Revealing The Real Dr Robinson. Dianne Drake

protruding.

      “Too much risk of infection,” she said, tossing her mittens aside then starting to unzip her ski jacket. “I like to keep my fractures a little more straightforward. But I am thinking a tibial shaft fracture of some sort might be good.” Something breaking between the knee and ankle. “Maybe a tibial plateau fracture?” Just below the knee. “Could be you accidentally hit one of those little mogul hills, popped up, crashed back down.”

      “No, I don’t think so. Too much risk of late-onset arthritis with a plateau fracture. How about a tibial plafond fracture?” Closer to the ankle. “It has the same degree of seriousness, same lengthy recovery, but less of a risk for long-term disability.”

      She smiled brightly, then nodded. “Good idea. And I’ll make sure I’m there after the surgery with all my bundles and packages, because I’m going shopping this morning.”

      “More scarves, hats and mittens?”

      “A girl can’t have too many.”

      “But knowing how I’m going to injure myself on the slopes this morning, would you actually choose mittens over my wounds?” This was dangerous territory. Too close to being flirty. He knew that. But after nearly two weeks he was still no closer to learning why she’d quit her medical practice than he’d been that first day when he’d shunned her at breakfast, only to find her seated next to him on the lift up the mountain.

      “Mittens over wounds because I’m still on leave.”

      He faked an exasperated expression. “You created my injury, the least you could do is patch me up.”

      “Wrong specialty,” she said.

      “What was your specialty?” he asked. “Before you quit?” She hadn’t told him. In fact, they’d been five or six days into their relationship before she’d let it slip she was a doctor. Odd thing was, she’d known he was. That had probably been the most he’d revealed about himself, yet she’d kept their similar backgrounds to herself.

      “It wasn’t bones,” she said.

      Her eyes turned distant. He could see it, see her shutting out whatever it was that seemed to be skimming the surface of her unhappiness. Or aversion. “Never cared much for bones, either. Not after I broke my big toe once.”

      “Skiing?” she asked, turning to face him but obviously not focused on the conversation.

      “Ever heard of turf toe?” Where a person propelled themselves forward by pushing off on the big toe, resulting in their weight shifting to their other foot. If the toe stayed flat on the ground and didn’t lift to push off, the joint injury, associated with athletes who played on artificial turf, resulted.

      That caught her interest for real. “You played soccer? Or football?”

      “No. I was chasing an angora goat.”

      Her eyes widened. “Not sure I want to ask why.”

      He chuckled. “Nothing… untoward. My parents raised goats and sheep for the wool. The one I was shearing got away.”

      “Hence turf toe. But that’s a ligament strain, not a break.”

      “Or in my case both.”

      Laughing, Shanna said, “Poor Ben. He doesn’t even get the glory of claiming some great athletic accident. You don’t really tell many people you had a goat injury, do you? Very embarrassing, Ben. Very.”

      “So would someone pointing out how embarrassing my embarrassment was.” He flagged over the server, who immediately brought cups of coffee to the table.

      “I don’t suppose I could coax you into a send-off mimosa this morning, could I?” she asked. “Since this is our last morning together.”

      “Coffee’s good,” he said. Revealing a goat injury was enough for one day. No need to reveal any more than that.

      “Champagne and orange juice is better.” She paused, thought for a moment. A knowing expression tracked across her face in delayed measures as the full awareness of what she’d just realized finally struck her. “But you don’t drink at all, do you? Not a drop.”

      “How do you figure?”

      “When we’ve had dinner I’ve had wine a few times, yet you’ve always ordered…” She shrugged. “You’re right. Coffee’s good. And you should have told me, Ben. I wouldn’t have…” Shaking her head, she picked up her coffee mug and held on to it for dear life. “I know we’re not involved, but you should have told me.”

      “There’s nothing to tell.” Such a huge lie. But why say anything and ruin a little light flirting, a few pleasant meals, a couple runs down the slope? There was nothing sloppy, nothing sentimental about the two of them and he’d appreciated that because it had been a step totally outside his normal self. Now, though, it was time to step back in, and inside Ben Robinson there was no need to tell anybody anything about himself. Those who knew knew. Those who didn’t never would.

      “Nothing except a drinking problem? In the past, I’m assuming. It would have been nice to know, because I wouldn’t have had wine—”

      “Wouldn’t have had wine?” he interrupted. “What people do or don’t do around me doesn’t bother me. I’m not influenced.”

      “Maybe you’re not influenced, but I don’t like being insensitive. If you’d told me…”

      “It would have changed things between us. You would have been a little more on guard. Or wondered what caused me to turn into an alcoholic, which I am, by the way. That wasn’t the kind of relationship we were having.” And now started the awkwardness between them, when all they should have been doing was having a carefree last day. It was another perfect example of why he didn’t get involved. She’d peeled back one of his layers and discovered the first well-guarded aspect of a man called Ben Robinson. Yeah, he was an alcoholic. Yeah, he did still struggle with the temptation occasionally, even though he hadn’t taken a drink in a decade. Yeah, it was a social barrier.

      “Or it would have been a reference in passing. Not everybody is harsh in their judgments, Ben. Trust me, I understand how moments of weakness can escalate. But you’re right. We didn’t establish the kind of relationship where confessions were required. Anyway, I’ve enjoyed our connection for what it was—a few hours of fun with a man who speaks my language. It made my sabbatical easier.” She reached across and squeezed his hand. “Although I am sorry you struggled with alcohol, Ben. Glad you made it through, but sorry for whatever took you on that journey.” She fixed her gaze on the view of the mountain as she let go of his hand.

      Then breakfast came, they ate, made light conversation about insignificant things, endured more silence between them than they had before. And it was over. Done. They descended into that so-called mutual parting of the ways of infamous fame and he went to ski while she went to shop. Afterward Ben Robinson, forever alone as he’d pledged himself to be, spent the thirty-six hours that came in a plane or between flights wondering why the hell he hadn’t just lived in the moment for once. Or lived for the moment.

      “Because reality returns after the moment,” he muttered to himself, fastening his seat belt as he prepared for the last stretch of his journey home. Fourteen hours in the air left him with a lot of time to think, a lot of time to regret.

      “Coffee, tea, soft drink? Glass of wine?” the flight attendant asked him as he tried stretching out his lanky legs in too tight a space. “Or a cocktail, sir? We have all the standards—gin, vodka, Scotch…”

      Glancing at the beverage cart, he saw the array of small booze bottles, all ready for pouring. Except he didn’t drink anymore. That was what he’d told Shanna, and that was the way he’d lived his life for a long, long time now.

      Even so, nights like this weakened his resolve. Made it tougher on him to fight when he wasn’t sure what he was fighting more—the booze, or himself.

      Then