Kiss It Better by Jenny Schwartz Page A

practice, he could have attacked her professional desertion. A pointed question about why she wasn’t nursing would have finished her. Instead, he’d opened up and shared with her his motivation. That sort of confidence, being comfortable in his own skin, was the essence of sexiness.
    In contrast…she winced. Yeah, she hadn’t shown herself in any great light. To put it bluntly she’d been a cow, rude and miserable.
    She took a deep breath. ‘I admire you. You know what you’re doing and why, and I hope you achieve your aims.’
    ‘Thank you.’ He studied her face.
    She had to fight to keep her expression even, not twisting like the emotions inside her: envy, grief, failure, depression and rage.
    ‘What’s your nursing specialty?’ He ate the piece of apple pie, but his attention remained on her.
    She recognised it suddenly. Theo had the analytical detachment of a good doctor — or CEO. It gave her hope that he could listen and understand. But being in the mood she was in, she immediately discounted it. ‘You didn’t sign on to hear my life story.’
    ‘It won’t kill me.’
    The understated invitation to confide suited her. She’d dreaded discussing the situation with family or friends. Her emotions were too uncontrolled for sympathy. Crying would worry people, and this was her problem.
    Theo wouldn’t cry with her. And maybe she could talk this out with a stranger. ‘I’m a surgical nurse. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be. Caring for patients but also the drama of surgery. And as long as I’ve wanted to be a nurse, I’ve known I’d work in Africa.’
    ‘Which you were doing.’
    She grimaced. ‘Yeah. I qualified and got experience here in Australia before applying with one of the aid agencies.” She licked fudge sauce off the spoon, thinking, remembering. ‘I can’t say they didn’t warn me. I was told what to expect and that few people lasted beyond a year. The physical and emotional strain is too much.’
    ‘But you did.’ It was more statement than question, a quiet vote of confidence.
    ‘Eight months over the contracted year. Then they sent me home. Three weeks ago. I’d stopped sleeping, which meant my concentration was shot. They couldn’t trust me in surgery.’ A long pause till she forced out the words. ‘I couldn’t trust me.’
    ‘Difficult.’
    ‘You’ve no idea. I’ve always been in control, the sort of person who can cope with anything. Like you.’
    ‘Not me. I’ve been there. Flying visit. Enough to know that I couldn’t cope with Africa.’
    Fudge sauce dripped off her suspended spoon as she stared at him. Surely a man like him never admitted weakness.
    ‘I don’t know what triggered the burnout for you, but for me, I couldn’t handle the unendingness of it, that no matter what I did there would be more and more misery. All my efforts, no more than spitting at a bushfire.’
    The futility and frustration his metaphor expressed resonated with her. Suddenly, her ice cream and hot fudge sauce tasted salty with unshed tears. Instead of judgement, there was empathy. He’d understood. It felt like absolution, silencing the self-criticism that whispered she was weak, a failure. The man in front of her was no failure.
    ‘Are you sleeping now?’ It was a doctor’s question.
    ‘It took a week, but yes. This is so weird.’ She laughed, surprised. ‘When I met you earlier today I thought you looked like a sex god.’
    He stopped eating pie and stared at her.
    ‘Now I’m treating you like a priest, telling you all my sins.’
    ‘And in between you saw me as the devil.’
    ‘Maybe.’
    ‘No maybe about it. I was waiting for you to hex me. Begone, foul fiend.’
    She grinned. ‘Idiot.’
    He finished his pie, then considered her over the rim of the espresso cup. ‘What will you do now that your African contract is over? Will Mick selling JayBay screw up your plans?’
    ‘What plans?’ The momentary lightness of her mood flattened, burst-balloon style.
    ‘So