The Vixen and the Vet (4 page)

“Who is this article for?”

“The
Phoenix Times
.”

“You write for them?”

“This is a freelance assignment,” she explained, a tad defensive. He didn’t blame her. She barely knew him—why should she share her recent bad luck at the
New York Sentinel
?

“A human interest piece?”

“Mmm.” She glanced down.

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re not crazy about
doing it, though?”

Her face whipped up
, and her eyes met his. It was the most unguarded moment he’d had with her yet, and the spirit in her eyes took his breath away. “I never said that.”

“Your eyes did.”

She flinched in annoyance, then, to his surprise and admiration, she nodded. “I was an investigative journalist in New York in a previous life. Lifestyles isn’t really my thing.”

“And yet reporting my story seems important to you
. A home visit, brownies …”

“I need to nail this story,” she admitted. “I need a heart-wrenching story about an American hero.”

“How do you know my story is heart-wrenching?”

Her eyes widened, and her little pink tongue darted out to lick her lips. It was a nervous tic
, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t affect him. It did. A lot. He shifted toward her in his seat slightly.

“You were the all-American golden boy. Now
…”

“Now he’s Asher Lee,
man of leisure.” Miss Potts’s cheerful voice echoed through the quiet of the room, slicing through the intimacy of the moment as she set down a silver tray on the table between them.

Asher scowled but was
quickly distracted by the smell of homemade muffins.

He turned to Savannah. “You made muffins
this time?”

Savannah started to say something, but Miss Potts interrupted. “She did
—what a clever little thing. And so lovely. You’ll notice two are gone, Savannah. I couldn’t help myself.”

Savannah blushed again, then looked up at Asher
, and something miraculous happened. For as long as he lived and breathed, he wouldn’t forget it, because it was really and truly miraculous on the order of the loaves and fishes. Savannah Carmichael, one of the most beautiful girls he’d ever seen up close, looked at his face. And she smiled.

***

Miss Potts chatted with them for a while, pouring them each a cup of steaming hot coffee, as they munched on Savannah’s mother’s muffins, then left them alone to resume their conversation.

“
A man of leisure. What does that mean?”

He shrugged, tucking in
to the last chunk of muffin. “Mostly I read.”

“
Fiction? Nonfiction? Poetry?”

“A little of everything,” he
said. “Don’t you need to take notes?”

She glanc
ed down at those long legs of his.
Yes
, was the answer to his question.
Yes, I should be taking notes.
But ever since she’d arrived, the visit had felt so much more social than professional, she’d been lulled into a comfortable repartee, and she didn’t feel like breaking it by taking out her notebook and scribbling notes. She had all night to write down her thoughts and reflections. She could always fact-check later. Wasn’t the important thing to create a relationship with her subject? Yes, of course. This first meeting was about creating a baseline comfort. She was doing everything right.

“Next time. We’re just getting to know each other today.” She grinned at him. “
What’re you reading right now?”

“
Right
now? Oh, um … a very informative book about, um, interpersonal relationships.”

He blushed as he
said this, and she wondered why it embarrassed him but didn’t ask. His voice was deep and warm and soothing, and she could have listened to him talk about books for hours. He also told her about his childhood, which seemed idyllic, and gave her a basic timeline of his life from enlisting to now so she’d have a framework for the article. Before she knew it, the alarm on the phone in her purse was lightly ringing church bells to tell her that an hour had come and gone.

She silenced it with a sheepish smile. “I guess it’s time for me to get out of your hair.”

Was it her imagination, or did he look slightly sorry to hear that? Either way, it was definitely time for her to go. From the moment she’d arrived, she’d been sidetracked, and she needed to get home and get her game plan together in time for Wednesday’s visit.

What surprised her the most was that
, once they’d situated themselves before the windows with only the less damaged side of his face visible to her, she’d quickly discovered how easy it was to talk to him. She wasn’t distracted by his prosthetic hand, which dangled out of sight over the far edge of his chair, or by his mangled skin and missing ear, both of which were mostly hidden from her view. All she could see was the weathered, rugged handsomeness of his left side, the imperfection of his nose, the occasional twinkle in his brown eye, the easy way his long legs crossed in front of him.

