The Army Doctor's Forever Baby (Army Doctor's Baby Series Prequel), Page 2

  Chapter Two

  Sandra couldn't believe how rude and ungrateful she'd been when George helped her after her accident. She must have been more shocked than she'd thought to have behaved so ungraciously. Her parents would be ashamed of her.

  Instead of avoiding him like she normally did, for the next few days she sought him out. Their paths didn't cross very often because he worked in the ER, while she was four floors up on the general medical wards. Three days after the bicycle incident, she finally noticed him across the far side of the cafeteria when she popped in for a quick lunch between clinics.

  She grabbed a sandwich and carton of juice, then lined up to pay. George sat alone, his head bent over a newspaper on the table. Part of her wanted to go and apologize. Another part shied away from talking to him—the same part that was going all soft and soppy just because they were in the same room.

  Once she had paid, she hesitated, an internal battle raging. Then he glanced up and saw her. As their eyes met, a strange sensation twisted in her tummy.

  "George Knight," she whispered under her breath, "what is it you do to me?" Her feet started moving towards him despite her reluctance. She hated the way her mind blanked and she could barely form a coherent sentence around him, but the draw to be close to him was impossible to ignore.

  He rose as she approached, a smile stretching his lips. She'd heard people accuse him of being arrogant, but that was exactly what she liked about him. George Knight was confident, focused, and knew exactly where he was going. She had no doubt he would get there and leave his critics standing in his dust.

  "Hello," she said tentatively. "I wanted to apologize about the other night. I forgot to thank you for your help."

  "No need. You'd just been in an accident, Sandra. You probably weren't quite yourself." He indicated an empty chair. "Join me?"

  "Oh." Sandra's stupid cheeks heated and she tried to will the blush away. "Thank you." She pulled out the plastic chair and sat opposite him.

  "Ah, excuse me." George grabbed a pen lying on the white Formica table and filled out a word in the Times newspaper crossword. "I've been puzzling over that clue since I sat down and the answer just came to me."

  He tucked the pen in the breast pocket of his white coat and folded away the newspaper, giving her his full attention.

  Sandra swallowed and nervously pushed the glasses up the bridge of her nose, then mentally chided herself for doing so. It was such a nerdy thing to do. "I might have been in shock the other night, but that doesn't excuse my not thanking you. If there's ever anything I can do to help you, just ask."

  "Thank you. I'll remember that." He smiled again, his chiseled lips stretching, tiny lines fanning out beside his eyes—those lips and those eyes that filled her dreams. With his dark hair and classic good looks, he was such a handsome man that it was hard not to stare at him. But it wasn't just his looks she liked. He had an aura of strength about him, as though nothing could knock him back.

  Sandra took a bite of her sandwich and chewed awkwardly, her mouth dry, her insides all warm and squishy from being so close to George.

  "Actually," he said, lines crinkling his forehead in thought, "there is something I need help with."

  "Of course. What is it?" Sandra nodded, relieved to be able to return his kindness.

  "One of my school friends is getting married in a few days and I need a date."

  Sandra's mouth fell open. Had she heard right? "You want me to come to a wedding with you?"

  "Yes, if you can get the time off. I'd be very grateful. In the interest of full disclosure, it's so my parents don't make me take their friends' daughter."

  So this wasn't really a date. Sandra's little burst of hope faded. "What's wrong with this other woman?"

  "She's perfectly nice, just not my type."

  "Oh." The woman must be really plain and boring if he'd rather have Sandra's company. She'd learned at school that boys didn't consider her pretty or entertaining company. Most of the girls hadn't liked her much either. She'd been bullied for being a four-eyed geek. She got along fine with people in a work environment; she just wasn't very good at social stuff. Normally she'd rather work than attend a wedding, but it was worth going to spend the day with George.

  Shivery excitement raced through her and she squashed it down, reminding herself this was not a real date.

  "Okay, then. I'd love to." She tried to sound casual.

  "I'll help you arrange cover at work if you need me to."

  "I should be able to swap a day." Sandra took a sip of orange juice.

  "You'll need three days off."

  The orange juice went down the wrong way and Sandra spluttered all over the table, hastily mopping at drips with a napkin, her eyes running as she coughed.

  George jumped up and came around the table to thump her on the back as everyone in the cafeteria paused to stare at her.

  "Why three days?" she croaked as soon as she could draw breath without coughing.

  "The wedding's in Scotland. Two days traveling and a day there," he said matter-of-factly. "Don't worry about the hotel. I'll pay for your room as you're doing me a favor."

  Hotel? Room? Sandra had thought she was committing to an afternoon and evening. Not a trip to Scotland for three days.

  "You haven't changed your mind, have you?" George regained his seat and frowned at her.

  She could hardly back out now. And why would she want to? Three days in Scotland with George Knight was a dream come true. Or it would be if it were a real date.

  • • •

  Sandra slammed the taxi door and hurried into the cavernous interior of King's Cross station, her small battered suitcase in her hand. She was due to meet George at eight forty-five, and she only had a few minutes to find him. She hated rushing, but she'd overslept after another thirty-six hours on call. She'd barely had time for a bath and to wash her hair. As it was, she hadn't had time to dry her hair properly, so she'd put it in a French braid this morning.

