Ask Me Nicely Page 4

  “Ah…” she said, suddenly getting his meaning. “You took care of business yourself.”

  Good. She felt a little better about that. Until a sudden image of Doyle touching himself, touching the hard, silky length she’d touched last night, filled her head.

  Then all she felt was hot. And a teensy bit breathless.

  “Nope.” He grinned, unfolding his arms and placing his hands on the counter on either side of him, stretching the scrub top very nicely. “Didn’t do that, either. Just wanted to see you squirm a little.”

  Sal glared at him, not impressed by his sense of humor. Even less impressed with the fact that his admission meant he was, once again, standing before her unsatisfied.

  “Fine,” she huffed as she threw back the two tablets and washed them down with her coffee. “I don’t like leaving a man wanting or being in anyone’s debt. So just say the word and I can”—her cheeks heated again and just pissed her off further—“return the favor.”

  “Gee…how very romantic of you.”

  Sal dropped her mug in the nearby sink. “Oh, I’m sorry, you want me to light some candles and flutter around some rose petals for you?” She mentally quashed the absurd suggestion. She may have loved all that hearts and flowers crap, but that was in the past. Romance was dead to her no matter how much a few traitorous brain cells yearned for it.

  “Well, at least ply me with tequila first.”

  Sal narrowed her eyes at him. That was a low blow. “I’m trying to be practical here.”

  “Oh, by all means, let’s get practical,” he said, and his voice went from gravel to cement. “So what are you offering? A hand job? Like for like?” He pushed off the bench and reached for his belt as he advanced toward her. “Is here okay?” He unbuckled. “Are you doing anything now?”

  Sal held her ground as he stalked closer. He was obviously pissed at her practical side. A trill fluttered through her system as he loomed closer.

  Probably not the right response.

  But she was damned if she was going to let him intimidate her. Plus he was pretty freaking hot glowering at her like that. She glanced at the clock hanging on the wall over his shoulder. “We have to be downstairs in five minutes.”

  “Right,” he said, coming to a stop in front of her. “Better be quick then. Maybe you should get down on your knees for me? That should do it.” He yanked his fly down, the noise cracking like a whip into the tense space between them. “Do you swallow?”

  Sal’s pulse picked up and her breath came a little harder as she fought against the image he’d just projected into her head. Him in her mouth. Rolling her tongue around all that hardness she’d held in her hand last night, sucking him right to the back.

  She got that he was trying to shock her, that she should be outraged at his suggestion. She was his boss, for fuck’s sake. Prior to last night they’d barely said anything personal to each other for their entire acquaintance. But that line had been very definitely breached.

  Right now it was a charred mess about a kilometer behind them.

  She folded her arms. “I bite.”

  He shook his head at her and stalked away, yanking his zipper up. He turned when he reached the counter again and made a visible effort to relax his tense features, stretching out the traps on either side of his neck.

  “I don’t need a pity wank from you, Sal. I don’t need to fuck. I’m just after a date.”

  Aaand they were back to that. “So let me get this straight. You want to go on a date with me but you don’t want to sleep with me?”

  He clapped. “Give the woman a cigar.”

  Sal narrowed her eyes. “Why?” What was wrong with him? “I don’t know if it’s escaped your notice, but I’m not very nice to you, Doyle. I’m polite but cool at work and I’m cranky and standoffish at home, and apart from last night I’ve done absolutely nothing to encourage you. Why on earth would you want to date me?”

  “Because I’ve been watching you and I can see beneath all that outward bravado. And you intrigue me. Because your staff loves you and they’re good, sensible people, so I’m assuming you’ve given them good reason. Because you love animals, all animals, even the unattractive ones like Matilda and the ones who try to bite and scratch you. You like mice for God’s sake, who, I’m sorry, are just plain creepy. Because I know you’re attracted to me, too, and I think being cranky and standoffish is the only way you know how to deal with it. Because you’re sexy even when you’re being cranky and standoffish. Because you came apart in my arms last night in more ways than one, and I want to get to know you better. And because attraction isn’t always rational or quantifiable but it’s there anyway. And because it’s just a date, Sal. A good old-fashioned date.”

