2. Prescription For Love

Abby set out a stack of multicolored plastic plates, glasses, and disposable utensils on the red-andwhite checked oilcloth that Carrie had spread over one of the two picnic tables. As she turned to go back in the house, Harper pulled up and Margie and Blake piled out of the backseat of the pickup, talking animatedly about something. Flannery jumped down from the passenger side, and for an instant, Abby had no thought in her head except how good Flann looked in tight blue jeans and her faded gray T-shirt. Better than any woman had a right to look. She caught her wandering mind and dragged her thoughts back into safer lines. Harper reached in to the backseat and came up with a cardboard box that she carried toward the house.

“Hey, Presley,” Harper called. “You got a minute?”

Presley came to the screen door and looked out. “I’m just about to pull the roast out. What’s up?” “Got you a little something.”

Presley hipped the door, wiping her hands on a pale yellow dish towel. “I hope it’s dessert.” Harper, Flann, and the kids laughed.

“Not exactly.”

Harper set the cardboard box on the porch and gestured for Presley to open it. “See what you think.”

Presley knelt, folded back the cardboard flaps, and squealed, “Oh my God.” Abby didn’t think she’d ever heard Presley squeal before in her life.

“Can I touch them?” Presley asked, wonder in her voice.

“Sure.” Harper crouched beside her, a hand on her back.

The small possessive gesture struck Abby with an arrow of longing she hadn’t expected. Her life had slowed down enough for her to actually realize there might be things she was missing, things she might even need, and she wasn’t at all sure she was happy with that. She still had so much to do—a new department to set up, a residency to establish, politics to maneuver. She’d be working twelvehour days, if she was lucky. And then there was Blake. Moving a teenager to a new town and a new school was daunting enough. Dealing with his transition, and the challenges that came along with that, was a full-time job in and of itself. She had no time for anything else, and even entertaining the idea of dating was foolhardy.

She glanced away from Harper and Presley and discovered Flannery studying her, her deep brown eyes laser sharp and so focused Abby felt the heat. She also felt the flush climb to her cheeks and cursed her autonomic nervous system and the hormones that seemed to have suddenly awakened. Flann grinned, just a tilt of the corner of her mouth that seemed to say I know what you’re thinking right now, and Abby schooled her expression, hiding the sudden rapid kick of her heart. Flann didn’t need to know the way she looked at her made her feel intensely present, powerfully alive, and unfortunately, unwillingly aroused. Hormones and reflex. At least she was smart enough to recognize reactions she couldn’t control and ignore them.

Carrie came through the door exclaiming, “What is it? What happened?”

Presley rose, a chick cradled in her hands. “Look.”

“Oh my God,” Carrie squealed in an exact replica of Presley.

Abby expected Flann to break their connection when Carrie arrived, but she didn’t. Instead, she reached into the box, lifted out a chick, and carried it to Abby. “Here you go.”

She’d cradled Blake against her breast moments after his first breath, held newborns hundreds of times, even delivered a couple in the emergency room. She cherished the innocence of new life, and the fragility of the tiny chick in her hands struck at what was most fundamental to her—the urge to protect and nurture.

“I’m not going to squeal,” she murmured.

“Somehow, I didn’t think you would,” Flannery said just as quietly. “But I wouldn’t mind just a little one.”

Abby laughed but refused to look at her, would not give in to the urge to see that heavy-lidded stare concentrated on her. “Wrong woman.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Flann said, her voice low and soft and warm, too deep and thick for honey, more like molasses. The promise of a bite beneath the sweetness.

The other voices, the sensation of the other bodies nearby, faded away. Flann filled Abby’s senses, the lure of her voice, the hint of spice that was her unique scent, the caress of her gaze. Abby took a quick step back and hit the porch post. She had nowhere to go, and Flann was so close. Too close. So close she couldn’t draw a breath without tasting her, and the hunger surged so hot and hard she gasped. No. No, no, no. She eased aside and carried the chick back to the box to safety. Safety for both of them.

Frowning, Flann watched her retreat again. She’d heard the slight catch in Abby’s breath, seen the faint flicker of her pupils when their gazes had caught and held. She knew Abby felt what she felt— the tug of recognition, a chain of connection as natural as breathing. She didn’t understand it and she wasn’t sure she wanted it, but denying it was as impossible as denying the pulse of desire in her belly.