by BETH KERY
“Cristina?”
He nodded once and picked up a roll from a basket. Emma noticed he possessed strong-looking hands with long, blunt-tipped fingers. She repressed a shiver with effort. “She’s in a great deal of pain. It’s getting worse. I’ve asked the doctor to increase her pain medications.”
He looked up sharply.
“It’s not uncommon, as the cancer spreads,” Emma said, reading his glance of unease.
“Won’t increasing her pain medication make her more confused?”
“Possibly. But it’s better than forcing her to suffer. She’s living the last days of her life. We’re not talking about a headache here. This is severe, mind-numbing pain. When she’s in the midst of it, she’s not very cognitively sharp anyway. None of us would be,” Emma said pointedly.
They stared at one another for a few seconds. Again, his gaze dropped over her, so fleeting it might have been her imagination.
“Why do you dress that way for work?” he asked, returning to the task of buttering a roll.
He mouth fell open. “I like to be comfortable. My hospice doesn’t have an issue with it. Do you?”
He began slicing a filet of beef, his gaze averted from her. When he didn’t reply for a moment, her anxiety ratcheted up, but it was accompanied by a spike of defiance. “Is it not formal enough for you?” she asked, as if determined to dig her own grave. He looked up, and she glanced down significantly over his tuxedo-clad form.
He gave a small, unexpected smile, white teeth flashing against tanned skin. Her heart stalled.
“You’re wondering if I put on a tuxedo to dine alone at midnight as a custom.” He raised his fork to his mouth and took a swift bite of beef, watching her as he chewed. Emma became highly aware of the movement of his lean, angular jaw and then the convulsion of his strong-looking throat framed by the stark white open collar as he swallowed. He reached for a crystal goblet of red wine. “That would be pretty pitiful on my part if I did, wouldn’t it?” he asked before taking a swallow of wine. Emma heard the thread of humor in his voice and didn’t know how to reply.
“I just meant—”
“I know what you meant. And no, I’m not a formality hound. I just came from a public relations event in the city sponsored by my company. I didn’t get hungry until now. I always lose my appetite at those things. All those cameras. All those vampires,” he added distractedly. He took another bite of beef, and for a moment, Emma wondered if he’d forgotten she was there. “I didn’t mean that I object to your clothing,” he said quietly after a pause. “I just asked because I noticed it was different than the other nurses.”
His words seemed to hang in the air. I noticed. There was only one way he could have noticed since he never visited Cristina’s suite. He’d taken notice of her on the surveillance camera. Maybe his thoughts went in a similar direction because his expression suddenly grew sharp and then went carefully blank.
“I thought it might relate to your age,” he said, picking up his knife. “You seem much younger than the others.”
“You thought my dressing habits related to my age? Or my difficulty in not following your instructions did?”
“Both.”
Her back stiffened at that. “I’m twenty-three.”
His succinct nod seemed to say, Well, it all makes sense then. Irritation shot through her.
“You’re not that much older,” she said impulsively. The cool glance he gave her revealed she was mistaken; it made her feel about twelve years old. What she’d said was technically true. He didn’t look much older than his early thirties or so, but he seemed decades older. Maybe her blurting out those words was her desperate attempt to even the playing field.
He took another bite of meat. “I’m thirty,” he said with infuriating calmness after a pause. “And years are one thing. Experience another.”
“I have a master’s degree in palliative and hospice nursing. I’m very well qualified to take care of your stepmother. And I have plenty of experience,” she defended.
That small smile quirked his lips again. “How did you manage all that in twenty-three years?”
She hesitated, frowning. She realized she was being defensive, but his aloof contempt annoyed her. “I have an early birthday. Plus I did my bachelor’s degree in three years,” she mumbled, already regretting her outburst. Despite her flash of annoyance at his small, patronizing grin, the thought struck her that he had a very sexy mouth. He gave a small shrug.
“Even if you weren’t as experienced as you are,” he murmured, “I wouldn’t complain. You’re very good with my stepmother. She likes you.” He shot her a hard—or was it bitter?—glance. “And that’s rare. Please just follow my instructions from now on,” he said after a moment, picking up his water glass.
“I will,” Emma said shakily. She wasn’t sure what had gotten into her, to respond so defensively with a patient’s family member. She normally let criticisms or suspicions in regard to her youthful appearance slide right off her. Her work always ended up being a testament to her worth.
“Good night,” he said.
“Good night,” she said under her breath.
Despite the fact that he’d been looking at his plate when he dismissed her, the prickly sensation on her back gave her the distinct impression his gaze was on her as she left the room.
About the Author
Beth Kery lives in Chicago where she juggles the demands of her career, her love of the city and the arts, and a busy family life. Her writing today reflects her passion for all of the above. She is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of Because You Are Mine. Find out more about Beth and her books at BethKery.com or Facebook.com/Beth.Kery.
