by Tina Beckett
Vaguely, she was aware that Greg had returned and that his car was now in motion, but no power under heaven could have wrenched her eyelids apart. Instead, she sat there, her head lolling back and forth on the seat as the vehicle made gentle turns for the next several minutes before stopping.
The clinic. They must have arrived. Time to wake up.
But her muscles felt as floppy as a piece of lettuce that had been frozen and then defrosted. The car pulled forward again for a few seconds, then the purr of the engine cut off. A door opened and closed, but this time no icy gusts of wind blew across her cheeks, just slightly heated air.
Her eyelids finally obeyed her commands to open, her brain struggling to make sense of what she was seeing. They were inside some kind of white enclosure. The clinic didn’t have a parking garage.
Didn’t matter. Maybe Greg would just let her sit here and sleep a while longer. Then her door opened.
No such luck, evidently.
However, instead of nudging her to get her to move, her seat belt unclicked—when had she buckled it?—and something soft and fluffy enveloped her before she was lifted from the car.
Lifted?
Oh, but the girls at the office were going to have a field day if Greg carried her into the clinic. She tried to protest, shifting in his arms, only to have a soft voice shush her, tell her it was okay to sleep for a while.
It was?
Well, she wasn’t going to argue with him. Besides, her lids were already sliding shut again.
A minute later something soft met her back, her shoes came off, and the fluffy object from the car was tucked around her. She could have sworn warm lips pressed against her forehead for a long second but that must be part of the wonderful dream she was having. Whatever it was, she was willing to sink deep into it for a few minutes.
Then she’d rouse herself back to the real world and all of its worries.
Right now there was just her and Greg and this decadent sensation of…of…She struggled to put her finger on it, before settling on the only word that came to mind: peace.
* * *
Greg’s patients were at the clinic, and he was at home. Something unheard of.
But from the moment he’d felt the sheer iciness of Hannah’s hands, he’d known what he was going to do. He asked one of the police officers to see to it that her car made it to his house. The officer had glanced toward Greg’s car, where Hannah was half-asleep, and nodded. Then Greg retrieved her handbag and called Stella, giving her an abbreviated version of the story.
“Poor thing,” the other woman said. “We can cover for you this afternoon. There are only three patients left. Take her home and let her get some sleep.”
Greg was pretty sure Stella was referring to Hannah’s home and not his own, but somehow that was where they wound up.
He didn’t dare stretch out beside her on his bed, and there were no guest bedrooms in his house. His hours precluded having any overnight visitors—female or otherwise. His parents had never asked to stay with him, opting for a nearby hotel room on the one occasion they’d come from Ketchikan to visit.
One visit in ten years.
Damn. He hadn’t been a very good son since his sister had died. It was easy to blame it on the distance between Anchorage and Ketchikan, but how hard was it to pick up a telephone and give them a call? Then again, his father had held a grudge for a very long time after Greg had turned down his offer—maybe he still did. It was something they’d never talked through and resolved. And his mother had been unwilling to take sides. Bethany had been the only one who could see through to Greg’s heart. And now she was gone.
Shaking away those troubling thoughts, he moved back to the situation at hand. What was he going to do about Hannah? He’d allowed her to eat into his office hours in a way he’d never let anyone else do, not even his parents.
It was because of her pregnancy. It had to be.
You don’t even know if the child is yours, Greg.
When does it stop? When you have a patient go into crisis and die because you aren’t there for them—just like Bethany’s doctor had done?
No. He’d vowed to be different. To be someone his patients could call day or night. Just like he’d urged Claire Taylor to do.
He remembered Hannah’s comment about seeing him rush past the chemo room from time to time. Yes, he’d begun peeking in there in recent weeks and greeting his patients when he saw them, but what about before? What about when it had been Hannah sitting in one of those chairs?
He’d been oblivious, just like he’d accused his sister’s doctor of being.
Hell. His thoughts jumped from one thing to the other, but that assurance that he was doing the right thing was no longer in the spot it used to be.
The situation with Hannah had messed with his head, and he wasn’t sure he was ever going to be able to go back to who he was before. Neither was he sure he wanted to.
So what did he want?
He glanced toward the dark hallway leading to his bedroom.
He wanted something he couldn’t possibly have. But that didn’t stop him from wanting it just the same.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE smell of bacon roused her from a blissful dream. One where Greg held their child in his arms and slid beside her on the bed, leaning over to kiss her forehead.
She smiled up at him as she drew her fingers across his cheek and murmured that she loved him even more than…
Bacon?
Her eyes flew open. Yes, she’d just told a man she loved him more than a strip of nitrite-loaded meat. Okay, so it had been in her dream, not in real life.
And she didn’t love him…not more than bacon, not less than bacon. Not at all.
She blinked as the room came into focus. Wait. This wasn’t her bedroom. The beige microfiber blanket wasn’t hers either. She remembered the moose ramming the car, the injured woman inside, the cold and this very blanket being carefully folded around her as she’d been lifted from the car.
Lifted from the car…
Oh, no! She hadn’t gone back to work. And what about their patients?
