by Fiona Lowe
No, Mom! Not you, too. All night long she’d watched just about every female guest—from the cute-as-a-button six-year-old flower girl to Mrs. van Dyke, who was ninety-three years young—bat their eyes at the man. And she’d watched Will effortlessly charm them all. Charm everyone except her. With her, he didn’t even try.
“I’m honored to be here, Susie,” Will said, “and it’s delightful to meet you.”
Her mother giggled. “Charming and handsome. Millie, if Will’s the example of how perfect Australian men are, perhaps a trip Down Under is in order.”
Will glanced between her and her mother, looking momentarily perplexed.
Her stomach flipped. Do something. Do it fast. He can’t find out I’m as straight as he is. “Daddy might be a bit put out if you run off, Mom.”
Before her mother could reply, she was saved by the boom-tish of the band’s drummer—their sign it was time to return to the tent for an official part of the evening. Slipping her arm through her mom’s, she said, “Sounds like it’s time for the throwing of the bouquet.”
When they entered the tent, they found everyone gathered around the dance floor—the women at the front and the guys standing behind. Her mom drifted off to join her father, leaving her and Will standing at the back.
Katrina, radiantly beautiful in a strapless A-line lace dress complete with a cathedral train, called out to everyone, “Are you ready?”
Cassidy held up her arms. “I was ready three weddings ago.”
“Practice makes perfect, Cassie,” one of the cowboys said, raising his longneck in her direction.
Will leaned in close to her ear. “You’re not going to hustle for it?”
She badly wanted to hold on to her annoyance with him, but had she been gay, he’d just shown her a sign of solidarity. “There’s no point. Gay marriage isn’t recognized here. Besides,” she said, having some fun, “I’m saving myself for the garter catch.”
He grinned at her, his deep blue eyes twinkling. “Good call.”
Her insides liquefied, and shimmering heat swooped through her from tip to toe, making her knees go weak and leaving her slightly breathless. Noooooo. She wanted to sob. Her head might be telling her she was over her crush, but her body had missed the memo. Right now it was telling Will she was ready, willing and oh so very able.
She knew her pupils would be dilated, her cheeks bright pink, and she could already feel the tingling ache in her breasts as they strained against her bra with her nipples standing to attention. Somehow—but only just—she managed to stop from licking her lips.
Will suddenly slipped off his jacket. “It’s warm in here.”
“Yeah. It is.” She removed her jacket, too, and for the very first time it was a relief that Will thought she was gay. It was beneficial, even, because it effectively hid from him the physical signs of her unwanted but undeniable attraction to him.
Josh counted down, “Five, four, three, two, one,” and Katrina gave her bouquet a pitcher’s toss, sending it sailing over the heads of the leaping and squealing women.
Roses and tulips came barreling straight at Millie like a lethal weapon. If she caught the bouquet, the jokes about her getting married would start, and Will would find out fast she wasn’t gay. If she didn’t catch the flowers, she’d be hit in the face by a pack of sturdy stems and risk a black eye.
A split second before she ducked, Will’s hand shot out, firmly grasping the bouquet and stopping it from slamming into her. The men laughed. The women sighed.
Will held it aloft like a trophy. “Hey, Katrina, how about you throw it again?”
“No, Will,” the bride said smiling at him. “It clearly chose you, and you have to keep it. Looks like you’re next to get married.”
The women sighed again.
“I’d have preferred the garter,” he said laconically.
“No flirting with my wife, thank you very much,” Josh said good-naturedly, taking Katrina by the hand. “Thanks, everyone. It’s been a great night.”
With a big wave, they ran from the tent and out to Josh’s car, which Beau and Katrina’s younger brother, Dillon, had decorated with cans and a Just Married sign.
Everyone followed, clustering around the car and waving good-bye. All the while, the band kept playing, and as Josh and Katrina drove across the pasture, some of the crowd returned to the dance floor while others drifted away, heading home for the night. When Millie walked back into the tent, women once again surrounded Will. His handsome face was impassive, but when he caught her gaze, it was the look in his eyes that struck her.
