Tempted By Her Hot-Shot Doc

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His smile reached his eyes and she could tell it was genuine.

‘Thank you.’

Ryan was still wearing his khaki trousers, but had chosen another white button-down shirt that highlighted his broad chest and deep bronze tan. The kind of tan only a travelling man had, she mused in appreciation.

Madeline caught his eyes lingering for a split second on the hint of cleavage she knew she was displaying behind her beads, but instead of feeling self-conscious she realised she was feeling quite empowered.

‘Let’s go,’ Ryan said, patting his flat stomach. ‘I’m famished.’

They walked outside together, through the hotel’s revolving doors and into the balmy night. The breeze picked up her long hair and tousled it about her shoulders as she walked alongside him.

‘Any more news on the supplies arriving?’ she asked.

‘First thing in the morning, so they said. We’ll fly at two p.m.’

They passed a shirtless guitar player on the street—a beaming guy with huge, chunky dreadlocks. Ryan pulled some notes out of his pocket and dropped them into his upturned hat. The guy’s hands stopped moving instantly on the guitar frets and his eyes widened at what was clearly a significant amount of money, but Ryan didn’t stop.

The palm trees swayed rhythmically to their own calypso as they walked along the street. Tourists strolling towards similar reservations were either hand in hand or holding selfie sticks between them, taking photos. She thought back to her friend Emma’s gushing email that morning, posing a million questions and demands of what she wanted Madeline to ask Ryan.

Are you single? seemed to be top of her list.

They were welcomed into the restaurant by a beaming waitress the size of a toothpick, who flicked her long, styled auburn hair over her shoulder as she raked over Ryan with eyes as wide as Bambi’s.

‘I hope this will be OK for you, sir,’ she gushed in a thick Portuguese accent as they were led outside to a table on the terrace. She made a big fuss over arranging Ryan’s napkin on his lap.

‘Fine, thank you,’ he replied, seemingly oblivious to the batting eyelashes an inch from his chest.

Ryan took the wine list. A candle flickered in the middle of the table in a mason jar and Madeline studied his famous face, now bathed in a soft, flattering glow in a way she rarely saw on the television. The surgery lights were always so harsh.

She placed her purse under her feet, careful to keep the strap around her knee. She’d been caught out once by a bag-snatcher in Peru, and these days she was disappointingly quick to suspect passing strangers of crimes they probably had no intention of committing.

All around them people were chatting and laughing amongst themselves and Ryan leaned back in his seat.

‘Drink?’ he asked. ‘You might not get the chance again for a while. They don’t have much in the way of vintage wine in the Amazon. How about a cocktail?’

‘If you’re having one,’ she said. ‘Or maybe just a gin and tonic?’

‘Great idea—make that two, please,’ he told the waitress, handing back the drinks menu.

‘Coming up. I’ll be back to take your food order, Dr Ryan.’

She tottered off on her high heels, and Madeline watched as Ryan took his phone out of his pocket and flipped it to ‘silent’.

‘Is it not weird that everyone knows who you are?’ she asked. ‘We’re in Rio!’

He put his phone back and folded his arms in front of him on the table, unwittingly causing his biceps to bulge in his shirt. ‘It’s less weird than annoying.’

‘I read somewhere that you hardly ever drink,’ she followed up, training her eyes away from his biceps.

‘That’s true. I usually stop at one.’

‘In case somebody needs your help and you need to focus?’

He grinned, thumbing the corner of the menu. ‘Did you read that online?’

‘Maybe.’

‘I don’t really drink because I choose not to. I guess that’s not exciting enough for some people. Anything you don’t eat?’

Madeline liked the way he was talking to her. It was easy, somehow. She wondered what he’d been like before fame...whether he was different now.

She thought about his question. ‘Just coriander. I think you call it cilantro where you’re from.’

He smiled. ‘Can’t stand it either. Tastes like old books.’

‘I think it tastes like metal pipes.’

‘You’ve licked a metal pipe?’

‘Maybe.’

He was laughing now—she could see his shoulders shaking. ‘Well, there’s a way to start the memoir. I don’t like cilantro and I refuse to dine with people who do—especially if they lick metal pipes, too.’

She shook her head, laughing with him. ‘It has bestseller written all over it.’

They ordered a selection of dishes, and as they chatted idly she scribbled a few notes about his childhood, memories of the years he spent in Chicago looking up to his ambitious yet workaholic father.

‘Do you have any siblings?’ she asked.