More Than Words: More Than, Book 3 (10 page)

You know what’s funny? That old adage that reality can never live up to the fantasy. You know how when you build something up in your mind, when it finally happens, it’s not quite as special as you thought it would be?

Molly switched gears so quickly, Sam’s head spun.

One second she’d been describing sex in its most fundamental form, and the next she was getting all philosophical on him.

Thing is, if you ever did fuck me—or make slow, tender love to me for that matter—it would be as good, probably better, than it is in my mind.

Ah, it seemed his receptionist was a dreamer. An idealist.

How do I know this? How can I predict the impossible?

Simple. Experience is the best teacher. Similar things happen to me every day where you’re concerned.

No, you don’t fuck me every day (pity about that), but I do fantasize about you in other ways too. In nonsexual ways. I think about how darn wonderful you are. How funny and sunny and amazing. Not to mention skilled and able. And capable. How much your patients love you (look at Mickey) and the hospital staff respect and admire you. How ridiculously gorgeous you look every freaking day—no matter how many emergencies you deal with. I think about the way you keep your cool through all those crises. You make it seem like you were born to deal with them. It’s no wonder those beautiful shoulders of yours are so broad, Sam. You carry the weight of everyone else’s problems on them.

See, Sam, every night I think about you. I build you up into this perfect guy. You become the impossible—a true hero in my eyes. And every morning I wake up thinking I’ve fooled myself. I’ve made you into something you aren’t, something you could never be, because seriously, who is that perfect?

But every single day you surprise me.

You not only live up to all of those fantasies, you surpass them.

So when I say sex with you would be like a hundred on a scale of one to ten, I know it has to be true. Because you always hit one hundred on my scales of one to ten. At a minimum.

When you finally do fuck me, it will be better than anything I could possibly have imagined. And I have imagined everything.

She thought all that about him? Saw him as her ideal man? Believed he surpassed all her fantasies?

Sam grinned like a fool.

Then he remembered what had happened with Ruth and Molly and lost his grin.

I think I may have given away some secrets with this email. I guess you’ve realized by now that what I feel for you goes way beyond physical excitement.

I should probably be a little embarrassed to expose all of this, probably delete some of what I’ve said, but I can’t, Sam. I can’t keep it to myself anymore. After everything you said in your letter, it’s hard to hold back all the emotional stuff.

It might come as a surprise that there’s so much more than this intense desire to fuck you. Or to make love to you. But it’s not new to me. I’ve always felt more for you than this wicked attraction that takes my breath away. And though physically I want your kisses, emotionally I just want…you.

Sam.

The whole wonderful package.

All my love (and I guess by now you’ve twigged on to the fact that’s not just a polite expression),

Molly

Chapter Seven

“I played soccer today at school, and guess what?” Mickey grinned at Molly across the table, her crooked teeth enhancing her adorable smile.

“Don’t tell me. You were the goalkeeper and you saved four goals.”

“No,” Mickey squealed. “Better than that. I played attack and I scored. I got a goal for my team. My first one ever, Mol.”

Molly couldn’t help the tears that filled her eyes. Her little sister had scored a goal. Yep, the first goal was always a big deal, but for Mickey it went way beyond a big deal. For a child who’d been told she’d never walk again, never have the ability to stand on her own two feet, unsupported, scoring a goal was a monumental achievement.

Molly dropped her cutlery and raced around the table. “That’s awesome.” She hugged Mickey tight. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Everyone cheered for me.” She grinned. “I felt like Lionel Messi.”

Her idol. “Bet you played like him too.”

“I did. I was a champ. Will you tell Sam for me? Will you let him know?”

Molly’s stomach churned. “Of course I will. He’ll be thrilled.” She tried to maintain the sparkle in her eyes, tried to keep her smile bright but knew it dimmed at the mention of Sam’s name. He would be thrilled. Mickey might not be his patient any longer, but the two were thick as thieves. Whenever Mickey came to the hospital with Molly, she and Sam sat in his office talking for ages.

Messi might be Mickey’s idol, but Sam was her hero.

After the accident, two other neurologists—one a registrar, the other a consultant—had assured Molly her sister would be permanently paralyzed from the waist down. Sam, however, had given her hope, had said there was a possibility she might walk again.

He’d taken over Mickey’s care and, together with the hospital physios, had spent a year working on Mickey’s rehabilitation.

Six months after the accident she stood alone and unsupported for the first time, and a few days later she took her first step. It took another six months before Mickey was declared one hundred percent fit by Sam and his team. Now, three years later, she had the muscle tone, strength and coordination to score a goal. Momentous indeed.

With thanks to Sam. The man Molly loved. Her boss, who, contrary to what he’d told her,
was
marrying another woman. Maybe not yet, but soon.

She managed to chatter excitedly with her sister about the game, both of them ignoring the phone when it rang. This was Mickey’s moment to shine. No way would Molly remove the spotlight by taking a call. She was as excited, delighted and awed by Mickey’s goal as Mickey was. Totally stoked by the progress she’d made. And once again confounded and amazed by her own situation. It was one she’d never imagined herself being in.

At the time of the accident, Molly had been living alone. She and her mother had never had a good relationship, and her father—like Mickey’s—had disappeared from the scene before he’d even learned about the pregnancy.