Did he need rescuing?
She shook away the crazy thought. Will Bartlett no more needed rescuing than she needed a hole in the head.
“Hey, Millie.”
She swung around to see Megan carrying a tray. “Did you get some wedding cake? Shannon made it and it’s to die for.”
Millie knew exactly how great a cook Beau’s wife was, having eaten lunch at the Big Foot diner most workdays last year. “What sort of cake is it?”
“Rich vanilla frosted with chocolate ganache.” Megan smiled. “You know you want it.”
Dex had been remarkably quiet tonight, which meant that she’d managed the juggle of bolusing insulin versus food intake without any unexpected rises or falls. It was no mean feat at a function like this.
Don’t risk it.
She no longer took stupid risks, and although eating a piece of the cake wasn’t stupid, it wasn’t totally wise, either. But she could handle it, and after everything that had gone down tonight, she needed cake. And chocolate. “It sounds perfect.”
Chapter 3
“Thanks for helping out, Millie,” Dillon said as he tied the last trash bag and dropped it on top of the pile of post-wedding debris.
“I was happy to help.” She’d stayed back to give the McCades some assistance packing up, because after eating that decadently rich and wonderful cake so late in the evening, there’d been no point going home to bed.
She wasn’t going to get much sleep, because Dex would be beeping at her on and off all through the night as she tried to stabilize her blood sugar. She already had the heavy feeling that came with a high reading—lead weight limbs and a sensation she was hauling herself through chest-height snowdrifts. Plus she was thirsty as hell and needing to pee every thirty minutes.
Told you that cake wasn’t worth it.
Shut up! It was seriously worth it. The ganache was as close to an orgasmic experience as she’d come in a very long time.
“You coming to the barn?” Dillon asked. “Megan’s planned an awesome after-party.”
“Thanks for the invitation, Dillon, but it’s time for me to call it a night.”
“You sure?” Dillon was looking at her as if he didn’t believe what he was hearing. “Legend has it that at college you were the queen of the after-party and always the last to leave.”
And she had been until she’d landed up in the hospital scaring her family and frightening herself. She smiled. “I’m handing over my crown to Megan.”
“Drive safe, then.”
“Will do. Good night, Dillon.”
“Night.” He gave her a wave before disappearing into the dark.
She glanced around the now empty tent and wondered at the deconstruction of what had been, only an hour before, a wedding wonderland. The band had packed up and driven away, all the guests were gone, the tables and chairs were neatly stacked and the white tablecloths stuffed into laundry bags ready for collection tomorrow. Megan and her father, Kirk, had carried the wedding presents to the ranch house, and all that was left of a great wedding reception were trash bags, one abandoned high-heeled strappy sandal, a pretty evening purse and a black suit jacket.
She took a closer look. A suit jacket with a boutonniere that matched hers.
As Josh had left the wedding wearing his jacket, this had to be Will’s. She hadn’t seen him since he’d been talking with Brittany, one of Megan’s friends. Actually, talking was a stretch�
�it had been full-on flirting. Brittany’s back had been pressed up against one of the marquee supports, and she’d been gazing up at him. Will’s left arm had been raised and his hand flat on the support above her head. With his collar unbuttoned and bow tie untied and draped around his neck, he’d been leaning in and Brittany had been laughing at whatever he was saying. The next time she’d looked for him, he’d been nowhere to be seen and neither had Brittany.
Apparently they’d been so enthusiastic to go someplace more private, Will had left his jacket behind. As she picked it up, she heard a jangle and checked the inside pocket. Car keys and his wallet. He wouldn’t have gotten far without either of those things. Still holding the jacket, she walked outside, wondering if he’d gone to the barn party. As she walked between the back of the big tent and the food service area, she saw a silhouette of a man standing yet leaning, his forehead resting against the corner metal upright of the tent. Everything from his height to the shape of his body left her in no doubt as to his identity.
Was he sick? Drunk? She marched over to him. “Will, are you okay?”
