Читать книгу One Night That Changed Everything - Tina Beckett - Страница 8

THANK you for saying my name.

Greg rolled his eyes and scrubbed a hand across his head as he wrote up notes from his last patient of the day. What kind of lame comment was that?

He refused to admit he’d waited with bated breath, wondering if his physician’s assistant would rise to the subtle challenge.

She had, which had shocked him. At first.

But hearing his name uttered in those husky tones had washed away his surprise and done a number on his gut. He’d been hounding her to adopt the informality of the rest of the staff for months now, but she’d steadfastly refused.

Until today.

And now he wondered if the policy he’d instituted hadn’t been the most idiotic idea known to man.

She just felt sorry for you, that’s all.

He slammed the folder shut, hoping to God she’d already left for the day. Unlike the first-name-basis rule, one of his smarter decisions had been to request that the staff leave once they’d finished inputting the last patient of the day, with the exception of his nurse. He might work long hours, but that didn’t mean he should expect them to as well. Most of them had families to go home to.

Except Hannah.

He could still remember her gripping his neck, the softly whispered “Thank you” against his skin when her last set of test results had come back. And, like a fool, he’d returned her embrace … had—

Damn it. Why couldn’t he get her out of his head today?

Maybe because she’d rarely given in once she’d made her mind up about something. Like not leaving his office this morning, until she’d watched him take a few sips of his coffee. He’d learned the hard way not to go head to head with her.

Her determination to make the most out of life had struck him even when he’d been her oncologist. It was still there now that he was her boss.

She hadn’t been able to make the transition from patient to employee as well as some of his other staff had.

And yet that “Greg” had seemed to slip between her lips effortlessly, as if she’d said it to herself hundreds of times before.

That thought made not only his collar tighten but other, more dangerous parts.

As her mouth had formed the word his thoughts had strayed, along with his eyes.

The pink color rushing to her face had told him she’d realized the exact second his gaze had touched her lips. Paused there.

He shook his head. What was wrong with him? He still had work to do and wanted to run by the hospital before it was too late to check on his patients.

Mrs. Brookstone’s case had weighed on his heart like a rock all day. The last time he’d seen her, three of her grandchildren had crowded around her hospital bed, looking up at him with such hope. She’d had a pair of knitting needles balanced in her hands, in the process of making yet another hat for one of his patients.

But the news he’d brought had been anything but good.

Life was fragile. As he’d learned from experience. When Hannah had stood there in his office, all he’d wanted to do was pull her into his arms and relive the warmth of her breath washing across his cheek, the steady beat of her heart.

He’d resisted the impulse. Thank God.

Tucking a few files into his attaché case, he slung the strap over his shoulder and headed out, locking his office behind him. When he got to the closed door of the reception area, a strange blend of scents hit his nostrils. Garlic. Tomato sauce. It smelled like … lasagna.

What the …?

Someone must have brought pasta from home and heated it in the microwave at lunchtime.

His stomach gurgled in sad protest, and he realized he hadn’t eaten anything other than the ham sandwich that had been mysteriously deposited on his desk at lunchtime.

Maybe he’d swing by the hospital cafeteria after making his rounds. He had nothing at home, other than the bacon and eggs he’d bought a couple of days ago. And neither of those sounded very appetizing right now. Especially with his nose still twitching in anticipation.

Pushing through the door, he blinked at the quartet of aluminum containers lining the reception desk. And the lights were still on.

“I was just about to come and get you.” The voice came from his left. He didn’t have to look to know who it belonged to. Hannah.

He turned. Sure enough, there she was, her printed work smock gone and in its place a soft green blouse, cinched at the waist with a belt. The deep V-neckline drew his eyes down. He forced his gaze to stay above her collarbone, which was not quite as prominent as it had been during her treatments a year ago. That was a good sign. She was putting on some of the weight she’d lost. There were now curves that …

Clearing his throat, he met her gaze, noting the pink tinge from earlier was back in her cheeks. The color contrasted with her hair, the deep mahogany locks still fairly short, even after a year’s regrowth. He liked the choppy style she’d adopted. It matched her personality. “I thought you’d left a while ago.” He motioned toward the desk. “What’s all this?”

“I figured you wouldn’t stop to eat before going to the hospital, so I ordered takeout. Manicotti.”

