by Kate Hardy
His face shuttered. ‘Yeah.’
‘That’s hard.’
‘Yeah.’
She folded her arms. For pity’s sake, would he give her a break? ‘I’m trying to be nice.’
He shrugged. ‘I’m a guy.’
She’d noticed, though she stuffed the awareness right back in the box where it came from. She wasn’t ready to notice his masculinity. She didn’t need any complications in her life.
‘And guys don’t talk about things? That’s so stupid.’ She shook her head. ‘Talking’s a good safety valve. It helps us cope when we have a case that breaks our hearts.’
He looked at her. ‘Or it makes us relive it.’
‘As you wish. But some food might make you feel better. I’ve fed Truffle, by the way. I looked on the pack and weighed out what they said was the middle of the range for a dog her size. I hope that was all right.’
‘Thank you.’ He looked surprised. ‘That was kind.’
‘I could hardly feed her veggie chilli,’ she pointed out drily.
‘No, because onions and garlic are toxic for dogs.’
‘Did you used to take your bad days at work out on Clara?’ she asked.
‘I...’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘No. Sorry. That isn’t fair of me.’
At least he admitted it. She pushed down the fact that Charlie had never admitted when he was in the wrong. Charlie was dead and buried, along with a lot of her hopes and dreams. ‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘I’ll microwave stuff, and you talk. Otherwise it’s going to fester in your head and you won’t sleep tonight.’
‘You’re bossy,’ he said.
She inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘Sometimes you have to be.’ She busied herself sorting out the chilli and rice while he sat down, then put the bowl in front of him.
‘Thank you,’ he said. And then he didn’t speak for a while, except to mutter that the chilli was good.
When his bowl was empty, she folded her arms. ‘No brownie until you talk. And, just so you know, I make seriously good brownies. You’d be missing out on a lot.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Unless you’re holding out for a dipping sauce of hot mango sorbet to go with it?’
For a moment, she thought she might have gone too far, but then he laughed.
And oh, that was a mistake.
When he wasn’t being grumpy, Ryan McGregor was the most gorgeous man she’d ever met—including Charlie, in the years when she’d been young and starry-eyed and hopelessly in love. Ryan’s grey eyes stopped being stony when they were lit with amusement, his face changed entirely when he wasn’t being all brooding and severe, and his mouth suddenly looked warm and soft and tempting.
And she’d better stop thinking that way, because she wasn’t in the market for a relationship. This six months in Scotland was all about getting her head straight and finding herself again, getting back to a place where people would just stop pitying her.
‘I’ll pass on the hot mango. But yes, please, to a brownie.’ He paused. ‘Saturday was grim. I take it Parm told you that the baby didn’t make it?’
She nodded.
‘It’s the worst thing ever, when a baby dies,’ he said. ‘And it makes you feel so angry and so helpless, all at the same time. The parents were young and they didn’t get the right support.’ He closed his eyes briefly. ‘Part of me wants to see them locked up for ever—I hate losing patients, and circumstances like these make it worse—but it’s not my job to judge them. When you’ve got a baby who won’t stop crying so you haven’t slept properly for weeks, and you don’t know what to do to stop the baby crying, and you’re frustrated and miserable and desperate, sometimes you react in a way you wouldn’t do if you were in your right mind. If you don’t ask for help, or you don’t know how to...’ He blew out a breath.
‘Well. There’s a young man right now who has to live with the consequences of what he did for the rest of his life. A family ripped to pieces. A funeral to plan. Everybody loses.’
‘What happened?’ she asked softly.
‘The parents brought him in, saying he’d had a fit. They didn’t know what to do. I was trying to find out if anything like that had happened before, or if there were any warning signs they hadn’t known to look for, if there was a family history—and then the mum broke down. It seems the baby woke them a lot during the night and the dad went in when the baby started crying in the morning... And he shook the baby.’
Georgie felt sick. A momentary snap with life-changing consequences. How would they ever forgive themselves—or each other?
‘The eye exam showed retinal bleeding, but the blood tests didn’t show up any bleeding or genetic disorders,’ Ryan continued softly.
She knew what he was going to say next. ‘And the scans showed subdural haemorrhage and encephalopathy?’ Together with the retinal bleeding, it was the triad that usually proved non-accidental injury.
‘The surgeon tried a shunt to reduce pressure in the baby’s brain, but...’ He shook his head. ‘We need to do more to support vulnerable parents. Teach them that it’s fine to ask for help. That the crying won’t go on for ever, even though it feels like it—and, when it gets too much, then you just put the baby safely down in the cot and walk away for ten minutes, give yourself a chance to cool down. Call someone. Do breathing exercises. Sing. Throw a cushion. Anything that helps you cope and keeps the baby safe.’
‘Agreed,’ she said softly. She reached across the table and squeezed his hand briefly. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Me, too. And I’m sorry I wasn’t very nice to you when you turned up.’
‘You’d had the shift from hell, and you weren’t expecting me. And I wasn’t very nice to you, either.’
‘Dr Snootypants.’
She felt her eyes widen. ‘Is that what you called me? Well, you were Grumpy McGrumpface.’
‘Grumpy McGrumpface?’ He stared at her in seeming disbelief, and for a moment she thought they were about to get into another slanging match.
But then he nodded. ‘You have a point. I was miserable after my shift, guilty because I’d got it all wrong about when you were supposed to arrive, and the whole thing just snowballed. The snootier you were with me, the angrier I got.’
‘And the more you acted as if I was a nuisance, the more sarcastic I got with you. We both got it wrong,’ she said. ‘Maybe we should cut each other a bit of slack and start again.’