He didn’t move. She walked up to him, reached out and touched his forearm. His warmth radiated through the soft cotton of his shirt, tickling her fingertips. It felt so good—he felt so good—and her heart rate instantly kicked up.
Don’t do this. Don’t think hot and hard solid forearm. Think flexor carpi radialis, extensor digitorum muscle—
Sensational idea! Use him as an anatomy lesson. I bet his rectus abdominis muscles are incredible.
The image of what his abs might look like slammed her brain, and she swallowed against a dizzy rush of arousal. Okay, so maybe using Latin names wasn’t such a great idea after all.
Coming out of her fog of lust, she realized he still hadn’t moved. This time she gave his arm a shake. “Will?”
His only response was a gentle snore. She couldn’t believe it—he’d literally fallen asleep on his feet.
“Will, wake up. The wedding’s over. Time to go home.”
Still, he didn’t stir. He’d fallen asleep at the table earlier, and now he’d done it again. She knew about fatigue—she’d worked long hours and back-to-back shifts, and sometimes she’d been so tired she couldn’t see straight—but she’d never fallen asleep standing up. She tried again, giving his hand an extra hard shake. Nothing. The poor guy must be zonked, because he was totally out. She knew she couldn’t leave him here, but moving him on her own would be tricky. If only she had her phone with her, she could call someone for help.
Use his phone. Pleased with her idea, she searched his jacket again, but his phone wasn’t there, which meant it was somewhere on his person. As formal shirts didn’t have pockets, that left his pants. Just slide your hand into his trouser pockets. The thought thrilled her way more than it should, because the reality was that touching up an unconscious guy was unconscionable. If a man did the same thing to a woman, he’d be accused of sexual assault.
Think of him in terms of a patient. Pat his pockets and find his cell phone. Slide hand in, slide hand out. Do it fast.
Flexing her fingers, she was just about to pat down his left pocket when Dex started beeping incessantly, telling her that her blood sugar was skyrocketing.
Will’s head shot up, his eyes glazed. “Emergency packs! Let’s go.”
“Ah, Will, it’s me, Millie, and—”
He grabbed her arm and started running. “We have to get to the airport.”
Okay then. Now she had six feet, one inch and one hundred eighty pounds of walking, talking, sleepwalking Will, who obviously thought Dex was his emergency pager and that they were needed at a MontMedAir emergency. As his hand was firmly gripping her arm, she had no choice but to jog along beside him.
Think! She ran through her options. Waking up a sleepwalker wasn’t dangerous, but it wasn’t pleasant for the victim because it left them disoriented and unpredictable. Also, it wasn’t always possible to wake them, as she’d just learned. That left sticking with him to make sure he didn’t injure himself.
“The vehicle’s this way,” she said, pushing him in the direction of her car. At least if she got him inside the car, he’d be safer than running around a dark pasture. He hauled open the passenger side door and got in, sticking his hands out in front of him as if seeking the steering wheel. She remembered that Australians drove on the left-hand side of the road, and in his sleepwalking state he’d reverted to what he was most used to.
She turned on the ignition. “I’ll drive, Will.”
His unfocused eyes moved right then left, and he slammed his hand on the dash. “Chopper’s waiting. Go.”
She eased her car down the rutted ranch road, bumping and bouncing until they reached the relatively smooth blacktop of the highway. As she turned right, she noticed that Will’s head had fallen back against the headrest and his eyes were closed.
With no clue where he’d checked in to stay the night in Bear Paw, and not wanting to risk him rushing into the lobbies of the two motels in town yelling, Incoming, she decided the safest thing to do was drive home. She was grateful the guesthouse had a rear entrance, because explaining to her folks that she had Will in the car would only get their hopes up.
She still hadn’t quite recovered from the excruciating conversation with her mom three years ago when Susie had sat her down with a glass of wine in her hand. Things had gone downhill from there, fast. Susie had told her she wasn’t a prude and she understood that at twenty-three, Millie was an adult with sexual needs just like the next woman. She wanted Millie to know that if she ever wanted to bring a guy back to the guesthouse, she and her father would be okay with it.