He was smart and quick and well-read, and though he’d warned her that he was unpolished
, she had yet to see much evidence of it. In fact, if it weren’t for the mask of mangled skin on the right side of his face, Asher Lee would be a catch. A massive catch.

But the fact was
, despite her best efforts to look into his eyes only when he greeted her, his face was terrible to behold. She’d never seen anything so damaged, so disfigured and awful in all her life. She could barely look at him without wincing, without sympathy, and, much to her shame, without discomfort.

Which served to remind her: she wasn’t there to be his friend. She was there to tell his story. And it was best not to get mixed up.
This is an assignment, Savannah, not a potential friendship. Don’t forget it.

As she prepared to stand and say her good-byes, s
he looked over at him. The way his eyes rested gently, patiently, on the stained-glass windows before them made her pause and turn to look herself. Savannah replaced her bag on the floor and eased back into her chair, staring straight ahead through the rainbow-colored windows as the sun lowered in the distance, bathing them both in color. She stared at the beauty before her, without speaking, without moving, totally transfixed by the reds and blues that danced in the late-afternoon sun. It didn’t occur to her to speak, as if disturbing the perfect quiet of the moment was unthinkable.

Only later, at home,
did it surprise her that she’d sat so long, so comfortably, in such complete silence, with someone she barely knew.

The first time you realize you enjoy his company more than anyone else’s

Despite their moment in the sun, Savannah
felt it was important to give her full concentration to the article and was far more professional on Wednesday, arriving on time with chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies and meeting Asher in the study before he had a chance to meet her on the landing. He stood in the doorway of his office as she marched up the stairs, a surprised look on his face, which she forced herself to meet head on. With no-nonsense professionalism, she noted that although the way his right eye drooped was jarring, the scarring wasn’t quite as bad as she remembered. She gave him a brief, polite smile, then sailed through his study, situating herself in the wingback chair on the left, in front of the stained glass windows.

“Well, hello to you too,” he said as he joined her.

“Hello,” she said, distracting herself by setting up her little voice recorder on the table between them. She had made a strict rule not to be distracted by his quasi-handsome half face. In fact, it was probably best if she didn’t look at him at all and just asked her questions and took notes as he answered them. Yes, that was better. She scooped up the little recorder, pressed stop, and tucked it back into her bag, taking out her notebook and pen. “Shall we get started?”

His voice was appreciably chilly when he answered. “I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

“It’s for the best, don’t you think? That we concentrate on the interview?”

“Of course,” he
said, crossing his long legs at the ankle.

No long legs. No ankles.

Interview. First installment due Friday. Stop messing around.

“So, Mr. Lee
—”

“Asher.”

“Asher,” she said, losing her train of thought as the name rolled off her tongue. There was something sexy about it. The
sh
sound in it. “That’s such an unusual name.”

“
Forgotten your Sunday school lessons, Miss Carmichael? Tsk, tsk. And here I had it on good authority that your family are strong Methodists.”

“
Sunday school?” she asked, at a total loss, her notebook falling forgotten to her lap.

“Asher was a son of Jacob and
Zilpah, who was the handmaiden of Leah.”

“The older, uglier sister
, whom he didn’t want,” she blurted out, remembering the story.

He raised an eyebrow. “
I guess you didn’t miss Sunday school after all.”

“I knew I’d heard the name before. But why did your parents choose it? Arguably he had
a checkered beginning.”

He
smiled at her observation. “The meaning.
Asher
means happiness.”

She shouldn’t have done it. She shouldn’t have turned to face his mostly handso
me half face while the sun was low and warm, making the moment magical all over again. But it had been so damn long since Savannah had felt happiness. And that’s exactly what she felt when she looked over at him, and smiled.

***

By some stroke of luck, it had just happened again. Savannah Carmichael had looked over at his ugly mug and smiled. His heart somersaulted like crazy, and he held his breath as he watched her, praying that the moment would last for more than a few seconds. But damn it if Miss Potts didn’t burst into the room with her cheerful greeting, offering melt-in-your-mouth cookies and hot coffee. Really he needed to have a word with her. He appreciated her thoughtfulness, but he wanted every possible minute with Savannah to himself.

