Brock logged in as Balthasar like he always did, and pulled up the front page to see what new threads were there. His eyebrows rose as he saw one titled “Hugs for Balthasar,” created by Charlie under his pseudonym, Caspar. Brock clicked on it and read the opening post.
Today is the second anniversary of the passing of Balthasar’s wife. If anyone wants to send him an e-hug, feel free to do so here—I’m sure he’d appreciate it.
Charlie had finished with a smiley face.
Brock stared at the replies beneath. There were a hundred and seventy two, and it had only been up a few hours. Scrolling down, he read every one, his throat tightening the more he read. The messages were filled with thank yous from grateful parents saying how the new asthma inhaler had saved their children’s lives, as well as from many explaining how the Ward Seven decorated equipment made their kids’ visits to the hospital a much more pleasant experience, to the extent that sometimes the children couldn’t wait to go for their checkups because they got to play with the toys. All the messages sent hugs and kisses and best wishes for him on such a difficult day.
His eyes stung, and he put the laptop to one side and rose to pour himself a whisky—following his brothers’ advice and choosing the ten-year-old malt and not the forty. He took a big swallow and welcomed the burn of it down into his stomach, looking out at the lights on the harbor through blurred eyes. He thought about Fleur and how proud she’d be of him, and then he thought about his sister, Pippa, who’d died of an asthma attack when he was fourteen, and who was the main reason he’d become a doctor.
He’d been lucky enough never to have to worry about money, but money couldn’t buy love, and it couldn’t buy life either.
So much of his life had been about loss. Didn’t he deserve some happiness? He looked down moodily at a couple standing under a street lamp, kissing. What he wouldn’t give to have a woman’s arms around him tonight.
Then he blinked and caught his breath at the thought, guilt flooding him. What a thing to think on the anniversary of Fleur’s death. He’d promised himself he’d never look at another woman again, let alone date or fall in love. For two years he’d been celibate and had barely given women a second thought. He’d loved Fleur with all his heart, and when she’d died, his heart had not only broken but had shattered into so many pieces he’d thought he’d never be able to fit them all back together again.
But for the first time, Brock acknowledged to himself that he was lonely.
You left me, he thought, looking up at the star-studded sky. You left me alone, and I miss you, and I’ve tried to go on by myself, but I’m only human.
Six months after Fleur had died, friends had started inviting him out on dates, but he’d refused every suggestion of meeting someone. He’d grieved for two years. Was it disloyal to feel he was finally ready to move on?
He ached to feel a warm body against him, and to feel the shared bliss of sexual release, but equally it wasn’t just about that. He missed talking to Fleur, telling her his hopes and fears, and just knowing someone was there for him. That kind of love came around only once in a lifetime, but if someone else existed who could provide even a fraction of the joy he’d felt with his first wife, he knew he would be a lucky man.
Glancing at the laptop still resting on the arm of the chair, he thought about Erin. He had no idea what she looked like, where she lived, or much about her private life, apart from that she was a single parent and had a young son. But he liked her, and she made him laugh. Was that so terrible?
He shouldn’t talk to her. Maybe another night he could have a chat, but tonight wouldn’t be right. Would it?
What would Fleur say? He could almost hear her voice, a little impatient, slightly amused. Her boy’s in hospital, Brock. For God’s sake, just talk to the woman.
His lips curved up, and he went back to the chair and pulled the laptop toward him.
Chapter Two
Erin shifted onto her back on the tiltaway bed and looked up at the ceiling. The Christmas fairy lights strung around the hospital ward glowed in the semi-darkness, the tinsel glittering where it caught the light.
It was only ten o’clock, but she hadn’t slept at all the previous night, and her eyes were scratchy with tiredness. For some reason, though, they refused to shut, and images continued to flitter through her overactive brain.