Had Greg returned to the clinic and finished the workday without her?
Great. He now thought she was less than useless. It had to be all the messed-up hormones that went along with a pregnancy. She was just going to have to push through them. She couldn’t just curl up on a cot at the office whenever the urge hit her.
Turning her head, she looked at the pillow on the other side of the bed. It was still flat across the top. No indentation from a head, and the bedspread hadn’t been pulled back. Greg hadn’t slept here at all.
Maybe it was still today. No, wait, yesterday. She glanced at the clock. Seven…squinting, she noted there was no red glowing dot beside the p.m. symbol, which meant it was morning.
So she’d slept here all night.
And the scent of bacon meant Greg was still at home. He was normally in the office by now, catching up on paperwork.
Except it was Saturday. At least she thought it was. She did the math in her head. Yes, Saturday. She assumed Greg didn’t normally work weekends, although she wouldn’t put anything past the man. He’d certainly gone in that Saturday when Claire had called.
A soft knock sounded at the door, and she realized he’d closed it at some point. “Come in.”
The door opened and her boss appeared in the entrance, his hair damp, a plaid flannel shirt rolled up his forearms. She hadn’t taken him for a flannel kind of guy, but she kind of liked the rugged air it gave him.
“How are you feeling?”
She cleared her throat before answering. “Guilty.”
His brows went up. “Why?”
“Um, I was supposed to be working yesterday, and instead I conked out in your car on the way back. Sorry about that. Did you have to see to the rest of the patients on your own?”
There was a short pause before he responded. “Stella took care of it.”
“Took care of…”
Another wave of guilt washed over her. “You didn’t go back either?”
He took a step inside the room. “There was nothing urgent. I’ll go in for a few hours later today.”
So he did work on weekends. She vaguely remembered him coming into her hospital room the day after her surgery. That had been a Saturday, as well. At least, she thought it was. Her memories of those days were a little suspect as she’d been an emotional wreck.
He had to work, and here she was lounging in his house. No wonder he was trying to wake her up. “Sorry. I’ll get dress—” Okay, so she’d never gotten undressed. And exactly how was she supposed to get home? “Where’s my car?”
“It’s in the driveway.”
That was strange. She remembered him asking about her keys but just, like her surgery, those memories were cloaked in a foggy haze that she couldn’t quite penetrate. “How did it get here?”
“One of the police officers said he’d see to it. He put the keys through the mailbox slot on the front door.”
She sat up. “Have you heard anything about the woman and her baby?”
He smiled and leaned against the doorpost. “You mean the ones currently in my bed or the ones from yesterday?”
Yesterday. So she had slept all afternoon and all night. In Greg’s bed, of all things. “Yesterday.”
“I checked this morning. Mom has a slight concussion, broken collarbone and some bruised ribs. The baby is with his father, who flew back from a business trip to be with them.”
Hannah’s heart tightened. What if something similar happened to her? There would be no husband to come running. Where would her baby go?
Her parents would fly in and take care of the child.
Why did that thought bring her no comfort? “So she’s going to be okay.”
“Yes. They’ll probably keep her for observation one more day then they’ll release her.”
“I’m glad she’s okay.”
Greg moved the rest of the way into the room and sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing a few strands of hair back from her temples. “As for you, let’s try not to bait any more moose traps in the near future, okay?”
“Believe me, if I’d known that big guy was going to come at me, I’d have had second thoughts about getting out of my car.”
“Sure you would.”
Okay, so he had her there. She hadn’t known how badly hurt the other car’s occupants had been. There’s no way she’d have waited around for the moose to decide the vehicle wasn’t worth its trouble. But she also wouldn’t have purposely gone running across its path either. “I wasn’t trying to get myself killed.”
“That’s good.” There was a pause. “I wouldn’t want to have to replace you.”
His eyes held hers, and she tried to decipher the changing emotions she saw in them, but failed. All she knew was that he wasn’t angry, and that fact made her relax. “Admit it. You kind of like having me around.” When his eyes darkened to black, she realized how that had sounded and quickly added, “At the clinic, I mean.”
He didn’t respond for a second or two then his hand withdrew. “Of course.”
A sudden awkward silence fell between them, which she tried to break with the first thing she could think of. “Is that bacon I smell?”
“It is. I’ve also whipped up an omelet. Interested in sharing?”
The words brought back memories of another time they’d shared food. At the clinic. She’d fallen asleep there as well, and disastrous things had happened afterward. Better not to keep sitting here, especially not after the dream she’d had before he’d knocked on the door. “Definitely, if there’s enough.”
He stood and held out a hand. “There’s plenty.”
She let him help her out of bed, the tangle of blankets causing her to careen forward when she tried to get her feet underneath herself. He caught her, a hand at her back holding her against him for a second or two before releasing her again and taking a step back.
“I, ah, need to use your restroom first, if that’s okay,” she said.
“It’s right through there.” He nodded at a door on the other side of the bedroom. “I’ll get the plates ready, so come out when you’re ready. Do you take butter or jam on your toast?”