  A surge of panic gripped Sal’s throat. He’d thought about this too damn much. And he was so far removed from the guys she dated it was laughable. None of them ever trotted out such utter romantic bullshit. They dated her because they knew the score—a few mindless hours of fun, then sayonara.

  Was that so wrong?

  “Ahh. So you’re one of those guys,” she said, desperately trying to lighten the suddenly serious atmosphere. “You come from a traditional loving family, you believe in soul mates, wedding rings, two-point-four children, and happily ever afters.”

  She avoided those guys like the plague. She’d learned a long time ago happily ever afters were the stuff of fairy tales.

  “Yeah. I’m one of those. I also believe in hot, dirty kisses and lots of long, hard fucking. But I prefer to date a little first, and in case you don’t know what that looks like anymore, I promise to take you out to dinner, walk you to your door, kiss you politely on the cheek, then go to my bedroom alone. I promise not to sleep with you. I promise to not even try to get to first base.”

  Sal stared at him. It sounded positively awful. Especially from a man with magic fingers who had proven he could get her off without either of them removing a single item of clothing. God alone knew what he could do if they ever got fully naked, and if she went on a date with him then for damn sure she was going to find that out.

  “Well, that sounds…boring.”

  He smiled. “We should do it tonight.”

  Sal shook her head. The man was nothing if not persistent. “I’m doing close tonight, remember?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “I already have a date.”

  “You should cancel it.”

  Sal had absolutely no intention of canceling anything. Not now she had her mojo back. She gave him a stern look.

  “Okay, that’s it,” she said, pushing away from the sink and heading for the front door. “I’m going to work now.”

  They weren’t getting anywhere, and all the round-and-round was hell on her headache.

  “Okay sure, run away,” he said as she reached the door. “But remember this, Sally Kennedy.” Her hand twisted on the cool metal of the knob but stilled at the rough command in his voice that compelled her to look at him.

  “Something happened last night, something other than a little bit of physical release. We both know it, and you can’t put that back in the bag. No matter how much you want to, no matter how much it scares you. I figure something’s hurt you badly, but it’s in the past and I am right here, right now. And I’m not going anywhere.”

  Sal didn’t say anything for long moments as her heart thumped painfully in her chest.

  Doyle didn’t understand. Eventually everybody left.

  Chapter Four

  Doyle felt good as he strode down the stairs a few minutes later. He’d taken the first step—he’d put Sal on notice. Sure, she was running scared at the moment for reasons he didn’t know of yet, but one thing was for certain—he was going to find out.

  There’d been something so desperate, so…aching and broken about her last night, it had called to every one of his masculine instincts.

  She was a puzzle, that was for sure. All tough and frank and scowly on the outside, but last night…she’d spli
t wide open, the grief in her tears ruffling his humanity and tugging at his compassion.

  Up until last night she’d been a sexy, sassy distraction and he’d been hot for her. If, at the beginning, she’d suggested some quick and easy mattress action with no strings and no hard feelings at the end, he’d have been up for it. But she’d been all back off, buddy, and he’d left it alone.

  But now everything had shifted. Everything had changed. She kissed like the devil, she came like a nymphomaniac who’d been celibate for a decade, and she shattered like a little girl who’d lost her best friend.

  There was something very broken about Sal Kennedy, and with all her defenses down, he’d seen the vulnerable woman, the real woman beneath. The real Sally Kennedy. And she got to him. He couldn’t walk away from her.

  He didn’t want to.

  She wasn’t going to come easy though, that was for sure. Sal was used to calling the shots and being in control. And clearly she’d chosen guys who were happy to let her.

  Whatever had happened to her had made her both wary and strong. A bad relationship was his guess. He had the sickest feeling it might have been the baddest kind—the abusive kind.

