“Heneedsyou,” he said, that rough quality back in his voice and an almost desperate expression crossing his face. “My little brother needs you, Dr Murphy. We almost lost him.” And then his blue eyes connected with mine and he swallowed, before saying the one word that I knew could break my resolve. “Please.”
I sighed and looked down at my feet before meeting his eyes again. “Okay.”
“Okay?” He’d pushed up from the desk now, his arms were uncrossed and the corners of his mouth had tipped up in a barely-there smile. I took in a sharp breath and ended up choking on my own saliva. Seriously, the man was so attractive it was almost unreal.
“Y–yes,” I managed to get out through my coughing.
“Are you quite alright?” Barclay asked.
“Fine, fine,” I spluttered, feeling a couple of tears streaming down my now likely red cheeks and feeling like an idiot. I scrubbed them away, glad that I’d forgotten mascara that morning and cleared my throat. “I’ll see Henry, butnotas his doctor.”
Barclay’s eyebrows drew together and he re-crossed his arms. “What do you mean ‘not as his doctor’? How else would you help him?”
“Look, he needs to carry on seeing Prof at the hospital. And I don’t take money for private work. If you really think that him seeing me would help, then I’ll go to him. But no payment. No nothing. Not private work. As afriend.”
“You’ll go and see him . . . for free?” He looked truly confused now.
“Listen, you say he needs to stay motivated. You say he found what I told him helpful. Well, I don’t have to do that in a medical capacity. I can do that as a friend.”
“Well, I’d really rather formalise the agreement.”
I suppressed another eye roll at his stuffy tone. “Well,I’mnot exactly a formal gal and I’m not going to take over his care from Prof. So, it’s my way or no way.”
“You’re very . . . unusual,” he said, staring down at me with a bemused expression.
“Yes, yes, I am.” I stood up a little straighter and gave him a wide smile. The light buzzing that had been going off intermittently from his pocket grew more insistent, and he finally withdrew his phone, giving the screen an angry glance.
“Right, I’m sorry but I’ve got to go. If I can have your mobile number then I’ll text you the details.”
“Oh sure,” I said, rattling it off and trying not to get too excited thatBarclay Lucashad my phone number. He made a move to leave after he’d typed it into his phone and I leapt up from the chair to block his way, sticking my hand out for him to shake. “I guess this means we’re friends too now,” I said through another wide smile.
“As long as you’re going to see Henry then . . .”he trailed off and shook my hand, looking less than impressed at the prospect of a friendship with me in the offing. His hand was warm and dry and his grip was firm. I stared down at the veins running along the back of it and the light dusting of hair over its surface as if it was the most fascinating sight I’d seen that year.
I, Kira Murphy, was holding hands with Barclay Lucas.
He eventually pulled back, but my hand had decided that it was quite happy where it was for the moment and so clung on, only letting go when he gave his a sharp tug and I nearly fell into his broad chest.
“Righty ho!” I said as he skirted around me, giving Nigel a cursory, parting head nod.
“Oh, er . . . about my phone,” I called out. Barclay had just reached the door and had his hand on the knob – he looked wistfully at his potential exit for a moment before turning back to me.
“Yes?” he asked with forced politeness.
“Well, the cheeky badger’s notthatgreat at text messages.”
“It can’t receive text messages?”
“Itcan, it’s just they don’t really display as any language I would be able to recognise. Started to do it a few weeks ago. I got excited for a bit ’cause I thought I might be receiving intelligence from the Russians, but the guy at Carphone Warehouse seemed to think it’s just ’cause it’s a Nokia from 1998.”
“You have a phone from 1998?”
“It can take calls though. So you could ring me. Except I don’treallytake it anywhere, and I only check it once every couple of days and, er . . . sometimes I forget.”
One of Barclay’s hands went up to the back of his neck and he stared down at his shoes. “Do you have an email address?”
“Hmm, no,” I admitted, making an eek face at Nigel who looked on the verge of a heart attack.
“Dr Murphy, youdohave an NHS email,” Nigel put in, shooting me a furious look.
