NYC Angels: Making the Surgeon Smile. Lynne Marshall

lips on his?

      When was the last time he’d given a woman permission to call him Johnny? What was up with that? What else might he get her to beg for so he could grant her permission? Most importantly, what in hell were these crazy sexy thoughts she’d planted in his head?

      Maybe Pollyanna wasn’t nearly as innocent as she let on. Well, guess what, dumpling, neither am I.

      He guzzled more water and scratched his chest, surprised by his thumping heart. Antsy to finish his work and get the hell out of there, he veered his surprisingly sexed-up thoughts away from Pretty Polly and back to dictating his surgery reports for the day. Before he left he’d check on his kids, each and every one—like he did every day before he went home.

      Maybe that was the reason he had been out of sorts yesterday at the bar. Maybe it hadn’t been because she’d gotten too nosey, or had threatened his resolve never to feel again, or because he’d wanted to go home and brood, which he had to admit was beginning to get boring, even for him. He’d blame it on not saying goodnight to his kids, because he hadn’t been ready to admit he was a man clinging so tightly to his past he’d forgotten how to socialize with the living.

      Polly had rushed him away from work and he hadn’t had a chance to tell all of his patients goodnight, and things just didn’t seem right when he missed saying goodnight to his kids.

      Yeah, he’d use that as the excuse for his behavior last night, otherwise he’d seem far too pitiful the next time he looked in the mirror.