents.

  ‘You’ve not shopped much?’

  ‘Hardly ever,’ he admitted. ‘Maybe for coffee, or some biscuits for my quarters, but the army does meals rather well.’

  ‘So you can’t cook either?’ Izzy demanded, and saw the hesitation on his face.

  ‘Maybe just a little—bacon-and-egg sandwich and that kind of thing,’ he said. ‘But I’ve bought some books and one of my stepsisters said that if you can read you can cook, because cookbooks have very clear instructions.’

  Izzy shook her head.

  ‘So did you read the book before you came shopping? Write down a list of what you might need in order to cook something you’d read in your book?’

  Mac grinned at her.

  ‘Books—I bought two, and, yes, I read one of them on the walk and it all seemed easy enough, but I didn’t know until you arrived that we were going to shop.’

  ‘Heaven save me from a helpless male,’ Izzy muttered. ‘Is there any food at all in your house?’

  Mac nodded.

  ‘I’ve got bread, butter, honey, tea bags and coffee, biscuits, and some milk—most of it left over from the walk, although the milk’s fresh.’

  ‘Great start! But to even get the basics, we need time and a list, so what say we abandon this trolley and get some dinner? We can make a list of basics while we’re eating and come back later.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SOUNDED GOOD TO MAC. Wandering around the supermarket with Izzy had been a weird experience, but one he’d found himself enjoying more and more. It felt comfortable—right, somehow—and it was impossible to drop things into the trolley without the occasional brush of skin on skin, which added sizzle to the exercise.

  Not that he should be thinking of sizzle—not with Izzy. She was definitely off limits!

  ‘So, where shall we eat?’

  ‘Do you like Moroccan food?’

  They were walking out of the store, and she’d turned to look at him.

  ‘Love it,’ he said, glad for it to be true. ‘In fact, one of the cookbooks I bought was a Moroccan one because we had a cook at one time whose family was Moroccan and it was some of the best food I ever tasted in the army.’

  She smiled and shook her head.

  ‘Most men would have stuck to steak and sausages—barbeque stuff—but, no, you go for something that a lot of women wouldn’t try! At least that will make writing the list easier.’

  She was still smiling, and there was something about a smiling sprite that did weird things to his intestines, but he manned up.

  ‘It will?’

  ‘It will,’ she confirmed, leading him to the right, along what was obviously the main street in town. ‘We’ll know what spices to get, and things like dates, and dried apricots, and couscous, and rose water—’

  ‘Rose water? You’ve got to be kidding!’

  This time she laughed, and that felt good—good that he could make her laugh.

  But it was treading on very dangerous ground, this being pleased about something so trivial.

  Not that making someone laugh was trivial, but it all felt too...

  Domestic?

  ‘It’s here—not very imaginatively named but great food.’

  Izzy pushed through a curtain of glass beads then held them for him to enter the Marrakesh.

  He eased past her, careful not to touch—well, not too much—and breathed in the odours of spice and sauces.

  ‘Wonderful!’ he said, as Izzy greeted a man who was obviously the owner, dressed in a smart suit with a dazzlingly white shirt.

  ‘This is Hamid,’ she said to Mac, and introduced the two of them. ‘Hamid’s son, Ahmed, is going to be Australia’s next great surfing champion. He’s still only young, but beating professionals quite regularly in local competitions.’

  Hamid waved away the compliment with eloquent hands but his chest had puffed out and Mac knew he was secretly delighted. Once settled at the table, menus in hand, he realised the scope of Moroccan food.

  ‘I might need guidance,’ he said.

  Izzy glanced up and smiled.

  ‘No menus in the army?’

  ‘Certainly not this size!’

  So she explained the different dishes, asked if he wanted something before the main meal.

  ‘Hamid’s mezze plate is wonderful, although it’s not specifically Moroccan, more a general Arabic dish, with dips and lovely breads, olives and other bits and pieces.’

  ‘Sounds good, and after that I’ll have the chicken with prunes and apricots. Apricots seem to grow wild in Afghanistan and there’s nothing as wonderful as a fresh one plucked from a tree. We even had them growing in our compound in Iraq.’

  Izzy shook her head.

  ‘We see war as such a terrible thing, and I know it is, but the pictures in the media here show things being blown up, or ruined vehicles or buildings, not a soldier reaching up to pluck an apricot from a tree and biting into it. That’s so normal!

  Mac grinned at her, something she wished he wouldn’t do as grins seemed to make people complicit—as if they shared a secret.

