Mr. Nice Guy (Pierce Brothers Book 1)

by Belinda Williams

  The two waiters looked between each other, their faces white.

  The one who had already spoken turned back to the woman. ‘I’m sorry. We don’t know how to do that.’

  ‘Shit,’ Chelsea said under her breath.

  The woman cast a desperate gaze around the other diners, who were now all staring at them. ‘Please! Anybody? It’s his heart. It must be his heart. He has a stent, but . . .’ The woman looked down at her husband, her lower lip trembling in fear. The man had gone still.

  Chelsea turned back to Darren. ‘Go and help them.’

  Darren’s jaw dropped open and he turned pale. ‘Who? Me?’

  ‘Yes, you,’ Chelsea shot back, not bothering to hide her annoyance. ‘You own a gym. You’re trained in First Aid.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’ve never had to use it before.’

  Chelsea didn’t bother to censor herself this time. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. You’re useless.’

  She stood up and tossed her napkin on the table, then turned and strode over to the couple.

  ‘I know CPR,’ Chelsea told the woman.

  ‘Oh, thank you. Thank you. Yes, please. Please do something.’ The woman grabbed her arm, her fingernails digging into Chelsea’s skin.

  Chelsea wasn’t a doctor or a paramedic, but she understood that the man’s condition was serious. He was lying on his side on the floor, unconscious. Whether it was a heart attack or otherwise, she needed to make sure he was still breathing.

  Chelsea turned to a waiter. ‘Get me your First Aid kit. Now. I may need a face shield if I have to do CPR. And you’—she pointed to the other one, who was still standing frozen to the spot in shock—‘have you called the ambulance?’

  Chelsea wasn’t taking any chances. The man could be unconscious for any variety of reasons—his heart, or even a stroke—and the paramedics were the best ones to help deal with the situation.

  The waiters both ran off, and Chelsea kicked her heels off so she could crouch down on the floor next to the man. She glanced up at the woman. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Martin.’ The woman put a hand to her heart like she couldn’t bear to see him like that, and Chelsea’s own heart clenched.

  Chelsea leaned in and listened for any sign that Martin might be breathing. The restaurant was deadly quiet when only moments ago it had been full of diners chatting and laughing. Chelsea forced herself to focus and listen intently.

  Nothing.

  Shit.

  She felt for a pulse on Martin’s wrist. Again, nothing.

  A waiter skidded to a halt beside Chelsea. ‘Here.’

  Chelsea took the First Aid kit off him gratefully and zipped it open. She found a face shield and ripped open the plastic packaging.

  Oh boy. She’d never actually had to perform CPR for real before, but she’d done plenty of training to keep her skills up-to-date for her job working with children. Chelsea leaned in close again and opened the man’s mouth with her fingers to check for any blockages. She tried not to shudder and reminded herself about the masses of poo, saliva and snot she’d dealt with over the years as her fingers moved around the stranger’s mouth.

  When she’d confirmed nothing was blocking his airway, she extracted her fingers and wiped them on her dress.

  ‘Help me roll him onto his back,’ Chelsea told the waiter, and together they shifted the man so he was lying flat on his back. Chelsea then put the shield over the man’s mouth.

  Here goes nothing. Or everything.

  Chelsea began chest compressions like she’d been taught. She counted under her breath quietly.

  One. Two. Three. Four.

  When she reached thirty, she bent over the man and breathed into his mouth twice. She was relieved to see his chest rise and fall as she did so, because that meant no blockages obstructing his lungs at least.

  She repeated the process. Again. Then again.

  ‘Why isn’t he breathing?’ the woman sobbed.

  Chelsea had no idea, and she swallowed the panic she felt rising with every compression. Instead she said, ‘The ambulance will be here soon. They’ll know what to do.’

  She bent over Martin again to give him two more breaths.

  Keeping up the compressions was hard work, but Chelsea didn’t stop. She had to keep going. She was essentially breathing for him right now and if she stopped . . .

  ‘You’re doing amazing,’ Darren told her.

  Chelsea hadn’t noticed that he’d come to stand beside them. She ignored him.