“Both?” Bad for her, she knew, but something about the taste of warm melty butter mixed with fruit was one she hadn’t been able to give up.
“Both it is. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
Hannah went into the restroom and put her hands on the sink as she stared into the mirror. She must have slept like a rock, because her hair wasn’t sticking up at all angles like it normally did. She’d be glad when it grew out enough to rake back into a ponytail or put up in a clip. For now, she settled with dragging her fingers through it and coaxing it to settle into place. She found a tube of toothpaste in a cup and squirted a dab on her finger, scrubbing her teeth as best she could. She wasn’t about to ask if he had a spare toothbrush in a package somewhere. Not because she wouldn’t love to clean her teeth but because she didn’t want to think of him keeping spare toothbrushes on hand for occasional overnight guests—of the female variety.
She had to admit she didn’t hear a whole lot of rumors about her boss being paired up with women at the hospital, and she knew he wasn’t involved with anyone at the clinic as everyone there was either married or spoken for. But that didn’t mean he didn’t meet people somewhere else.
When would he even have the time, though, with a schedule like his?
Sighing, she finished washing up the best she could before following her nose. She found Greg sliding the second half of a fluffy-looking omelet onto a plate. “I thought you said you didn’t cook.”
He glanced up, his eyes going over her from head to toe. “You’re seeing my entire repertoire. I don’t normally eat anything but breakfast at home.”
“What do you eat when you’re off duty?”
“I manage.”
That sounded suspiciously like wolfing down takeout food night after night.
He set a plastic disposable plate in front of her across the small bar. Strange. Did he not have a set of real dishes? The sink was empty as well—and there was no sign of a dishwasher—so they weren’t all dirty.
Now that she had a moment to look around, she saw that the great room was as sparsely furnished as the bedroom had been. A couch and an easy chair sat across from a large-screen television, which was hung on a wall, but there were no coffee tables or end tables. There was a beige washcloth resting on the hardwood floor beside the recliner, which she could imagine him resting drinks on.
A state-of-the-art treadmill was pushed against the far wall, a handtowel slung over its digital panel. The machine’s incline was set to a painful-looking angle, but that was it—no other furniture except the two barstools they were currently using.
And other than the floor, there were no flat surfaces to set pictures or knick-knacks on. “Did you just move in or something?”
He sat across from her at the bar. “No, I’ve lived here for about five years, why?”
“It’s just…empty.”
Five years. And he had nothing to show for it.
Greg’s glance trailed around the room before he shrugged. “I’m not here that much.”
If she’d had any doubts about him pushing himself to the point of neglect, he’d set them to rest. Her own house was filled with things that made her happy—baskets of soft quilts and afghans beside a comfortable couch. Just right for settling in with a book or a chick flick. Some of her grandmother’s things were sprinkled here and there, and an old Victorian rocking chair sat in a place of honor in her living room.
Her front room drew her in the moment she hit that front door and helped her relax. The first thing she did was kick off her shoes in the entryway—symbolic of leaving her workday behind her—and pad across the deep-pile carpet on the floor.
She didn’t have time for a pet other than three fish in a large terracotta pot on the back patio.
The constant sound of trickling water from the submersible pump was soothing, as were the goldfish—rescued from the kill tank at a local pet store—who came up to greet her, their mouths opening and closing to an internal beat. She liked to imagine them dancing and singing, moving to the tune of the falling water. She’d gotten her little guys soon after her treatments had finished and they’d grown and flourished. Just like her.
Greg’s sterile environment, on the other hand, made her feel lonely, somehow, even though it wasn’t her house.
“Hannah? Are you okay?”
Greg’s voice interrupted her thoughts, and she realized she’d been staring off into space—or, worse, staring at him. “I’m fine. Just feeling slightly out of it still.”
“You had quite a day yesterday.” He forked a bite of omelet into his mouth, and she glanced down at her own plate. Eggs filled with what looked like a creamy mixture of broccoli and cheese, expertly folded and cut in half. Toast with…yep, butter and grape jelly, and four neat slices of bacon.
“Wow, I never eat this much in the morning.”
“It’s probably time you started to.”
She blinked for a second then realized he was talking about her pregnancy. “I guess you’re right. It’s not all about me anymore.”
Greg’s fork faltered on its way back to his mouth, and he set it on his plate. “I guess it’s not,” he murmured.
Something about the way he said it made another wave of loneliness hit her. Not for herself this time but for him. “Sometimes it’s good to be reminded of that.”
If he understood what she was getting at, he ignored it, steering the conversation in another direction instead. “I forgot to ask. Do you want to put a call in to your doctor and have her check you over after what happened yesterday?”
“It’s Saturday.”
“So?”
“I feel fine. Besides, I’m sure she has a life outside work.” As soon as she’d said it, she realized he really didn’t see what the big deal was. Did he assume that all doctors kept the kinds of hours that he did? Surely he knew better.
“It’s her job.”
“Are you serious?” She took a bite of her omelet to stifle the flow of words that wanted to pour out of her mouth.