Dream Man by Judy Griffith Gill

might get infected. The paramedics should have looked at your wounds too,” Jeanie said, ignoring his protest. Seconds later, she returned from the bathroom with the same tube of ointment she had used her own scraped knee after her shower had soaked the bandage off. Gently, she smeared it on Max’s hand, then dabbed up the excess with a tissue.
    â€œThanks,” he said. “That feels better. It started to sting when I washed up before I started cooking.”
    She sat back down and picked up her fork “You could have said something.”
    â€œUh-uh.” He shook his head, grinning. “Heroes don’t whine.” Then, when she was busy biting into a slice of toast, he said, “Who’s Sharon?”
    Jeanie swallowed. “My sister. Why? Did she phone while I was in the shower?” There was alarm in her tone. “What did you tell her? Nothing about—”
    â€œNo, no! Relax. She didn’t phone. I just wondered who she was.”
    â€œIf she didn’t phone, how did you know about her?”
    â€œYou mentioned her.” He gave her a quick look, picked up a piece of bacon, bit it in half, and then said, “You told me I was supposed to be her hero, not yours. Something about your grandmother having said so.”
    Jeanie stared. “I did? When?”
    â€œAfter the attack. When we were in the car.”
    â€œI don’t remember.” But suddenly she did—and felt a flush rise up her cheeks. What a damn-fool thing to have said!
    He shrugged. “No? Never mind, then. I guess it wasn’t important.”
    â€œNo.” Jeanie shook her head. “No,” she said again. “Not important at all.” She forced herself to eat, but even while she dug into her omelet and toast, her stomach quivered and did a few double loops every time she looked up at him. His shoulders, under the pale blue of his shirt, were even broader than they had appeared under his trench coat and suit jacket. The coat and jacket now hung over the back of his chair, his top two buttons were undone, and his tie pulled loose, revealing a tuft of dark hair below the vee between his collarbones.
    When they were both finished, he smiled, his gaze on her face, mesmerizing her. He took one of her hands in his, smoothing his thumb across her knuckles. “But my reason for inviting you out to dinner was important, Jeanie.”
    â€œWas it?” Her heart did extraordinary things inside her chest. Quickly, she took her hand back from him and avoided that very strange expression in his eyes. “So… so was my reason for accepting. I was just on the verge of calling you—in fact, in the very act of lifting the phone—when it rang and it was you,” she said, talking too fast but unable to slow down. “I got the most interesting request today for someone to fill a temporary job, and I thought about you immediately.” She flicked a quick glance at his face. No need to tell him that she’d done nothing but think of him since last Monday.
    â€œReally?” He shoved his empty plate aside and leaned on the table. “What is it?”
    â€œIt’s right up your alley, Max. A man, at least I think it’s a man, wants someone to write—er—something for him.”
    He tilted his head to one side in that way she was beginning to find characteristic of him—and charming and wonderful. It enhanced his good looks, sent interesting shadows over his craggy face, making him even more mysterious and enigmatic and intriguing. “Something? Can you be more specific than that? How long is that ‘something’ supposed to be? Is this a serious job offer for a free-lancer, or is it for my article on odd jobs?”
    â€œWell, maybe both.” Jeanie considered for a moment, then laughed, that soft yet rich sound that never failed to move Max. He hadn’t thought he’d hear it tonight. That she could laugh said a lot about