  After a few more minutes, they heard the sound of sirens and Chelsea was close to sobbing in both relief and exhaustion. She kept up the compressions and breathing until two paramedics clad in navy blue uniforms carrying equipment strode in. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a waiter race over to them and usher them over.

  A female paramedic crouched down beside her. ‘You’re doing a fantastic job, but we can take it from here.’

  Chelsea collapsed back on her heels, tired and grateful.

  ‘Chelsea.’

  She looked up, stunned at the sound of a familiar voice.

  ‘Tom,’ she whispered.

  Tom nodded to the man the female paramedic was now tending to. ‘You know this guy?’

  ‘What?’ She shook her head. ‘No. No, I don’t. I just . . . they just . . .’ She gestured to the woman. ‘They needed help.’

  Tom nodded, his green eyes kind, but his expression serious. ‘You did good. Here.’

  He took her by the elbow and helped her up, guiding her over to a nearby chair so she could sit down. ‘Sit and recover.’

  Chelsea nodded and collapsed onto the chair in relief. Tom patted her on the shoulder and glanced past her. She thought she saw his eyes harden, but then he turned away to join his co-worker.

  ‘Wow, Chelsea. That was amazing,’ Darren said loudly from behind her, insensitively ignoring the fact there was still a man on the floor potentially dead or dying.

  Oh, God. Darren. She’d forgotten about Darren. Tom was here, and she’d been caught having dinner with Darren.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Tom pushed Chelsea’s presence out of his mind while he focused on the patient. The man, Martin, had suffered from a cardiac arrest, and Chelsea had kept him breathing until they’d arrived. He and his co-worker, Carla, took over the CPR and worked quickly to begin ECG rhythm analysis and restart Martin’s heart using a defibrillator. Fortunately, the patient only required a single shock, and while watching carefully for any further signs of arrest, they were able to run an IV line and administer adrenaline.

  Throughout all of this, Tom couldn’t help but feel proud of Chelsea, who had done amazingly well. Not that Tom was surprised. He already knew she was way more capable than she gave herself credit for. Further proving his point, she’d lasted about thirty seconds sitting on the chair. She was now busy comforting Martin’s partner, Margaret, who was unsurprisingly an emotional mess.

  ‘I kept telling him to go back to the doctor for his annual check-up, but he was always putting it off. You know how men are, thinking they’re invincible,’ Margaret told Chelsea.

  Margaret hovered near the stretcher that Tom and Carla were getting ready to move into the back of the ambulance. Martin was alive but groggy, and the sooner they could get the man to the hospital, the better.

  ‘There’s no way you could have known this would happen,’ Chelsea said from behind her.

  ‘But he’s got a stent! He should know better! I should have forced him to go.’

  Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Chelsea put a reassuring hand on Margaret’s shoulder. ‘And when have men ever listened to anything we say?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you have a point. They’re hopeless.’ Margaret observed her husband, her lower lip trembling. She sniffed. ‘We were supposed to be leaving for our annual cruise with friends next week.’

  ‘Well, you definitely can’t let him live this one down, then,’ Chelsea said, lingering further back so she wasn’t in the way. ‘At
least you’ll be the talk of your friends.’

  Margaret managed a watery smile. ‘Yes, we will, won’t we? Oh, thank God he’s alright. I’m so thankful to you and the paramedics, I don’t know what I would have done otherwise.’

  ‘I did what anyone would do in the situation,’ she said, then reached over to give the woman an unexpected hug, her touchy-feely tendencies well-placed on this particular occasion. Margaret clung to Chelsea like she was a life jacket in a stormy sea. Chelsea watched and waited until they’d lifted the stretcher into the ambulance before letting go.

  ‘All part of the service,’ Tom told Margaret and gestured inside the ambulance. ‘Your chariot awaits.’ They weren’t out of the woods yet and needed to get Martin to the hospital as soon as possible. He could still arrest again, but it wouldn’t help Margaret to know that right now.

  Margaret nodded, brushing a tear away. She let Carla help her step inside.