  The thought of someone hurting her made his fingers curl into fists. But Sal being a survivor of abuse certainly explained a lot of things. She had obviously made a decision some time ago she was going to control men—not the other way around.

  And he couldn’t blame her for that.

  But he hoped she’d let him into the real Sal. Because while he liked and respected and frankly lusted after the Sal she showed to the world, he had a feeling the one she didn’t was even more interesting.

  He wasn’t sure how he was going to do it, get her to open up, but he knew he wasn’t going to manage it by being more of the same.

  He had to be the guy who stood out.

  Lucky for him, he was the guy who stood out. He was all of those things she’d accused him of. From a happy, stable home with parents who loved each other. He saw the possibilities in relationships because he’d seen them in action and he’d known one day that something special would also fall into his lap.

  It hadn’t happened yet, but every instinct told him he was on the brink of something with prickly, scowly Sal Kennedy. He’d felt it from the beginning, and last night it had exploded in his face. And he was going to prove it to her even if he had to take her on a hundred platonic dates.

  “Morning, Doyle.”

  Doyle looked up as Gemma sped by, a fluffy Cavoodle puppy tucked against her chest. She was twenty-one and cute as a button and had given him enough come-on signals to light up a black hole, but his interests had always lain elsewhere.

  “Morning,” he greeted her with a smile. “That my first patient?”

  “Nope. This is Sal’s. Yours is Boxer.”

  Doyle frowned. “Boxer?” The name was familiar, but given he’d temped at a dozen different practices in the last few years, sometimes the names got mixed up. That was definitely the downside to being a rolling stone, but Doyle liked variety and thrived on the challenge of a new setting.

  “Mrs. Carney’s obese black Labrador with diabetes.”

  Ah. Boxer he didn’t remember, but Mrs. Carney he did. She was eighty years old with a twinkle in her eye and the tendency to get grabby.

  He looked out in the waiting room and there she was, stylishly dressed in pleated trousers, a blue silky blouse, and a pillbox hat. According to the grand old lady, she never left the house without a hat.

  At her feet, sitting placidly, was a fat black Lab all gray around the muzzle. She stroked Boxer absently as she looked around the waiting room, her gaze finally coming to rest on Doyle. She smiled and fluttered her fingers at him.

  “Mrs. Carney,” he said, crossing to where she sat and offering her his hand. “Why don’t you and Boxer come through?”

  “Oh thank you, that’s lovely.” She beamed up at him, slipping her hand into his and rising effortlessly from the chair. Mrs. Carney needed a hand up about as much as Usain Bolt needed one, but she appreciated good manners and Doyle was all about the service.

  “My,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes up at him, “you are strong.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Ate my Wheaties this morning.”

  She gave his biceps a squeeze. “Oh, so you did.”

  Doyle chuckled, grateful she hadn’t decided to squeeze his butt instead. She was being very circumspect today. “How’s Boxer doing?” he asked as he led her out to the back treatment areas, the dog waddling along beside them.

  “Gemma said he’s lost a kilo.”

  “That’s fabulous,” he said as he opened the sliding door to the open-plan room and stood back to let her enter. “You must be doing everything right.”

  “Of course, dear,” Mrs. Carney said. “Boxer’s all I got. We keep each other going. Followed the diet just like you said and we even go for a little walk a few days a week now.”

  Doyle was conscious of Sal as they approached the treatment table where she was examining the Cavoodle. He’d always been conscious of her, but this morning, with last night playing on slow-mo through his head, he had actual reason.

  “Morning, Sally,” Mrs. Carney said as they passed by.

  “Morning, Mrs. C.” Sal smiled. Doyle was under no illusions that it was meant for him.

  “You need to keep this one, Sally. He’s so strong.” Mrs. Carney continued patting Doyle’s hand, oblivious to the undercurrents. “And so sweet, don’t you think, letting me lean on him like this?”

  Doyle met Sal’s gaze over the top of Mrs. Carney’s head. Her blue eyes telescoped a hell of a lot in that moment.

