One More Time - Louisa George Page 0,1

Shed was Max’s home away from home. After a heavy day of intense surgery he relished the chance to de-stress the best way he could in familiar surroundings, followed by some kind of hot physical workout—a bed was optional.

Here in the public bar there was no one save a couple from the phlebotomy unit and a single woman a few seats down with her back to him. A mass of thick dark curls covered her shoulders.

His gaze drifted down her straight back, stopping short at the taut line of the black long- sleeved blouse stretched across her spine. Her dress was more funereal than fun, so much so he wondered why she’d be in party central. Most girls here showed far more skin. Intrigued, his gaze travelled over the narrow dip of her waist. The flair of her skirt over a decent amount of hip. The right amount.

He imagined running his palm over those curves.

Running a cool hand over the back of his neck instead, he eased the tension in his shoulders. Man. After eight hours of surgery his hyped muscles needed a release. And he knew the perfect way.

A quick drink first. Then hit the back bar. Then...maybe...who knew? The night was still young.

‘Barman? Excuse me? Hey.’ The curls shivered as the woman raised her hand. ‘Excuse me. Another mojito, please.’

‘Coming right up.’ Bill reached for the woman’s empty glass.

Following Bill’s line of vision, Max caught a view of her face. In an urgent and acute response something twisted in his gut, tightened with an awareness that was full and powerful. Hell. It had been a long time since he’d had that kind of immediate reaction to a woman.

Her hair framed a soft face, kissable lips with a smattering of red lipstick. Almost perfect features—cute nose, a dusting of freckles. She was the kind of woman any man would give a second glance to. And most would chance a third. But the clip in her voice screamed that she was a woman not to be messed with.

So of course his interest ratcheted up the scale. Fiery women always presented a challenge. And, boy, did Max love a challenge. He hadn’t become Auckland’s most successful transplant surgeon without pushing a few boundaries.

Okay—a lot of boundaries.

She caught him looking at her but he refused to look away.

Her eyes. Wow. Large, dark, almond-shaped, glittering with something. Hurt? Anger?

Which in itself was a warning sign. But, hell, a conversation didn’t mean a whole lot of anything. And if it went further—he’d lay out his intentions from the get-go. Starting with nothing deep and meaningful. Ending with don’t ask for forever.

Max leaned across the bar to Bill. ‘Is she waiting for someone? Been stood up?’

The barman shook his head. ‘Nah. Don’t think so. Been here about an hour, hasn’t checked her phone or looked at her watch.’

Good. Not stepping on anyone’s toes. He didn’t break that brotherhood code as easily as others. As easily as Mitchell had. Max raised his beer to her. ‘Tough day?’

‘And getting tougher by the minute.’ She took her refreshed drink and turned her back to him.

‘Okay, I get it. You don’t want to talk, right?’

Swivelling round, she gave him a full-tilt death stare. Definitely anger in her eyes. Hurt was a distant cousin. ‘Gee, whatever gave you that idea? Very sorry, but my back’s not feeling very chatty tonight.’ She turned away again, but not quite as far as she’d gone before.

‘Watch you don’t get whiplash with all the swivelling around.’ He caught her profile. The uplift of her chin. Tight lips.

And very possibly the hint of smile.

He’d been on the verge of leaving, but the smile reeled him in.

Never one to admit defeat, he slid into the seat next to her, determined to make that smile last a little longer. ‘It’s okay. We don’t have to talk.’

‘Get out of here. Really?’ Her ribcage rose and fell quickly as she turned to face him, slim fingers running a diamond locket along a thin silver chain at her throat.

Her dark gaze slid from his face down his body and back again. ‘People actually say that? Is it from Cheesy Pick-ups for Dummies?’ She held up her hand. ‘Wait. No. It’s a phone app, right? Lame Lines for Getting Laid.’

‘Ouch. Cruel. I’m mortally wounded.’ He touched his heart for effect. ‘Actually, it’s from Just trying to be friendly dot com. But forget it. I’ll leave you in peace.’

She blinked. ‘No. I’m sorry. Come on, hit me with another line.’

‘That was my