  ‘Actually,’ he admitted, ‘there’s more time than you’d believe for things like apricots. “Hurry up and wait” is an old army saying. Yes, things are unbelievably hectic at times but in between...’

  He shrugged, drawing far too much attention to broad shoulders in a blue shirt that stretched across a well-muscled chest.

  She closed her e
yes momentarily, mainly to banish an image of the chest beneath the shirt. Was there a god or goddess way back in ancient history or maybe a wise woman spirit guide on a tropical island she could call on to banish attraction? Or maybe a spell—some potion she could take...

  She couldn’t think of any kind of help so opened her eyes to find Hamid had arrived to take their orders.

  That part was easy, but sharing a mezze plate meant inevitable touches of fingers. Izzy could feel tension spiralling along her nerves, tightening every sinew.

  This had to stop!

  She would help him shop, then cut all ties outside work hours. Even at work she could probably avoid him, and surely she was professional enough to handle things when she couldn’t.

  She was sufficiently distracted that she didn’t see Hamid remove the much-depleted mezze plate, but when he returned with the chicken for Mac and a couscous and baked vegetable dish for her, she knew she’d have to pull herself together and make polite conversation.

  Or perhaps a list!

  A list would be much easier.

  She dug a pen from her handbag, pinched a paper serviette from the table next to them and folded it into note-size.

  ‘So,’ she said, brightly, ‘exactly what do you have in the way of supplies already?’

  His eyes narrowed slightly as if maybe he’d guessed she needed a distraction.

  ‘You can eat your dinner first,’ he said, spooning food into his mouth. A pause while he chewed and swallowed, then, ‘Mine’s delicious.’

  Izzy obediently ate a few mouthfuls.

  ‘There,’ she said, ‘now we can both eat and talk. Basics are bread, butter, milk, tea and coffee, which you seem to have covered.’

  ‘The bread’s going a bit green.’

  ‘Okay, so bread...’

  She wrote it down.

  ‘Now, breakfast—what do you eat for breakfast?’

  Mac held up a hand, obviously giving his full attention to his food.

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ he eventually said. ‘Maybe I can persuade Hamid to give me some small containers of this dish and I could have it for breakfast, lunch and dinner.’

  ‘You’d grow to hate it,’ Izzy suggested, and he smiled.

  Smiles affected her, but it was, she decided, better than the grin.

  ‘Probably,’ he admitted. ‘What do you have for breakfast?’

  ‘Totally boring,’ Izzy told him. ‘Cereal, yoghurt, fruit.’

  Another smile.

  ‘That would do me. Write it down.’

  Izzy sighed.

  ‘You can’t possibly be this hopeless,’ she grumbled. ‘You must know there are choices. There must be hundreds of types of cereals alone, not to mention plain and flavoured yoghurts—’

  ‘And all kinds of fruit,’ he finished for her, shaking his head and laughing. ‘Don’t look so serious. I can make those choices in the shop. I’ll just grab something that looks good and if I don’t like it, I’ll get something different next time.’

  She didn’t want to smile at him but a laughing Mac was hard to resist. The problem was that smiling at him arrested the laughter and something passed between them—nothing more than a quick clash of gazes—but it worried Izzy more than all the other sensations that being with Mac caused.

  ‘Lunch?’

  She spoke firmly, wanting to bring things back to normal between them. ‘A sandwich? Cheese, ham, tomato, lettuce?’

  And suddenly he was as decisive as she was.

  ‘Ham and cheese—they’ll last longer.’

  Mac wasn’t sure what had just happened, but something had—something that had been more than attraction—something dangerous, although not darkly so...

  He scooped more of his meal onto his spoon and ate in silence, only half listening as Izzy added practical things—dishcloths, soap, washing powder—to his list.

  Mac used her concentration on the list to study the woman across the table from him, a little frown drawing her eyebrows together. She wasn’t a classic beauty, or even stunningly attractive, yet his body responded to every move she made, and every word she spoke. It was as if they were attached to each other with invisible wires—which was such a ridiculous fantasy he couldn’t believe he’d thought it.

  He had to get his head straight.

  He had to keep things light between them. He knew her well enough by now to know she wasn’t a dallying kind of woman, even without the vulnerability of her position in regard to Nikki’s adoption.

  And there were still too many dark places in his psyche to think beyond dalliance with any woman.

  They finished their meals—and apparently the list—he wiping his plate clean with some thick, fresh-baked bread, though Izzy seemed too distracted to have eaten all of hers.

  But she pushed her plate away and said, ‘Come on, let’s go. You paid last night so it’s my turn.’