Huh. So his nose hadn’t been too far off the mark. “I don’t pay you to babysit me.”

Her teeth came down on her lip, making him regret the words almost as soon as they’d left his mouth.

“I was trying to help. You work too hard.”

One shoulder went up in irritation. “I think we’ve already covered this territory. I’m not married. No kids. So I don’t think it’s anyone’s business how many hours I put in.”

“Your patients count on you.” Her voice was soft. Hesitant. And he had no idea what she meant. His patients were what motivated him to work so hard. Along with his sister’s faith in him.

“I’m trying to make sure they have reason to.”

She took a step closer. “No, I don’t mean they need you to work harder. They count on you staying healthy enough to make good decisions.”

Good decisions. A thread of anger unfurled inside his chest. He didn’t need this today. Especially after Mrs. Brookstone. “I didn’t hear you complaining when I treated you.”

“No. But I didn’t know what your office hours looked like back then.” Her gaze went to the desk, and she picked her handbag up from a nearby chair and hitched it on her shoulder. “I didn’t stay to argue with you. I just wanted to make sure you had a decent meal for once. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Wait.” He put a hand on her arm, the shirt just as soft and silky as it appeared. He let go once she looked up at him. She’d said she was trying to help, and all he’d done was gripe and complain. “At least stay and eat with me. It’ll be good to have a conversation that doesn’t revolve around malignancies and treatment options.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think … There’s only one plate.”

“Then we’ll improvise.” Why was he insisting? Because her thoughtfulness had touched him? Because the perks of not having anyone waiting for him at home came with a hefty—and lonely—price tag?

He had no idea, but he knew he wanted some company. He didn’t want to sit here by himself and dwell on his patients. What he’d said was true. There were times he craved conversation that had nothing to do with his job or his struggles—something his sister had intuitively known. But she wasn’t here to make him smile anymore.

“Okay. Wait here.”

The ease at which she’d given in surprised him almost as much as it had earlier. He smiled. He noticed she hadn’t once said his name again, though.

She would before the meal was through. He’d see to it.

Punching the buzzer that unlocked the back area, she dragged a chair over to the door and propped it open, then disappeared for a few minutes. When she came back, she was holding a pink emesis basin.

“You’re kidding.”

She shrugged. “It’s clean. I’ve eaten chili out one of these more than once.”

Greg’s lip curled half in disgust, half in amusement. “Have you ever thought of bringing in a package of paper plates and stashing them somewhere?”

“Yep, but I never got around to it. You said to improvise.” Her head tilted, a quick smile forming. “This is me, improvising.”

Okay, she had him there.

“And silverware? Are we supposed to share?” The thought made something heat in his chest.

She pulled a clear plastic package out from behind the desk. “Nope, the girls always keep their leftover plastic ware in case of an emergency.”

What kind of emergency, other than eating, required sets of plastic knives and forks? He didn’t think he wanted to know. “I guess we’re all set, then.”

Greg helped her dish out the food, noting she took the emesis basin for herself and gave him the plate and silverware provided by the restaurant. Besides the manicotti, there were two kinds of sauce, white and red, as well as a Caesar salad and garlic rolls. She’d expected him to eat all this himself?

“I see I owe you some money.”

She shook her head, spooning white sauce over her own portion. “I took money out of the petty-cash drawer.”

His brows went up. “We keep that much in there?”

“Fifty bucks.” She dropped the spoon back into the container. “But this pretty much cleaned it out.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent that much money on a meal for himself. The warmth in his chest grew, bringing with it the uncomfortable awareness that he was in a deserted medical building with a woman he couldn’t begin to understand. One he found dangerously attractive.

She was also one of his employees. Asking her to stay and eat with him had been a big mistake. Huge!

But he couldn’t very well ask her to leave now.

So he sat on one of the brown leatherette chairs in the waiting room next to her, balancing a flimsy plate across his knees.

Hannah, on the other hand, looked perfectly at home, cutting into her manicotti with a plastic fork and popping a piece into her mouth. “Mmm.” Her lids came down for a brief second as she seemed to savor the food.

He swallowed, despite the fact that he had nothing in his mouth other than the lump that was currently stuck in his throat.

Incredibly long lashes swept back up, and green eyes regarded him. “Aren’t you going to taste it?”