  She threaded her way through the commuters streaming into London from the suburbs to work in the offices and shops. Despite the sea of people walking every which way, she spotted George easily as he stood a few inches taller than most people. He waited outside the cafe where they'd agreed to meet.

  When he caught sight of her he smiled, and the usual warm, fuzzy feeling unfurled inside her as their gazes met. Since the bicycle incident, she'd relaxed the iron grip she kept on her feelings for him, and they had grown exponentially. She was terribly afraid she was falling in love with him. Was it too late to stop?

  He'd only invited her today so he could avoid his parents' matchmaking. If she fell in love with him she was bound to get hurt. All she could do was be aware of the danger and try to keep a check on her wild imaginings that he might really be attracted to her. Yet as she approached and fell into the warm welcome in his brown eyes, she had trouble remembering this was not a real date.

  "Hello. You're right on time." George took her suitcase and pointed along the row of platforms. "Our train's over there. My parents and the Featheringtons are already on board."

  "Featheringtons? Wasn't it Celia Featherington you wanted to avoid?"

  "I didn't want to take her as my date. She's still coming with us. She's my godfather's daughter."

  Sandra's eyebrows rose and she sucked in a breath. This was going to be a fun journey. Although she knew his parents were attending the wedding, it hadn't really sunk in that she'd have to travel with them, let alone sit and make small talk with the spurned woman.

  Oblivious to her concerns, George led her through the crowd, turned onto a platform, and headed past the second-class carriages. When he reached first class, he opened the door to the restaurant car. "They're in here." He stood back for her to step inside.

  A frisson of unease passed through Sandra as she stepped up into the carriage and waited for George to board and stow the suitcases in the luggage rack. She knew he came from a wealthy family, but it hadn't occurred to her th
ey'd be traveling first class.

  He must have noticed her expression as he folded his large, warm hand around hers and squeezed. "It'll be fine. Don't worry. The parents are rather old school, but they don't bite."

  Sandra pasted on a smile in defiance of the nerves dive-bombing her insides. It was a good thing she hadn't thought this through properly; otherwise, she might not have come.

  George kept hold of her hand and led her into the carriage. The restaurant car boasted plush burgundy seats and polished wooden tables set for breakfast with silverware and napkins. The heavenly smell of coffee, toast, and frying bacon permeated the air and her stomach rumbled. Sandra often caught the train from London to Hampshire to visit her parents, but she'd never traveled in such style.

  They stopped beside a table where four people were already drinking coffee. "This is Sandra Fisher," George announced. "Sandra, these are my parents, Colonel and Mrs. Knight." He glanced at a distinguished couple who had an air of superiority. They were older than she'd expected, both gray-haired, but perfectly turned out. Colonel Knight wore an army uniform and Mrs. Knight a yellow silk dress with a cream jacket and pearls, as if she were already prepared for the wedding. Sandra might have felt underdressed in jeans and a blouse she normally wore for work, if George hadn't been even more casual in faded Levis and a padded ski jacket.

  George's mother offered a cool, polite smile that left her in no doubt she was there under sufferance and they were not pleased to see her.

  "Hello. Nice to meet you," she said, her mouth awkward with nerves. If she'd met these people at work, she'd have handled them perfectly well. When she put on her white coat, it was like being an actor on stage. The professional role gave her confidence she didn't possess in social situations when she was plain Sandra Fisher.

  George shifted his attention to the other two people at the table. "This is my godfather, Harold Featherington, and his daughter, Celia."

  Sandra followed his gaze, briefly noting the warm smile on the man's face before taking in the young woman. She froze with shock. She'd been expecting someone plain and dowdy, but Celia could be a model with her sleek blonde hair, perfect makeup, and designer clothes.

  "Hello," Sandra mumbled. Mr. Featherington smiled and greeted her back, but his daughter's green eyes widened then narrowed, and her small pert nose crinkled as though she'd smelled something bad.

  "Is this a joke?" She glared at George.

  Celia's gaze raked over Sandra dismissively and George's hand tightened around hers. "I don't know what you mean."

  "I mean that you can't be serious about…" Celia pulled a disgusted face and angled a long red fingernail towards Sandra.

  "Celia, shh." Mr. Featherington grabbed her wrist and pulled her pointing finger down.

  George released Sandra's hand, leaving her cast adrift, her heart pounding in mortification. She was used to being bullied by girls like Celia, beautiful girls who seemed to get along with everyone effortlessly, but she'd thought she had left that behind at school.

  Then George's arm came around her shoulders, pulling her flush with his side. Calm ran through her as if he'd surrounded her with his strength.

  "I'm deadly serious, Celia. And I won't have you make Sandra feel unwelcome." He'd pitched his voice low, but it carried such a weight of authority that it sliced through the awkward atmosphere like a scalpel. Even his parents shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

  Celia shrank back and Sandra almost felt sorry for her. But if this stunning woman had wanted a date for the wedding, she could easily have found one. With her looks, she must have men falling at her feet. The thing that puzzled Sandra was why George wasn't one of them.