Actually, now she came to think about it, she felt as if she hadn’t had more than a few hours’ sleep a night since Ryan was born. Until he was eighteen months, he’d kept her awake half the night with his constant coughing, but repeated trips to the doctor had resulted in antibiotics at the best, or being told it was a virus and there was nothing they could do at the worst. One doctor had offered a half-hearted diagnosis of possible asthma and had given her an inhaler with a children’s breathing mask, but he’d not shown her how to use it, and Ryan had made such a fuss when she tried that in the end she’d given up.
It had taken a full blown asthma attack and hospitalization for her to come to terms with the fact that he truly had asthma, and to learn how to treat it in a way that was safe and stress-free for both her and Ryan. He hated the nebulizer, but the doctor at Three Wise Men has reassured her that using an inhaler with a spacer was just as effective when used regularly, and Ryan didn’t mind using that because he could play with the Dixon the Dog toy that clipped on the side. But she hadn’t slept soundly since, terrified she’d wake up to find he’d had an asthma attack in the night and she hadn’t heard him. As it happened, his most recent attack had started mid-morning after a few days of developing a respiratory infection, but she doubted she’d sleep any easier because of it.
Here in the hospital, she knew she shouldn’t be worrying because the nurses were monitoring him, but even so, it was difficult to stop a habit when it involved whether your child lived or died.
She pushed herself up to a sitting position and peered over the adjacent bed. Ryan slept on his side facing her, his lashes dark against his pale cheek. He had an IV in his hand administering hydrocortisone. His other chubby little hand clutched the paw of the Dixon the Dog toy clipped to the tube beneath the mask over his face. The Ward Seven toys played a huge part in comforting Ryan when he had to take his medication.
Swallowing hard, she lay back and stared up at the ceiling again. She wasn’t going to cry.
Gritting her teeth, she picked up her phone and brought up the We Three Kings forums. It had grown to mean much more to her than a place to get medical advice. She’d made many friends on the forums and chat rooms who were in a similar position to herself with sick children, and they all provided support and comfort for each other when things got tough.
She’d seen the message from Caspar earlier. It was the first time she’d realized that Balthasar—the doctor she’d conversed with in the past—had lost his wife two years ago. She’d joined in with everyone else in sending her thoughts and wishes, but he hadn’t appeared, and she knew he would probably have other things on his mind tonight.
To her surprise, though, he’d recently been on and replied to the messages on the forum.
Hi everyone, he’d written. Thank you so much for all your kind wishes. I appreciate every one of you for taking the time to write. Fleur died two years ago after a long battle with breast cancer. I miss her every day, and of course anniversaries are always difficult, so it’s lovely to read all your messages. The Foundation was her idea, and she understood that communication and support are key in dealing with sickness. She would be thrilled to know how much these forums have grown. I’m glad that I, Caspar, and Melchior have been able to help people in even a little way.
His words had already been followed by a dozen messages from people reiterating their best wishes and saying how We Three Kings was the only thing that had gotten them through a difficult time.
She was just about to add another comment when a direct message box popped up.
Evening, Erin. I understand that Ryan is back in hospital—so sorry to hear tha
t. I’m sure you’re busy, but if you want to talk, I’m here.
Her eyes widened as she saw it was from Balthasar.
She’d talked a lot with him the first time Ryan had been hospitalized. She’d been terrified and, as she didn’t have asthma herself, she hadn’t really understood the ins and outs of the disease. Although the hospital staff had been patient and kind, Balthasar had answered every tiny question she’d had, suggesting many medical and alternative therapies for dealing with asthma, as well as reassuring her that, providing it was well-managed, it didn’t have to be debilitating for the child.
Their relationship—if you could call it that—went deeper than medical help, though. There was no way she could be sure, but she suspected he didn’t have the time to talk to every person on the forums for as long as he talked to her.
Smiling, conscious of her heart picking up its pace a little, she tapped the reply box.
Good evening Balthasar, she typed. Lovely to hear from you.
It was only seconds before another message popped up. Hey, Erin. How are you and Ryan doing?