The only thing he wanted to taste were her lips.

Ah, hell.

He forked up a big bite and shoved it past his teeth, dumping the food onto his tongue before he could do or say anything stupid. He chewed. Swallowed. His stomach gave another fierce rumble.

Okay, so she’d been right. He was hungry. And evidently that fact was going to trump any other urges for the moment. He relaxed into his seat, figuring he could eat and then get the hell out of there before his belly figured out it was full and let his other instincts out of their cage. “It’s good.”

“I know. It’s my go-to place for takeout. I order from there at least once a week.”

He didn’t like to think of Hannah at home alone, eating from disposable metal containers. But it wasn’t much better than what he did day in and day out. He was content with it, so why would he assume someone else wouldn’t be?

Greg just couldn’t imagine her having weekends free, figuring she’d be out making up for the year she’d lost. There was something inside her that burned brightly. That glow could have been snuffed out in an instant. Not something he wanted to think about right now.

He covered by saying, “I normally just grab something from the hospital cafeteria.”

“I know.”

She did?

Before he could ask, she added, “I used to see you walking down the corridor with a sandwich container in your hand.”

“When …?”

“When I was getting my chemo infusions. I saw you sometimes.” Her hand went to her collarbone area and fingered the pale scar where her port had once been. Greg was so used to seeing those that he hadn’t even noticed it.

He also hadn’t realized she’d been in that treatment room. Had seen him. How many other patients had he walked by without noticing? Another brick of guilt settled into place. “I’m sorry. I’m normally so busy, I don’t stop in there all the time.”

Putting her fork into her bowl, she reached out and touched his hand. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad. I’ve just learned how important it is to eat a balanced meal.”

She was right. Again. He often preached to his patients that they needed to strengthen their bodies as much as possible to help during the chemo treatments as well as to aid in the fight of their disease. That meant making healthy choices when it came to food. And yet, just like a pulmonologist who indulged in the occasional cigarette, Greg was unwilling to abide by his own advice.

“I don’t have cancer, but I also don’t cook.”

She picked up her fork again, avoiding his eyes this time. “That’s why there are places like Piazza Toscana.” The comment, unlike her lighthearted ones from a few moments ago, was tight, as if …

I don’t have cancer.

How damned insensitive could he be? She’d spent a year undergoing chemotherapy. Hadn’t known for sure if she’d live or die.

Maybe she was right. He worked so hard that he no longer paid attention to social conventions or cared how his words might affect someone else.

No, that wasn’t right. He did care.

Setting his plate onto the chair next to him, he shifted sideways to face her. “Hey.” He waited until she looked at him before continuing. “I’m sorry for saying that. There’s no good reason, other than I’m tired and not thinking straight.”

She blinked, and he wasn’t sure whether the light was playing tricks on him or if there’d been a trace of moisture rimming her lower lids. But when he looked closer, it was gone.

“How long will you be at the hospital tonight?” she asked.

“About an hour.”

Glancing at her watch, she set her own plate to the side and went over to the low sofa and picked up one of the leather pillows. Coming back, she lowered herself to the padded loop carpet at his feet.

His mouth went dry as she set the pillow down and patted the area next to her. “It’s only seven. Why don’t you stretch out for a while? Take a quick nap. I promise I won’t let you sleep longer than an hour.”

Was she crazy? After the thoughts that had just gone spinning through his head? There was no way he was going to lie down on the floor and—

Even as the words slid through his mind, a wave of exhaustion washed over him, staggering him with its force.

It was the food. The heavy meal was making him sleepy.

What would it hurt? If his eyes were shut, he could block out her face. No more trying to make small talk. No more worrying about how he was looking at her. About what her kneeling on the floor with that pillow had made him imagine.

Before he was fully aware of what he was doing, he’d done as she’d suggested and stretched out on his back, his head on the pillow she’d laid next to her hip. Every muscle in his body seemed to go boneless, and he glanced up to see her leaning over him with a smile. Her fingers brushed across his forehead, the touch light. Comforting.

He pulled in a deep breath. Let it out.

“Close your eyes, Greg. I promise I’ll be right here.”

Even as his lids seemed to obey her every command, a tired sense of triumph went through him.

He’d been right. She’d said his name. Again.