It’s not like he knew her very well. They’d spoken a handful of words on the phone and spent a little over an hour together on Monday afternoon. But she’d totally commanded his every thought since he watched her drive away forty-eight hours ago. Tuesday and most of Wednesday had crawled by in agonizing slowness until she
returned, and he couldn’t contain his disappointment when she’d been all-business upon arrival. The only bright spot had been that when she greeted him, she’d looked at his whole face, and, surprisingly, he hadn’t detected any of the expected revulsion or sympathy. She’d looked him over quickly, then walked to her chair, as though conversing with a mutant was an everyday occurrence in her world. He hated like hell that it gave him hope.

And then, just about when he’d talked himself out of hope
, she asked him about his name and offered him the gift of her blindingly beautiful smile. It made him want to weep. It made him want to write poetry. It made him grateful that Miss Potts had encouraged him to rejoin the human race. Whatever happened with Savannah, he’d be forever grateful that she coaxed him back into this small, safe corner of the world.

“Chocolate chip macadamia nut?” he exclaimed with a full mouth. “Oh my God, Savannah!”

“Can this girl cook or what?” asked Miss Potts, winking at Savannah.

“This girl can cook,” said Savannah weakly, adjusting her light
-pink cardigan over a matching tank top. He’d checked it out the moment she’d arrived. The way it hugged her breasts was criminal, and yes, he was actively trying to look down it every time she bent over her notebook. Contrary to appearances, he was only human, after all.

“What are we talking about today?” asked Miss Potts.

“Mr. Lee’s—er, Asher’s formative years and high school days,” Savannah answered efficiently, putting her half-finished cookie back on her plate.

“Well, my goodness, I’m sure I have his dental records somewhere around here too,”
Miss Potts teased, but Asher noticed Savannah’s cheeks coloring. Her shoulders slumped, and she leaned back in her chair, sighing.

“I’m being rude
,” she said.

“Not in the least, dear,” assured Miss Potts, patting her shoulder
before turning to leave. “You’re here to do a job. I admire you for doing it.”

Savannah turned back to Asher as the door closed behind Miss Potts
. “I’m sorry, Asher. I stormed in here like I was working a beat. I keep forgetting this is a
human
interest
piece. I guess it would help if I acted a little more human.”

Asher’s
words from Sunday night echoed in his head:
I barely look human. I’m not fit to rejoin the human race
, followed swiftly by Miss Potts’s summary of his and Savannah’s similarities:
You got your hand blown off; she got fired from the most prestigious newspaper in the country. You both came home to lick your wounds.

He looked
at the way her pretty lips tilted down, the way the hand closest to him gripped the arm of the chair. She was trying like hell to recover from her own pain, her own heartbreak. And he had agreed to help her.

Without thinking, he reached over and placed his hand
on hers, struck by the soft warmth of her skin beneath his, before realizing, with a good amount of horror, what a liberty he’d just taken.
She’s a beautiful, young, talented writer. She doesn’t want some hopeless, deformed man touching her.
He started to pull away, but she shocked the hell out of him by quickly reaching up with her fingers to lace them through his, bending his fingers with hers so they were trapped. He couldn’t bear to look at her face, so he stared, with wonder, at their hands, running his thumb gently over her skin as a welcome, long-forgotten heat coursed through his veins, waking him up, making every nerve ending, every cell, focus its attention on the delicious pressure of her fingers squeezing his.

After several moments, he looked up at her, only to find her staring down at their hands, just as he had been. She
caught his eyes, her lovely brown ones happy and confused, defiant and worried.

“It’s okay,” she whispered
, as though reassuring herself even more than him. “We’re becoming friends.”

And just like that
, all that wonderfully warm heat turned cool, and he pulled his hand away. Friends. Of course. She’d never be able to see someone like him as an actual man. His heart sputtered and grappled with the unexpected blow. He gave her a tight smile, resting his hand in his lap.

