The Thunderbolt - Lori Wilde Page 0,4

good looks, stellar career ahead of him, a come-on-over-to-play-at-my-house smile, and most of all...

Fireworks.

Peering into his eyes had shown her a glimpse of what lay in store. An earth-rocking sensation she could not deny. Red-hot-chili-pepper sparks that took her breath and promised so much more.

Rapture skipped through her as she thought of kissing him. How would it feel to have his full, firm lips snuggled flush against hers? His tongue eagerly exploring her mouth?

Bennett turned and gave her an I-know-what-you’re-thinking-you-naughty-woman expression.

Swiftly, Lacy feigned intense interest in her work. She repositioned the instruments on the tray stand and breathed in stale air through her mask. The powerful lights beaming down on them seemed hotter than normal, stirring the flutters in her tummy.

Now that she had found him, how was she going to convince him that she was his Miss Right?

Her innate shyness had often hampered her in nursing school, and it was the main reason she worked in surgery. Here, she never dealt directly with the patients. She could help people without interacting with them too much.

It had taken her months to develop the working relationship she had with the surgeons and the other nurses. Her co-workers occasionally teased her about her introversion, but after six years, she had at last become comfortable in her job.

She must overcome this accursed shyness. She absolutely must. Otherwise Bennett Sheridan, aka the thunderbolt, would complete his residency at Saint Madeleine’s and be on his way without anything more having passed between them than a few meaningful glances.

Lacy could not let Mr. Right march out of her life. She had to do something to get his attention, had to force herself to conquer her natural reticence with the opposite sex.

But what?

And how?

“Great-Gramma, it’s me, Lacy.”

“Drahy! Is that you?”

“Yes.”

“You sound so far away.”

“I’m on my cell phone at work.” Lacy glanced over her shoulder to make sure she was alone in the locker room before speaking freely.

She had a few minutes between surgeries and instead of taking a coffee break in the lounge, she’d felt compelled to give her great-grandmother a quick call. As if there was such a thing as a fast phone conversation with her family.

“Oh, my dear girl, I’m so glad you called. I’m missing you.”

“I miss you, too.”

“Have I got a story for you.” Her great-grandmother’s rich laughter rolled easily across the miles. “Frank Sinatra munched your cousin Edward’s undershorts right off the clothesline. You should have Edward’s face. Beet red!”

Frank Sinatra, whose eclectic diet consisted of everything from spray starch cans to potato vines, was Great-Gramma’s favorite ram, named after her favorite singer. She raised a small herd of Tennessee fainting goats, who were known for their odd defense mechanism of fainting at the first sign of danger.

Except Old Blue Eyes’ namesake was so ornery he rarely fainted anymore. Nothing seemed to scare him. Not even Great-Gramma chasing him with her marble rolling pin she used to make kalaches.

“Gramma, I don’t have time to talk about Frank Sinatra. I’ve got something very important to tell you.”

“What has happened?” Immediate concern tinged her great-grandmother’s voice. “Something is wrong.”

“Nothing is wrong.” Lacy took a deep breath. She could almost see the tiny ninety-two-year-old woman hunched over the phone in the family’s eight-hundred-square-foot kitchen in West, Texas. “Something is very right.”

“Don’t tell me....” She inhaled sharply.

“Yes.” Lacy nodded. “It’s happened.”

Great-Gramma gasped. “The thunderbolt?”

“Uh-huh.”

Her great-grandmother let out another laugh. “At long last. But wait, let me call to your mother and your grandmother Nony. They’ll want to hear this, too.”

“Gramma, I only have a few minutes.”

But it was too late. Great-Gramma had already laid the phone down. Lacy heard the receiver clank against the antique oak kitchen table that had been passed down through five generations, and a wave of homesickness washed over her.

Just then the locker room door opened, and Pam sailed in.

“Don’t forget, the next surgery starts in twenty minutes,” the circulating nurse said before disappearing into the adjoining bathroom.

Rats.

Even with a closed door between them, Lacy was afraid Pam might overhear her rather private conversation. Pensively, she studied her locker. Hmm. She was small enough to fit.

Casting a glance over her shoulder to make sure no one else had come into the lounge, she opened her locker, wedged herself inside, and closed the door behind her. A spare lab jacket brushed against her face, and she had to balance on top of the street shoes she wore to work.

Inside the locker it was black as midnight and hot and stuffy. Just when