  He protested that she was doing him a favour but she ignored him, handing her credit card to Hamid to stop any further argument.

  But back in the supermarket—shopping with her—it seemed dangerous again.

  She had to get out of here, Izzy decided. Finish this as quickly as possible and get out—get home. For some obscure reason an ordinary wander around a supermarket was beginning to feel like a date—more like a date than dinner had.

  She knew it wasn’t, of course, but—

  ‘That should keep you going,’ she finally declared, heading resolutely towards the checkouts.

  ‘That’s if I can pay for it and don’t end up in debtors’ prison.’

  ‘What, this little lot?’ she teased, waving her hand at the almost full trolley. ‘Back when we were young, we’d have Hallie pushing the lead trolley with three or four of us trailing along behind, each with a trolley.’

  ‘The mind boggles,’ Mac said, easing Izzy away from the handle and taking over the pushing, his body still close and warm.

  ‘Oh, I need some toothpaste!’ She dashed away, grabbing two tubes, although she knew there was plenty at home.

  Anything to get away from that warmth—that closeness—that somehow, even when he hadn’t been near her, she’d been feeling.

  ‘Throw them in with mine as thanks for all the help, not to mention the lift you’re going to give me,’ Mac suggested, and rather than argue—and get close again—she threw them in.

  Once back at his house, she helped him unload the bags.

  ‘I’ll leave you to unpack so you know where you’ve put everything,’ she said, backing towards the door as escape finally beckoned.

  ‘None of this will go off if left for a few minutes, so I’ll walk you home.’

  ‘I’ve got a car,’ Izzy reminded him. ‘But thanks for the offer.’

  ‘Then I’ll walk you to your car,’ he said, and did just that, opening the driver’s door for her so their heads were close. She met his eyes and knew something was passing between them...like the promise of a kiss that couldn’t be...

  CHAPTER SIX

  IZZY WAS STILL MUTTERING, ‘Promise of a kiss, indeed...’ to herself when she reported to work the next morning. The walk down from home had been pleasant, dawn breaking, the first rays of the sun peeking from below the horizon.

  She loved the town when it was like this, barely awake, and the early shift, beginning at six, was her favourite.

  Abby, still on nights, was waiting for her in the ED.

  ‘Ambulance on its way in—four-year-old with febrile convulsions. Little Rhia Watson—Sally and Ben’s daughter. I’ve written down all the handover stuff—it’s on the desk—and the other night nurse will do a proper handover to Chloe, who’s on with you today—I think an agency nurse is coming for the swing shift.’

  The conversation ended as the ambulance pulled up outsi
de, and both women hurried out to meet it.

  ‘She woke up crying in the night,’ Sally explained as Ben carried his daughter into the room. ‘Her temperature was up so I gave her some children’s paracetamol and sponged her down, but nothing seemed to help. We stayed with her, trying to keep her cool, and she drifted off to sleep then about half an hour ago she cried out and when we went in she was all stiff and shaking.’

  ‘I called the ambulance,’ Ben added, as he carefully laid his listless daughter on the examination table. ‘She’d stopped shaking by the time they got there.’

  The ambo was handing over his report to Abby, and although Izzy knew it would have all the details of Rhia’s temperature, pulse, and oxygen saturation she knew she’d have to do it all again.

  After she’d examined the little girl.

  She took Rhia’s hand. ‘I’m Izzy and I’m a nurse and I’m going to look after you. Mum and Dad are still here. Now, can you tell me if you’re hurting anywhere?’

  ‘My head hurts...and my neck.’

  ‘Get a doctor in here,’ Izzy said quietly to Abby. She didn’t want to alarm Rhia’s parents but with neck pain or stiffness in a child this age there was always the possibility of meningococcal.

  ‘Now, I’m just going to look at your tummy, is that okay?’

  Dark brown eyes dulled by pain or fatigue looked blankly at her as Izzy checked the little girl’s skin for any sign of a rash.

  None, but that didn’t mean anything at this stage.

  ‘I’d like to give her an antibiotic injection just to be sure,’ she said to the parents, who nodded, willing to go along with anything to make their little girl better.

  ‘You’re thinking meningococcal?’ Mac asked quietly.

  He had appeared from nowhere, but had obviously heard her.

  ‘Or not,’ Izzy said, ‘but we usually start with an antibiotic just in case, then do the tests.’

  He nodded, and she went off to get the penicillin while Mac introduced himself to the family and began his examination of their patient.

  ‘Has she been vaccinated against meningococcal?’ he asked, and Sally held out her hands in a helpless gesture.