by Jenny Lyn
Evernight Publishing
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2013 Jenny Lyn
ISBN: 978-1-77130-539-6
Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs
Editor: Karyn White
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To those first loves who become lasting loves.
BURN
Jenny Lyn
Copyright © 2013
Chapter One
The female tittering at the nurse’s station had become too much for Tate. Normally that sort of thing didn’t bother her. She’d even been known to join in the fun on occasion, when nights in the ER were slow and relatively quiet.
Tonight wasn’t one of those times.
She was exhausted—thank the mattress gods she was nearing the end of her shift. Her head pounded like a bass drum, and she’d been kicked and puked on by a cranky four-year-old. Despite changing her scrubs, the smell wouldn’t leave her sinuses, and the four ibuprofen and three cups of coffee she’d swallowed had done nothing to alleviate the other two things either.
Hating herself just a little, she looked up from the chart she was scribbling notes in and cleared her throat loudly. The giggling stopped, but some of the looks she received as the women dispersed said her name hit a few shit lists. She sighed, making a mental note to ply them with a decadent dessert in hopes of erasing the “bitch” tag she’d just been assigned.
Colleen, a friend and one of the nurses who’d joined the staff at Atlanta General around the same time as Tate, walked over to where she stood, a sympathetic smile on her face. Unfortunately, Colleen still held a patient’s chart in her hand.
She patted Tate on the back. “It’ll all be over soon.”
“Only to start up again in twelve hours,” Tate said wryly. Not that she hated her job. Far from it, actually. Today’s shift had just been particularly trying, and the incessant headache only made matters worse.
“This one might make you feel better.” Colleen handed the file to Tate and winked. “Room six.”
Curious, Tate glanced down at the chart, habitually scanning the medical information first before her eyes landed on the name. Going stock still in the middle of the busy hallway, she blinked, thinking she’d somehow misread what it said, and scanned the name again. Ryan Hart. Nope, no mistake.
Maybe it wasn’t the same Ryan Hart she’d known eight years ago. Hart was a fairly common name. So was Ryan, she told herself. But then she read the birth date. The year matched hers.
Damn.
Well, that explained Colleen’s comment and why the nurses were so animated—they’d gotten a peek at him.
She glanced back at Colleen who was now on the phone, then looked around to see if there were any other doctors she could hand the file off to before hiding in a supply closet until this particular Ryan Hart left the building. Sure, it was cowardly of her and unprofessional, too, but seeing this particular Ryan Hart again could be disastrous.
It was no use. The emergency room was slammed, and they were short-staffed tonight. That left her little choice but to face down the devil from her past. Tate gathered every fiber of fortitude she had inside of her and pushed open the door to exam room six.
When Ryan looked up, a pirate’s smile split his full mouth and wrinkled the corners of his blue, blue eyes. He looked bigger than what she remembered, more filled-out in all the right places, and his classically handsome features had sharpened a bit with maturity. He wore his sandy-blond hair very short, and in one of those messy-on-top styles she envied men the two seconds it took to accomplish.
God help her, time had been very, very good to him.
Tate, on the other hand, felt herself wilt a little in her Nikes. She probably looked like recycled crap and smelled like vomit. She wore no make-up; her red hair was pulled back in a ratty ponytail that hadn’t been touched since she’d showered before coming in to work, and the putrid green scrubs undoubtedly made her complexion look sallow. Awesome.
Wait, why was she worrying about what she looked like? And dammit, she was blushing, too. With such fair skin, her face would glow like a neon sign.
“Hello, Tate,” he said in that same chocolaty voice she still heard in the occasional dream.
No, nightmare.
“Ryan.”
Tate mustered the strength it took to step closer to where he sat perched on the edge of the narrow hospital gurney. His long legs hung over the side, toes nearly touching the floor. He had on faded jeans, scuff-toed lace-up boots, and a plain white undershirt. A black leather motorcycle jacket and silver full-face helmet sat in the chair next to the bed. At least he had the good sense to wear one.
“It’s good to see you. Congratulations,” he said, pointing at the ID badge clipped to her top.
“Thanks.” She purposely didn’t reciprocate on the “good to see you” comment because she didn’t like having to lie unless it was absolutely necessary.
“I always knew you’d do it.”
“Then you had more confidence in me than I did. I came close to quitting more than once.”
“But you didn’t, and now look at you. Tate Reilly, M.D. I’m happy for you.”
Tate mumbled another awkward “Thank you,” and glanced at Ryan’s chart in hopes of avoiding more small talk. He was here for a burn to his left forearm. She noticed he held that arm cocked out to the side a little so it wouldn’t brush up against his clothing, his hand braced on his thigh for support.
Realizing she had to touch him, Tate pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Although necessary, they would also provide a thin barrier between her fingertips and his skin. “Let me see the burn.”