  ‘You say that,’ Margaret told Chelsea while she sat down. ‘But I didn’t know what to do. The waiters didn’t either. Nobody did. I’ll be eternally grateful for your help today, Chelsea, and I know Martin will be too. How did you know CPR? Are you a nurse, perhaps?’

  The sides of Chelsea’s mouth twitched. ‘No. I look after thirty preschoolers. You have to be prepared for anything.’

  ‘Oh, my. Yes, I imagine you do. And I imagine their parents are glad they’re in very safe hands with you.’

  Tom nodded at Carla.

  ‘We good?’ Carla asked from the rear doors of the ambulance. ‘Thanks for all your hard work, Chelsea,’ she added.

  Chelsea held up a hand to wave goodbye, and Tom noticed she was avoiding his eyes. He caught sight of Darren hovering at the entrance to the restaurant looking out of place and over-pumped like Tom had imagined he would be.

  Tom nodded and jumped out to close the doors. He’d swap places with Carla, who would ride in the back of the ambulance with Martin and Margaret while he drove. He double-checked the rear doors were latched securely and, without glancing back, strode to the driver’s side of the van. There was no time to worry about Chelsea and douchebag Darren.

  Besides, he wasn’t Chelsea’s keeper. If she wanted to be here with Darren tonight, that was her prerogative. It was most likely to discuss the money he owed her, anyway.

  Tom started the engine and secured his belt, checking one last time that everyone was all right in the back. Then, as he always did, Tom checked both of his side mirrors and the rear-view mirror before setting off.

  His breath caught in his throat.

  He could see Chelsea standing facing Darren outside the front of the restaurant in the rear-view mirror. He didn’t have time for his gaze to linger, but he saw enough. Darren’s big palms resting on Chelsea’s shoulders. Chelsea looking up at him. The dim lighting meant that he hadn’t been able to make out her face, but his own face twisted into an expression of distaste in the reflection.

  The glance only lasted a split second, because that was all he had time for. Tom shook himself and released the handbrake. Against his better judgement, or maybe because of it, his gaze gravitated towards the mirror again.

  His hand tightened on the handbrake in something approaching a death grip. Darren’s hands were no longer on Chelsea’s shoulders. They were cradling either side of her face and he was leaning in to kiss her.

  Tom forced himself to look away. He flicked on the siren with the hand that wasn’t clenching the handbrake. He hoped the piercing wail penetrated through Darren’s thick skull and distracted him from what he was about to do, but Tom didn’t stick around to find out.

  He revved the engine and set off for the hospital, jabbing the horn more than was strictly necessary when cars weren’t quick enough to get out of the way. He didn’t speed unnecessarily. He never did. Paramedics were trained to drive efficiently but carefully. The horn didn’t make him feel any better, though. Not one damn bit.

  Chelsea used the interruption of the siren to step away from Darren before he had the chance to lock lips with her. Why had she never noticed how intrusive he was before? Always trying to get in her personal space without asking her permission and just assuming that she wanted him to touch her.

  Darren caught her by the arm as she stepped away and attempted to tug her back towards him, but Chelsea remained firmly where she was.

  ‘Hey. What’s the problem?’ he asked. ‘You did amazing just now. I thought you deserved a kiss.’

  Chelsea crossed her arms. ‘How about you repay the money you owe me and we’ll call it even?’

  Darren’s expression darkened. ‘Geez. If it means that much to you, fine, I’ll repay you.’

  ‘When?’ Chelsea persisted. She wasn’t quite sure when she’d found the courage to be so forthright. She suspected it had something to do with the adrenaline associated with keeping a man alive, which she still needed to process.

  ‘Next week?’

  ‘Good. Early next week. On Monday.’

  Darren had the audacity to look hurt again, which was somewhat comical given his usual tough guy appearance. ‘OK. Can we talk about something else now?’ he suggested.

  Like you, Chelsea almost said, but didn’t. She was learning too late that it was his favourite topic of discussion. ‘You know, Darren, after that ordeal, I’ve kind of lost my appetite.’

  He frowned, his dark eyebrows looking like a grumpy caterpillar. Or at least what Chelsea imagined a grumpy caterpillar would look like.

