of what you can't do." She stopped when he didn't follow her and looked back. Then she grinned. "I know. Too new age. Give it a chance." Then she gestured at him as if he were a recalcitrant dog refusing to come when called. "Come on. Come on!" with big enthusiastic gestures.
He followed her. Smiling. Just a little.
T he intake interview was in the office of the therapist working with the children. Dr. Andrew Case was young and optimistic and attractive and very obviously married – his wife worked with him, wrote about his findings, took photos of the children, and basically was part of everything he did.
Taylor thought that kind of closeness just might make her crazy in short order but she shook hands with the doctor and hoped his wife would leave the conversation shortly. The doctor's questions were cut and dried, unimaginative, as if he wanted to hire someone equally unimaginative who wouldn't challenge him for his place in the limelight.
Her first thought was she couldn't possibly work with the man. The second was that of course not, she wouldn't – she'd be working with the people he'd hired to run his clinic.
The next was that she wasn't going to do it forever. She could give it a shot and see if the volunteering made her life feel more valuable.
Taylor made herself smile when she suggested, "Tell me more." She wasn't prepared for how much more he told her. By the time he finished she was convinced she could run the program herself. She ended up backing out of the office, a loud interior monolog promising she wouldn't be working with the good but loquacious doctor but with people who could use her help.
The doctor didn't need her help. He had staff to corner and deafen.
The catty thought made her grin to herself. She wanted to go home, call Jessie, talk out the silly that was her life and get started with curing it.
Volunteering should be strictly about the other person or persons or organization.
But she didn't believe the inner voice. Standing waiting for the elevator because the stairs were locked in the old building, she tried to believe that if she happened to be volunteering at something she got satisfaction from, didn't the organization and people still benefit? Even more, if she liked what she was doing, then she could get behind doing whatever a volunteer did to help. If she was doing good works and just happened to improve her life –
--or meet someone –
--or –
"They still benefit," she said aloud at the same time the elevator doors opened.
She ran smack into a chest.
A big, strong, cotton-t-shirt-smelling chest.
Oh.
Strong arms caught her by the shoulders, drew her inside the elevator as the doors were already closing. A voice said, "I'm sorry, I was on the wrong floor anyway. Hey, it's Taylor Adams!"
Taylor was still staring at the chest, not quite looking up yet, blinking and trying to overcome the surprise. At the sound of her name, she looked up into the ice blue eyes of the helicopter pilot.
She blinked and took a step back. "Hello!" It kind of exploded out of her, a blurting of sound that was less greeting than verbalized shock. "What are you doing here?"
"Blundering into people in elevators. It's good to see you again. Did you get home all right?"
Taylor cringed. First she ran into him. Then she stared, stupefied, at his chest, unable to speak in complete sentences when she did start to talk.
Just fantastic.
…he was every bit as amazing as she remembered.
T anner Davis blew out a mental breath. He'd been through BUD/S training for Navy SEALs, had been on covert ops missions in terrorist countries, had been put on reserve with an injury sustained in a helicopter crash and had preformed how many rescues in the scant 10 months SEArch & Rescue had been open?
And now he was felled and brought to incoherence by a girl who stood a full head shorter than him.
Smooth.
Chapter Nine
T he elevator bumped down like a bad touchdown of a passenger jet. They hadn't spoken for six
He followed her. Smiling. Just a little.
T he intake interview was in the office of the therapist working with the children. Dr. Andrew Case was young and optimistic and attractive and very obviously married – his wife worked with him, wrote about his findings, took photos of the children, and basically was part of everything he did.
Taylor thought that kind of closeness just might make her crazy in short order but she shook hands with the doctor and hoped his wife would leave the conversation shortly. The doctor's questions were cut and dried, unimaginative, as if he wanted to hire someone equally unimaginative who wouldn't challenge him for his place in the limelight.
Her first thought was she couldn't possibly work with the man. The second was that of course not, she wouldn't – she'd be working with the people he'd hired to run his clinic.
The next was that she wasn't going to do it forever. She could give it a shot and see if the volunteering made her life feel more valuable.
Taylor made herself smile when she suggested, "Tell me more." She wasn't prepared for how much more he told her. By the time he finished she was convinced she could run the program herself. She ended up backing out of the office, a loud interior monolog promising she wouldn't be working with the good but loquacious doctor but with people who could use her help.
The doctor didn't need her help. He had staff to corner and deafen.
The catty thought made her grin to herself. She wanted to go home, call Jessie, talk out the silly that was her life and get started with curing it.
Volunteering should be strictly about the other person or persons or organization.
But she didn't believe the inner voice. Standing waiting for the elevator because the stairs were locked in the old building, she tried to believe that if she happened to be volunteering at something she got satisfaction from, didn't the organization and people still benefit? Even more, if she liked what she was doing, then she could get behind doing whatever a volunteer did to help. If she was doing good works and just happened to improve her life –
--or meet someone –
--or –
"They still benefit," she said aloud at the same time the elevator doors opened.
She ran smack into a chest.
A big, strong, cotton-t-shirt-smelling chest.
Oh.
Strong arms caught her by the shoulders, drew her inside the elevator as the doors were already closing. A voice said, "I'm sorry, I was on the wrong floor anyway. Hey, it's Taylor Adams!"
Taylor was still staring at the chest, not quite looking up yet, blinking and trying to overcome the surprise. At the sound of her name, she looked up into the ice blue eyes of the helicopter pilot.
She blinked and took a step back. "Hello!" It kind of exploded out of her, a blurting of sound that was less greeting than verbalized shock. "What are you doing here?"
"Blundering into people in elevators. It's good to see you again. Did you get home all right?"
Taylor cringed. First she ran into him. Then she stared, stupefied, at his chest, unable to speak in complete sentences when she did start to talk.
Just fantastic.
…he was every bit as amazing as she remembered.
T anner Davis blew out a mental breath. He'd been through BUD/S training for Navy SEALs, had been on covert ops missions in terrorist countries, had been put on reserve with an injury sustained in a helicopter crash and had preformed how many rescues in the scant 10 months SEArch & Rescue had been open?
And now he was felled and brought to incoherence by a girl who stood a full head shorter than him.
Smooth.
Chapter Nine
T he elevator bumped down like a bad touchdown of a passenger jet. They hadn't spoken for six
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