“You had questions about my formative years,” he said softly, trying his best to conceal his bitter disappointment. “Fire away.”

***

Savannah saw the instant change in Asher’s face when she used the word
friends,
and she berated herself for being a coward. She’d been surprised by his gesture but shocked by the way her heart had started pounding from the simple contact of his hand covering hers. The wind had been knocked out of her chest, and a million butterflies had taken over residence in her stomach. She was blindsided by the strength of her reaction. It worried her. Heck, it scared her. She barely knew him. It was impossible that she should already be infatuated with him. So she defused her feelings by taking the coward’s way out and calling him her friend.

“Tell me a little bit about your family history,” she said in a carefully modulated voice.

As she wrote down his answers, her mind wandered, trying to placate her unease.
It’s better this way. You still have ten sessions after this one, and you cannot fall for him like you did Patrick, you stupid girl. Look how that turned out. Not to mention, could you really fall for someone whose face looks like Freddy Krueger’s?
Though shocked by her meanness, she also knew that it was fueled by her desperation to keep business and pleasure separate, and it only worried her more. Like most people, she was meanest when she was scared.

“I guess you could say that there have always been Lees in Danvers, though I suspect I’ll be the last.” He picked up his coffee cup and took
a sip, staring out the windows like she was boring him.

She stared down at the words she’d just written:
I’ll be the last.

“That’s ridiculous,” she blurted out.

“Sorry?”

“
Th-that’s ridiculous,” she said more softly.

“I think not,” he said, taking another sip of coffee, his nose in the air.

“You won’t be the last Lee in Danvers.”

“Next question,” he demanded in a low, tired voice. “Or shall we call it a day?”

She turned over her notebook in her lap. She needed to fix this. Not just because it felt terrible that she’d hurt him, but because she’d meant what she said. They
were
becoming friends. In fact, she could never remember being as excited to see Patrick as she was to see Asher again today. The last two days had crawled by as she reviewed their disjointed conversation and wonderful moment of communion watching the setting sun. She didn’t have any friends in Danvers, really, besides Scarlet, and Scarlet was always with Trent, planning their wedding, imagining their future. Meeting Asher felt promising and special, and while Savannah really did need his story for her piece, she sort of wanted his friendship too.

“Friends
could just be the opening
bid,” she whispered, feeling the heat rush into her cheeks. It felt forward to say the words, but she didn’t want him to think she’d sidelined him because of his looks. Damn, but she wasn’t good at this stuff.

“Sorry?” he asked in that superior, aloof voice he must have perfected at
U.Va.

“
I’m not calling at friends.”

He turned to her slightly. “Are you speaking in poker metaphors
, or am I going crazy?”

Her lips trembled as she tried not to giggle. The whole conversation had become absurd.

“Am I meant to raise?” he teased.

“Just don’t fold,” she said,
smiling now, realizing how much she liked being with him, despite how he looked, despite the fact that he’d barely been out of his house in eight years. She liked him.

He look
ed confused and bemused and a little delighted as he placed his cup back on its saucer, then turned slightly to catch her eyes. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

An hour later, he’d schooled her on every poker trick he’d learned while stationed abroad and when the church bells rang lightly in her bag, she barely knew a thing about his formative years
… but her seven-card stud game would never be the same.

“Next time, leave the alarm at home,” he advised, glancing at her bag, but making no move to stand up. He stretched lazily in the rainbow light, running his hand through his shaggy hair.

“Why don’t you cut it?” she asked, staring at his hair, then quickly wished she could take it back.

His
expression, which had been lazy and content, tightened. “It conceals things.”

She turned so that she sat on the edge of her chair, facing him head
on, even though he still sat in profile to her.

“Asher,” she said gently. “It’s not as bad as you think.”

“Savannah,” he said without looking at her, the right side of his face set in angry granite. “It’s every bit as bad as I think. I get the pleasure of looking at it every day.”

She reached out, tentatively at first, then with more confidence
, and placed her palm flat on the warm fabric of his denim-covered thigh. “Look at me.”