  ‘Seriously?’ he said. ‘I’m starving.’

  Chelsea resisted rolling her eyes and tried to sound sympathetic. ‘I’m sorry. I just really couldn’t eat anything right now. I hope you understand.’

  He sighed. ‘I guess I do. I suppose if you don’t feel like eating, we could head back to yours . . .’

  Oh, no. Not a chance. Chelsea shook her head, feigning distress, and placed a hand on the wall like she needed to steady herself. ‘You know, I think I really just need to go home and be by myself. I’m starting to feel a bit shaky after everything. It could be shock.’

  Darren swallowed, and Chelsea knew her statement had hit its intended mark. Despite his outward tough guy appearance, Darren wasn’t a take charge type of guy, and didn’t know what to do with a woman in distress. Or, as it turned out, when anyone was in distress.

  ‘How about I take you home?’ he offered. ‘I’ll grab something to eat after I drop you off.’

  Such a gentleman. At least he’d offered a lift, although she was fully prepared to Uber it out of here if she had to.

  ‘I’d really appreciate that. Sorry,’ she said again. ‘I really do feel a bit weird after the whole thing.’

  This time Chelsea let him take her by the arm. They had a brief chat with the waiter to say they no longer required their table. The staff didn’t put up a fuss about losing the booking. It was a shame, because after Chelsea’s efforts this evening, she suspected they would have received dinner on the house.

  While she’d put the damsel in distress act on for his benefit, she hadn’t been completely lying. She did want to be alone so she could come to terms with what had happened. Including Tom’s unexpected appearance. It had been so strange seeing him in work mode. She’d seen him in his uniform more times than she could remember, but this was different. He’d been so calm and so in control—not that she’d expected anything less. His warm and amicable nature shone through, but with an added air of proficiency.

  Seeing him tonight confirmed what she was already starting to realise, which was that she was over guys like Darren. All of them. She was over their egos, their unreliableness, their selfishness, their pigheadedness, their games, their lying. All of it.

  She wanted a nice guy. But not just any nice guy.

  She wanted Tom.

  And she intended to be waiting for him when he got home so that she could talk to him and reassure him about her reason for being out with Darren tonight. At least Tom hadn’t seen Darren try to get all handsy with her. He’d been too
busy.

  Thank God.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  It was close to midnight by the time Tom arrived home, and Chelsea was dozing on the lounge. She bolted upright the second she heard the door unlatch, her heart hammering in her chest like she’d just been asked to perform CPR again.

  She stood as he came inside.

  ‘Hey,’ she called out.

  ‘Hey. What are you still doing up? You must be exhausted.’ Tom headed to the kitchen area to unpack his bag.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep,’ she said. Which was true. ‘How’s Martin?’

  Tom glanced over at her. He had dark circles, but his green eyes were alert and unusually intense. Maybe he was still wired from his shift.

  ‘Doing well. He’ll be having bypass surgery shortly, but the outlook appears good.’

  Chelsea blew out a long breath and came to stand opposite him at the bench. ‘Wow. That’s good, I guess. I’m so glad. Margaret must be relieved.’

  ‘She’s a trooper.’ He bent to pack some items in the dishwasher. ‘You did good, Chelsea. Real good. He wouldn’t have survived if you hadn’t done what you did.’

  ‘Oh.’ She shrugged and sort of waved a hand at him at the same time. ‘I’m sure you guys would have had it in hand when you got there.’

  ‘He would have been dead when we got there if no one had performed CPR.’

  Chelsea blinked. ‘Truly?’

  ‘Truly, Chels. You kept him alive until we arrived.’ Some of the intensity in his gaze softened when he looked at her.

  Chelsea shrugged again. ‘Wow. I mean, I just did what needed doing. I didn’t have time to think. I couldn’t really remember everything they told us about heart attacks at our First Aid training because the risk in kids is low compared to say choking or anaphylaxis. I just knew it would be better for someone to do CPR than not.’

  ‘Much better. And Martin had a cardiac arrest, not a heart attack, for future reference. Heart attacks usually present as intense chest pain with the patient conscious.’