He held his arm out in front of him, twisting his wrist so she could examine the injury. She could sense his stare like a physical touch, feel his body heat radiating toward her. Ryan had always been one of those people you were inherently drawn to, friendly, and easygoing. Nothing ever seemed to rattle him. And of course, on top of the good looks and quality personality traits, he had to smell amazing, like leather mixed with a subtle hint of something spicy and masculine. His soap maybe, or an aftershave.
Geez, Tate, focus on your job.
The burn encompassed an area about the size of her palm halfway between his wrist and elbow. It looked angry, the skin red, puffy, and warm. There were a couple of spots nearest the center that were starting to rise into small blisters, but lucky for him it wasn’t serious.
“It’s mostly first degree with a mild second degree area in the center. It won’t require debridement, just some antibiotic cream and a loose bandage for a week or so while it heals. You’ll need to stay out of the sun as well. I can write you a prescription for pain medicine if you think you need it.”
“Nah, I’m good.”
“Ibuprofen will help with the inflammation.”
“Got it. What is ‘debridement’ exactly?”
“With more serious burns, the destroyed layers of skin have to be scrubbed away.”
He visibly shuddered. “Sounds painful.”
“That’s where morphine comes in handy. How did you get the injury?”
“Occupational hazard. I’m a sous chef at Bite.”
Tate’s stomach did a strange little dip at knowing he was back in Atlanta, working only a few blocks away from the hospital.
“Have you heard of the place?�
� he asked when she remained quiet.
“Uh, yeah, I think so. Real popular and a hit with the local critics. Owned by that Kevin dude who’s on TV once a week?”
Ryan grinned, and Tate took a step back, as if that smile would somehow pull her further into his force field. It certainly had before. “That’s the one. Kevin Lattimore is who hired me. Great chef and an all-around nice guy.”
For some unexplained reason, she asked, “How did you wind up a chef?”
He shrugged, and the smile slipped away. “It just sort of found me I guess. Long story.”
One she didn’t want to hear and he obviously didn’t want to recount, especially not to her. She was just the disposable girl he’d fucked in college for seven months then tossed away like the pair of gloves she stripped off her hands and deposited in the waste bin.
Tate grabbed his medical chart, cradling it to her chest so her trembling hands would have something to hold tight to. “A nurse will come by in a few minutes to give you your prescription and instructions on aftercare. Good luck, Ryan.” She grabbed for the doorknob in a desperate attempt to flee the suddenly claustrophobic exam room.
“What? Wait!” Before she could open the door, he was on his feet and blocking her exit with a large hand splayed across the frame. “Tate, don’t go yet. There are things that I … I need to say something, all right?”
For the longest time she stared through the narrow window in the door, hoping someone would see her standing there and summon her outside, request her help, anything to get her away from Ryan Hart and the memories flooding through her like the dam had burst that’d been holding them back.
“Look at me, please,” Ryan said.
She took a deep breath and turned to face him, shaking her head. “I don’t need to hear it, Ryan. Whatever it is you think you have to say, I don’t need to hear it.”
“I’m sorry, Tate.”
She really didn’t need to hear those words. “For how long?”
He frowned. “I don’t follow.”
“How long have you been sorry? Eight years? Or just the twenty minutes that’s passed since I walked through the door? My bet is on the latter. I would even hazard a guess that neither I nor regret has crossed your mind until tonight.”
“That’s not true!” He plowed a hand through his hair before propping them on his hips.
Tate refused to look at his chest, at the way the soft cotton of his shirt clung to him. It wasn’t even a real shirt, for God’s sake. It was an undershirt, washed a thousand times and stretched tight across his torso. And it could stand to be a size bigger, so it didn’t plainly emphasize the rounded swell of his pectorals, the flat plain of his abdominals, and the rolling bulge of his biceps. Shirts like that should remain hidden underneath other pieces of clothing, hence the reason why they were called undershirts.
If she tried hard enough she could still remember how his skin would smell in that little shallow divot between his pecs, after a shower, after a workout, after sex. Stupid olfactory retention.
“I’ve always been sorry, Tate. Always. You have to believe me. I would’ve never left you like that if I hadn’t had a damn good reason why.”
He looked so incredibly sincere and contrite. Tate had to fight to keep her façade of indifference and unhurt in place. “Then let’s hear it.”
He swallowed hard. His mouth worked like he wanted to form words that wouldn’t come. Mute, he shook his head at the floor.
“It’s fine, Ryan, really,” she said resignedly, though it wasn’t. “It was for the best anyway. With my heavy course load and trying to get into medical school, I didn’t need the distraction.”
The saying was true—one lie does lead to another, and she’d just told a whopper. He’d been nothing but supportive back then, a willing ear to listen, a distraction when she needed it, her best friend. Ryan had been the one person who helped ease her anxieties about her future.
And there was also the great sex, a powerful stress reliever in itself.
“Oh, so that’s all I was? A distraction. Like an aggravating wasp trying to stick my stinger into you.” The corner of his mouth twitched.