Millie had died a thousand deaths on the spot and had mumbled something like, Good to know, and had immediately tried to change the subject. Fast. Very fast. Only Susie, who was by then enjoying her second glass of wine, had hinted that since Millie and Evan had moved out, she and her father’s sex life had improved tremendously.
The temptation to break her relative sobriety that night, wrench the bottle of wine off of her mother and down the contents fast had burned hot and strong. One part of her appreciated her parents’ open-mindedness, but another part knew it wouldn’t be that simple. When her mom said a guy, she really meant a keeper. She did not mean some random guy she might hook up with for occasional sex. On the infrequent occasions Millie did have sex, she made sure it always happened out of town, because Millie had never met a keeper, and Will was certainly not one. A keeper would swim shark-infested waters for her. A keeper wouldn’t assume she was gay.
She killed the engine and dropped her head onto the steering wheel with a sigh. If her mother ever discovered Will thought she was gay, she knew she’d be taken directly to Seattle without passing go and be forced to buy a closet’s worth of dresses. Sitting back, she checked Dex. Her blood glucose was still too high, which bothered her because she’d been confident she’d already given herself plenty of insulin to deal with the cake. If she gave herself more, she risked crashing, and yet the double arrows continued to point ominously upward, demanding she give herself more.
As she pressed the buttons to bolus insulin, Will, who’d been breathing deeply and steadily beside her for the last twenty minutes, sat bolt upright.
“It’s okay, Will. We’re here. We’re at—” But he was already out of the car before she could say, “my place.”
She shoved her pump in her bra and jumped out, too, running after him, worried he was going to run out onto the road, but he was heading toward her porch like a moth drawn to the light, bending low as if he was approaching a helicopter. “Will, wait.”
He didn’t. He opened her unlocked door and disappeared inside. She found him crawling on his hands and knees. “Will, what are you doing?”
“Keep low. We’re almost there.”
Where? She wished he’d wake up, but it seemed that was increasingly unlikely. Hoping to direct some of the play, she got down on all fours so she was at his level. “This way.
” She led him toward the bedroom, wondering how she could stop what was clearly, for him, a nightmare. She climbed onto the bed and crossed her fingers. “Here.”
Will immediately kneeled on the bed, running his hands up and down her long bolster pillow. “Twenty-five-year-old male, explosion victim, burns to seventy percent of his body, fractured pelvis, stridor and pulse-ox eighty-two.”
That was a pretty low pulse-ox, making her pillow critical. Did she join in or not say anything? She had no clue, so she decided to see if treating it like an ER situation would work. “One hundred percent oxygen by non-rebreather mask?”
“No, the risk of laryngeal swelling’s too high. Always think ABC. Airways, breathing, circulation. I need to tube him and then insert a central line.”
She remembered her burns’ lectures. “Putting up lactated Ringer’s solution.”
“Call the burns unit.”
Crazily, her heart hammered fast, as if this was a real medical emergency. Dex beeped again and she glanced at the screen. Yay! Her blood sugar was finally starting to fall.
“Shit, he’s crashing.” Will’s hands started rhythmically compressing the pillow, giving it CPR. “Push epi and atropine.”
Millie silenced Dex and set it to vibrate, realizing that every time Dex went off, it seemed to set off Will.
“Come on. Stay with me.” Will’s arms pumped up and down, furiously willing the pillow to live. “Asystole. Damn it, no!”
She put her hand over his, hoping he’d stop now. “It’s time to call it, Will.”
As his hands gradually stilled, a long, slow sigh shuddered out of him. “Time of death, 3:05.”
On one level, she knew this wasn’t real, but on another it was very real to him. No one found it easy to lose a patient, and she had a strong urge to try and comfort him. “He was in really bad shape, Will. You did everything you could.”
“It sucks. I hate nights like this.” He ran his hand through his hair, sighing again. “And I’m so bloody tired . . .”
This was her cue. “Lie down and sleep.”
“Can’t. I’m on call.”