He’s okay, a little better. They’ve got him on a hydrocortisone drip and the nebulizer, and his breathing’s stabilized.
Is he all right using the neb?
He didn’t want to, but he got better when they clipped Dixon to it :-) Erin sighed. She’d said thank you to him so many times that she was sure he was tired of her repeating herself, but it had to be said. Please thank Melchior and Caspar again for me if you see them. I can’t explain how much difference it makes to Ryan having the Ward Seven toys with him in hospital.
I will. I’ve just been speaking to them. You can tell Ryan there will be a new toy joining Ward Seven soon—a possum apparently called Squish.
Erin covered her mouth with a hand to stop herself laughing out loud. I love it, that’s wonderful.
She paused with her finger over the keypad. Although they’d talked a lot about a variety of things, they’d rarely overstepped the boundary to deeply personal issues. Should she say something about Caspar’s post?
Up on the bed, Ryan coughed, and she sat up to see whether he’d woken up, but his eyes were still closed. She bit her lip, then lay down again. Screw this, she thought. Life was too short not to take chances.
I’m sorry to hear about your wife, she typed. That’s very sad.
For a long time, maybe around two minutes, he didn’t reply. He was probably busy, she thought. Just because his wife had died didn’t mean he was alone, or perhaps he’d put his computer down and wandered off.
She was just about to lay her phone to one side and try to sleep again when a message came back.
I know this is a bit unusual, and of course please say no if you feel uncomfortable, but I wondered whether you’d like to talk properly for once? I’d be happy to call you if you send me your number. But I understand if you’d rather not, and we can carry on talking like this if you wish. Or not. Whatever. I’ll shut up now. An embarrassed emoticon followed.
She caught her breath, her cheeks warming. He wanted to talk to her? Her mind spun, but she scolded it for leaping to conclusions. He only wanted to make sure Ryan was okay—he’d probably talk medical matters and that would be it.
So why was she blushing?
Heart racing, she tapped reply. I’d love to talk to you, if you’re not too busy. She finished with her mobile number, pressed send, then waited, biting her nail. The phone was already on vibrate so she didn’t have to worry about waking Ryan, who could usually sleep through an earthquake anyway.
Her mouth had gone dry, and she sat up and turned around on the tiny bed so her back was against the wall. Ryan and the other boy in the ward were asleep, so she’d have to keep her voice down.
The phone vibrated in her hand, and she tapped the answer button and held it to her ear. “Hello?”
“Hi, is that Erin?” The man’s voice was deep and husky, and it sent a shiver all the way down her spine.
“Yes, hello Balthasar.” She felt all flustered. “It’s lovely to speak to you at last.”
He chuckled. “Please, call me Brock. That’s my real name. The three of us use pseudonyms on the net, even though I’m sure everyone read that article in the Herald.”
“What article?”
“You didn’t read it? Wow, you must be the one person in the whole country. They did a feature on us—my two brothers and I. Our surname is King.”
“Ah, hence the names for your company?”
“That’s right. Charlie—he’s Caspar on the website—suggested Three Wise Men for the name of our medical business. Matt and I weren’t so sure. We thought it was just begging the press to point out all the stupid things we’ve done over the last few years.”
Erin laughed. “I’m sure there haven’t been that many.”
“You’d be surprised.” His voice was wry. “Hey, it’s nice to talk to you at last. We should have done this much sooner.”
Her face glowed again. “I know. We must have been talking online for nearly a year now.”
“Yeah it was about this time last year that Ryan was first in hospital, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“He’s obviously susceptible to summer colds. I’m guessing your doctors there have suggested he has a flu shot from now on?”
“Actually, no.” She hadn’t thought about it either. Now he’d mentioned it, it made perfect sense. “I think they’ve been concentrating more on getting him better right now than on the big picture stuff.”