If he thought he was going to turn something heavy into something light he was sorely mistaken. She was disappointed in herself, too, for still holding on to this much hurt all these years later. It should’ve been long gone by now, just like she thought he was, but obviously that wasn’t the case. Seeing him again brought it all rushing back to the forefront.
Tate lifted her chin. “Something like that.”
“Huh. I remember things a lot differently. I seem to recall you liked my stinger.”
“You’re right, Ryan. I did.” She forced a tight smile. “Quite a bit actually. Right up until the moment it, along with its owner, disappeared. No note, no phone call, nothing. The least you could’ve done was written me a ‘Dear Jane’ letter so I didn’t wonder if you’d been hit by a bus. I had to hear that you’d left school from your buddy, Robbie.”
He leaned closer, and she drew back. Letting him into her personal space was treacherous. “Funny, that sounds an awful lot like concern to me. I thought you said I was nothing but a distraction.”
Tate pushed his hand off the door and snatched it open. “Take care of that wound,” she said before practically running to the nurse’s station.
She shoved the chart at the first available nurse she encountered, giving her quick instructions on what to do while she scribbled her signature on the paperwork, then headed straight for the break room and her locker. Her shift was officially over. She couldn’t get out of the hospital fast enough.
“You okay?” Colleen said from behind her, making her nearly jump out of her skin.
She pasted on a fake smile. “Of course, why?”
“For one thing, you have your sweater on inside out.”
“Shit.” Tate stripped it off and fumbled with turning it right side out.
“I think you should know he asked specifically for you, Tate.”
Tate dropped the sweater, so she kicked the uncooperative thing into her locker and slammed the door. Fuck it. She’d just be cold for a few minutes until she climbed inside her car and warmed up. It was late March, not mid-January. She’d survive.
“I’m guessing y’all might’ve meant something to each other at some point in the past.”
“Ah, you hit the nail on the head there, Colleen. In. The. Past. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Tate slung her backpack over her shoulder and left the break room. She took the first bank of elevators she came to, repeatedly pressing the down arrow as if that would summon it there faster. As soon as the doors slid apart, she darted inside and hit the P1 button for the first level of the garage. The way the hospital was designed, a good part of its parking lay underground. Unfortunately, a male hand breached the gap at the last second. Slightly winded, Ryan stepped inside.
She should’ve taken the stairs.
The only other passenger, a tiny older lady with a shock of white hair and a purple cane, looked up at Ryan questioningly.
“Oh, I’m going to the garage, too, thanks,” he said with a smile that could coax flowers into blooming early. The woman smiled back and grabbed the handrail. Probably to steady herself from all the testosterone wafting over her. It was hard enough on a young person. A person her age was liable to have a heart attack.
Tate just stood there and glared, her back pressed to the stainless steel wall of the elevator as it made the brief two-story drop. He wasn’t parked in the garage. Emergency parking was in an altogether different area of the hospital. And wouldn’t you know he’d have to look even hotter in that leather jacket.
When the doors opened, Ryan stepped back, bracing his hand against them while the woman shuffled past. Tom, one of the hospital’s security guards, pulled up on his souped-up golf cart.
“Evenin’, Dr. Reilly,” he said with a tip of his head.
“Hi, Tom.”
“Need a ride?”
<
br /> “No, thank you, but I’m sure this nice lady would love one.”
Tom hopped off and circled around the cart to assist the woman. When he was sure she’d settled in the right spot, he drove away.
Tate ignored Ryan and started walking toward her car, but naturally he followed. Of course he did. He was going to trail her to her used Honda Accord that had seen its better days and try to cauterize the wound he’d reopened. None of it mattered. He could apologize ‘til the cows came home, but until he gave her a legitimate reason why he’d hurt her so badly, she didn’t want to hear anything else he had to say. It was in the past, like she’d told Colleen, and that’s where it needed to stay. Or go back there post haste.
She fumbled through her backpack until she found her keys, which was another thing he’d done to her—rattled her so thoroughly she didn’t automatically have them in her hand when she stepped out of the elevator. A basic yet vital rule of female safety and Ryan Hart had made her forget it, as if she hadn’t done it every single night when her shift ended without fail. Tate wanted to spin around and hurl the keys at his head in frustration. Instead, she gritted her teeth and stuck them in the lock the second she reached her car.
Ryan set his helmet on the roof of the car, grabbed her by the arm and spun her around until her back pressed against the door.
“Wha—” was all she managed to squawk before his mouth covered hers.
Her resistance melted faster than you could say “stat”. With a feeble whimper, she parted her lips to let him inside. His tongue breached the gap while his arms made their way around her waist, easing her away from the car and flush to his hard, hot body.
She knew better than to let this happen. Allowing him to kiss her redefined the word stupid, yet with every second the intoxicating kiss lasted, another layer of dirt lifted off the memories she’d buried all those years ago. Until they were surrounding her, swamping her in their heat and intensity. Until she swore she could feel his bare skin pressed to hers and his weight between her thighs.