  Not a lot of it sweet.

  In fact, he was pretty damn sure she was thinking about last night and how not sweet he’d been.

  “Like a big ol’ lump of sugar,” Sal said, returning her attention to the dog, and Doyle chuckled.

  They reached the stainless steel treatment table and Doyle pulled up a stool for Mrs. Carney, then looked at Boxer and said, “Up boy, up,” as he tapped the table.

  Boxer looked at Doyle, then at the table, then back at Doyle with a you-want-me-to-do-what? look. Doyle shoved his hands on his hips and gave Boxer a stern look. “Come on, man, I know you can do this. You did it last time.”

  “That’s the problem,” Mrs. Carney tutted. “He’s just run out of oomph. I think his diabetes is playing up. It’s like he’s in a permanent hypo state. Can you fix it?”

  “Yep,” Doyle said, crouching down to lift the dog up onto the table. Boxer promptly collapsed onto his belly, lying on the table like a beached whale, his gray muzzle resting on the stainless surface. Doyle stroked his head down to the soft tips of his ears.

  “I’ll fix you, Boxer, old mate,” he said. Sal, standing opposite but facing him, chose that moment to glance at him, and they stared at each other as he absently petted the dog.

  He smiled at her as she lowered her head.

  Another fixer-upper for sure.

  …

  “No,” Gemma said as Doyle entered the staff room at the end of the day. She was sitting at the table writing in some charts while Sal stood at the sink cradling a mug.

  “Please, Gemma. Please,” Sal pleaded, ignoring his entrance like she’d ignored him pretty much all day. Like she’d pretty much done since the beginning.

  Like she hadn’t come loud and hard on his leg last night.

  “Hilary can’t do it now. Her mother’s fallen ill and there’s nobody else.”

  “No.”

  “They’re puppies. And I’ll pay you overtime.”

  Gemma snorted. “There isn’t enough money in the world to pay me for intensive puppy preschool.”

  “But they’re cute.”

  “There isn’t enough cute, either.”

  “But you love puppies.”

  Gemma shook her head. “I love puppies individually. En masse? Forget about it. All bounding around, bouncing off one another, peeing and barking and sniffing and
rolling around, trying to hump one another, basically anything but learning to behave. The last class you conned me into was the worst two weeks of my life.”

  Doyle, seeing his opportunity, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and jumped in. “I’ll do it.”

  Gemma beamed. “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  Sal glared. “No.”

  “I knew I liked you for a reason.” Gemma grinned, ignoring Sal.

  Sal shook her head. “I said, no.”

  “He’s perfect,” Gemma protested, turning to Sal. “He’s got that whole deep authoritative voice you’re always rabbiting on about. Plus he volunteered. Oh, and I’m not doing it.”

  “Doyle doesn’t want to do puppy preschool,” Sal dismissed as he cracked the lid of the bottle. “He’s just…being polite.”

  Doyle bloody well did. He’d just been handed a golden opportunity to spend some time with Sal outside of work and the apartment where she was determined to keep things as they’d always been. This was his chance to chip away at her resolve.

  Doyle wanted in to puppy preschool really frickin’ badly.

  “Not at all. I love puppies.”

  “See?” Gemma nodded. “He loves puppies.”

  Sal folded her arms. “He has a very specific contract. Activities outside of work hours are not included.”

  Doyle raised an eyebrow at her. She hadn’t seemed so concerned about activities outside of work hours and his contract when she was getting off on him last night. She held his gaze but he could see the irony hadn’t escaped her.

  He took a quick swig of his water and looked at Gemma. “Where, when, how often, how many dogs, and what’s the age?”

  “At the local park about ten minutes from here. Seven till eight four nights a week for two weeks, starting Monday. We usually get about a dozen dogs all aged between eight to eighteen weeks. Most of them are around twelve weeks.”

  “Sold.” He looked at Sal.

  Sal looked from one to the other. “Fine,” she huffed. And then added a belated, “Thank you.”