Intent on making something of herself, Molly had worked whatever jobs she could get, as a cashier in a supermarket, a cleaner in an old-age facility, a receptionist for a small business. All the while she’d studied part time, building credits towards a degree in accounting.

The accident had ended both her independence and her studies. With her mother’s death came the responsibility of caring for her injured sister. Any money she earned she’d poured into Mickey’s care and into accommodation for both of them. Which meant when she wasn’t with Mickey she was working, desperately trying to make ends meet.

Often, she’d been unable to make those ends meet. Molly knew all too well what it felt like to miss a few meals because she couldn’t afford to buy food.

Sam’s job offer had been a godsend. A gift. For the first time, she had permanent work with regular hours and most importantly, a steady income. Sam wasn’t only Mickey’s hero, he was Molly’s too. He’d saved them both.

Both she and Mickey had put their complete faith in him four years ago, and he hadn’t disappointed them. He hadn’t disappointed them since.

Until today.

Her mobile phone rang again.

“You gonna answer?” Mickey asked.

“And interrupt your big moment? Hell, no. Fact, I think we need to celebrate. Let’s clear the dishes and go out for ice cream. Cookies ’n cream and chocolate fudge.” Mickey’s favorites. “What do you say?”

“I say yes. Yes, yes, yes.” She had her dinner plate and glass in hand and was halfway to the kitchen by the time Molly stood to follow.

Molly didn’t need to glance at the phone to know it was Sam. He’d called several times already. She should answer. He might need information about a patient. But damn it, she didn’t have to. It was after hours, Molly was home spending quality time with her sister, and for once, she didn’t want to speak to him. She’d face him again tomorrow morning when she had no choice.

If Sam had an emergency on his hands, every bit of information she knew about his patients was neatly recorded alphabetically. Sam need only pull the correct file, and he’d have all the answers in front of him.

She grabbed her keys and bag and hustled Mickey out the door, deliberately leaving her phone at home. Tonight she and her sister were going to celebrate, and she wasn’t letting anything get in the way of this very special moment in Mickey’s life.

Sam didn’t leave the hospital for a long time that night. Concerned he’d be called back to see Greg, he waited in his rooms until almost ten.

Molly hadn’t answered his calls. Not one of them. He considered dropping in at her unit on the way home to visit her in person, but it was late, and if Mickey was sleeping, Sam didn’t want to disturb them. Which left him with no other way of contacting her than by email.

Dear Molly,

Did she have any idea of how dear she was to him?

I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you before you left work today. I’d have liked to discuss what happened earlier, with Ruth.

That wasn’t the only reason he was sorry she’d left. Whenever she wasn’t at the hospital Sam had a sense that there
was a big, empty hole in her office where she should have been.

Her perfume lingered in the air. Or perhaps traces of it clung to her chair. Whatever, Sam found himself walking into her office several times that evening so he could inhale her scent, catch a hint of citrus and sunshine.

Ah, hell, Miss Molly. Who am I kidding?

It’s not that I’d
like
to discuss things with you, it’s that I
need
to talk to you.

I tried to phone—as you might have realized from the missed calls and messages. No, there wasn’t an emergency in the rooms.

There was one in his life. Molly thought he was in love with another woman.

I have to set the record straight.

Damn it, I know I should say this to your face. It needs to come out when we’re together, and you can look at me and know I’m telling you the truth. But you’re not here, and I can’t let this go on one more minute.

I am not seeing Sarah. I am not interested in Sarah. Not in any way other than as a friend. I never have been, I never will be. And for God’s sake, please believe me, we are not getting married. Ever.

That was a joke that began when I helped her get together with her boyfriend. (Yes, she has a boyfriend. His name is Charlie.) She told me then if she wasn’t so in love with him, she’d marry me tomorrow. (And that’s only because I helped her find true love, not because she actually wants to marry me.)

I could never have taken this letter-writing business any further than that first email if I were seeing anyone else.

The only woman I want letters from is you. The only woman I think about is you. The only woman I have any interest in is
you
.

I left Greg’s bedside to get upstairs before you left so I could clear the air. Explain that Sarah is with Charlie, not me.

To tell her that her letters had his balls tied in knots and his heart beating irregularly.
 

He had to let her know his practice wasn’t the only thing that would fall apart if she ever left—he would too. Sam wasn’t just reliant on his receptionist. He was hopelessly in love with her.

He had been for years. From the minute he’d seen her at Mickey’s bedside.

It explained why he spent so much time at the hospital. He preferred being here, at the rooms with Molly, than anywhere else on earth. There was no point going home and establishing a social life when the only woman he wanted to socialize with was his receptionist.

And by “socialize with”, he meant fuck senseless. And make long endless love to. And kiss, for hours and hours and hours. Hell, he just wanted to touch the woman. Hold her. Take her in his arms and find his center. His balance.

Molly’s letters had helped cement Sam’s feelings. Helped bring them to the forefront. But they weren’t new. He’d felt like this forever—he’d just never let himself actively think about it.

Sam considered including all of this in the email, but in the end decided against it.

Telling a woman you loved her required more than words written in an email.

There’s more I’d like to tell you, but it can wait until I can look into your big brown eyes and say it in person. The wait might kill me, but I’d prefer to say it to you, not to your inbox or voicemail.