“Fair enough, but he should have one as soon as he’s better, and then every year from now on. I was thinking it’s possible that his asthma might be irritated by pollen. Was there a thunderstorm where you are before his attack?”
Erin’s jaw dropped. “Yes. How did you know?”
“Just a guess. Changes in air pressure can lead to the bursting of pollen grains, creating smaller particles. These carry the allergens which can be inhaled deep into the lungs. It would make sense to step up his Flixotide inhaler from August maybe to February or March. We really need to work on preventing these attacks from happening rather than curing them when they do.”
“Okay, Brock, I’ll think about that, thank you.” She spoke rather shyly, touched he genuinely seemed to care.
He didn’t reply, and she hesitated, waiting for him to say goodbye now he’d done his doctoral duty.
Instead, though, he said, “And how are you?”
She rubbed her nose. “I’m okay.”
“Having a child in hospital can be incredibly stressful, I know. Have you eaten today?”
“Yes, Dad.”
He laughed. “Just checking.”
“My parents sat with Ryan for a while and I went down to the cafe. I wasn’t hungry but I made myself eat a steak and cheese pie.”
“Was it nice?”
“Not bad actually. I can’t cook to save my life so anything’s better than microwave meals.”
He laughed again, and Erin smiled, glad she’d cheered him up. Should she broach the subject of his late wife? It seemed rude not to.
“Hey, I’m very sorry to hear you lost your wife a few years ago. That’s very sad.”
“Thanks.” He spoke softly. “Yeah, it was tough. She’d been ill a long time.”
“How are you doing? Have you eaten?”
“Yes, Mum.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “Compared to some other people, I can actually cook a decent meal. I’d frozen some Bolognese that I’d cooked a few weeks ago. It wasn’t bad, even reheated.”
It didn’t sound as if he was living with anyone. She scratched at a mark on her jeans. Why did it matter? It wasn’t as if she was interested in him.
She touched the back of her fingers to her warm cheeks. Yeah, right.
He cleared his throat. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I know so little about you. Is Ryan’s father there with you?”
She scratched again at the mark on her jeans. “No. Jack left while I
was pregnant. He wasn’t interested in being a dad.”
“Huh.” Brock sounded distinctly unimpressed.
“Yeah. He lives in Australia somewhere—I don’t know where. He doesn’t want to know Ryan. He won’t even pay child support.” Erin swallowed. It still hurt to say the words. The authorities had tried to force him to pay, but he moved often and they had trouble keeping tabs on him. She’d long ago stopped expecting miracles.
“Christ. That’s harsh.” Brock’s voice was sharp.
Erin blew out a breath and rested her head back on the wall. “It’s more complicated than it sounds. He told me when I met him that he didn’t want kids. I didn’t think much about it—I just thought it was something young guys say, you know? We’d only been dating six months when I fell pregnant. He still thinks I did it on purpose, out of spite I guess. I didn’t, but that doesn’t matter if he doesn’t believe it.” Hell, why was she blurting all this out? Surely Brock wasn’t interested in her life history?
But she heard the glug of liquid being poured into a glass, and then an exhalation, as if he’d returned to his chair and stretched out to relax. “There are always two sides to every story. I wouldn’t presume to make judgements about your… husband?”
“We never married.”
“Partner, then. But after saying that, I don’t think it says much about him that he’d turn his back on his son, whatever the circumstances—or perceived circumstances—of his conception.”
“Thank you.” His comments warmed her from the inside out. “It’s easy to think it’s my fault that Ryan doesn’t have a visible daddy. It’s nice to hear someone say otherwise.”
“Your ex doesn’t see him at all?”
“Nope. It’s Ryan’s birthday tomorrow—nice to spend it in hospital, eh?—but Jack hasn’t even sent him a present.” She sighed.
Brock fell silent for a moment. Then he said, “What hospital are you in?”
The Perfect Gift: A Christmas Billionaire Sexy Romance (Three Wise Men Book 1) Page 2