‘I’m still not a great cook,’ he warned. ‘When it was my turn to sort dinner, I served up ready meals. I bought them from Janie, mind, so it was as good as home-cooked, but I do microwave dinners only.’
‘We’ll work something out between us,’ she said, and finally handed him the plate with the brownie. ‘Eat this. From what Parm said, nobody could have done any more than you did on Saturday.’
‘That doesn’t make it feel any better. I still couldn’t save the baby.’
‘We all get cases that haunt us,’ she said softly. ‘Things we can’t fix, no matter how hard we try, because they’re just not fixable.’
‘Is that why you’re here?’ he asked. ‘Because you needed to get away from memories in London?’
Yes, but not quite how he thought it was.
It seemed that Clara had respected her confidence, and Georgie was grateful for that. But what did she do now? On the one hand, she didn’t want him to think that the move here was just an idle whim. On the other hand, if she told him even part of the truth, there was a risk she’d end up having to field all the pity here as much as she had in London. What was the point of coming four hundred miles to repeat your mistakes?
He was looking at her curiously, his amazing eyes full of questions.
‘It’s personal,’ she hedged.
‘Uh-huh.’ But he didn’t try to fill the gap with small talk. He waited.
In the end, she caved. ‘All right. But, if I tell you the truth,’ she said, ‘I want you to promise me on your honour as a doctor that it stays confidential. And,’ she added, ‘most importantly, I want you to promise you’re not going to start pitying me.’
He looked surprised, then nodded. ‘All right. You have my word.’
Was that enough?
She thought about it. She barely knew him, and the fact she hadn’t picked up on the fact that her husband was a liar and a cheat showed that her own instincts weren’t so great. But she’d heard the way Ryan’s colleagues and his neighbour spoke about him. They seemed to think he was a man who could be trusted; and that decided her in his favour. She’d take the chance.
‘I love my job and I love my family and I love my friends. But, last year, my husband was one of the emergency doctors on a rescue mission after an earthquake, and he was killed in an unexpected landslide.’ She couldn’t bring herself to tell Ryan the rest of it. About the baby her husband had made with his mistress, though he’d come up with excuse after excuse not to make a baby with her. Better to stick to a simplified version of the truth. ‘Everyone at work was sympathetic and kind, but I hate being seen as “Poor Georgie”—it’s been weighing me down. I know everyone means well, but the pity just stifles me. And I needed to get a break from it all. That’s why I wanted to leave London.’
* * *
Ryan could understand that. It was exactly how he’d felt after his marriage had crashed and burned. Everyone had been so nice, and he’d been so miserable. Clara had been his rock, offering him and Truffle somewhere to stay until he could buy another house—Zoe had bought him out of their home—but, oh, the conversations that had stopped when he’d walked into the room and the pitying glances. He’d hated being talked about, even though he’d known people were trying to be kind rather than judging him.
‘I get that,’ he said softly. ‘And I won’t pry. It’s none of my business.’
‘Thank you.’
Telling him about her husband’s death had clearly been painful. But in some ways she’d done them both a favour: she’d given him another reason to keep a bit of emotional distance between them and not give in to the growing attraction he felt towards her. Physically, she was gorgeous, but it was more than just looks. Something about Georgina Jones made him feel hot all over, made him feel like a teenage boy having his first crush.
And that wasn’t a good thing.
He wasn’t good at relationships. He already had one divorce under his belt—and he knew that the break-up of his marriage was largely his own fault. He hadn’t let Zoe close enough, and he hadn’t been able to put his own feelings aside to give her the family of her dreams. As a widow, Georgie was clearly grieving for her late husband and she didn’t need the complication of getting involved with a man whose own heart was a complete and utter mess.
‘Given that I’m not Clara, will sharing a house with me be a problem?’ she asked.
‘Problem?’ Did she mean because she wasn’t Clara, or that he had a girlfriend who might not be happy about his new housemate? Unless someone at the hospital had filled her in, she wouldn’t know. He took a deep breath. OK. She’d been honest with him. He’d be honest with her. Plus perhaps he needed to reassure her that he wasn’t going to see her as easy prey. ‘I’m divorced, and I’m not looking for another partner. So you’ll be quite safe with me. You’ll be staying in Clara’s room and we both have our own bathrooms.’
‘Thank you—though I’m not looking for another partner, either,’ she said. ‘You’re safe with me, too.’
So why was it that he didn’t feel safe in the slightest? What was it about Georgina Jones and her clear green eyes that made him feel he needed to build an extra barrier around his heart, and build it fast?
He shook himself. ‘Well. Now that’s out of the way, perhaps we can be good—’ No, friends wasn’t the right term. ‘Housemates,’ he finished.
She lifted her mug of coffee. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
Something reckless in him made him say, ‘I have a better idea if we’re drinking to something.’ He went over to the cupboard and extracted a bottle and two glasses.
‘I’m afraid I’m not really a whisky drinker,’ she said when he brought them over to the table with a small jug of water.
‘This isn’t like the stuff you get in the supermarkets,’ he said. ‘It’s a properly matured single malt. Try a sip—and then try it with a little water. It’ll be smoother and let the subtle flavours come through.’
‘Trust you, you’re a doctor?’ she asked wryly.
‘Something like that.’ He poured a small amount of the amber liquid into the two glasses, handed one to her and clinked his glass against hers. ‘To housemates.’
‘To housemates,’ she echoed, and took a tiny sip.
When she grimaced, he added a little water to her glass. ‘Try it now.’
‘Oh—that’s very different,’ she said, looking surprised. ‘It’s quite nice. I can’t believe that a little bit of water makes that much difference.’
‘I won’t bore you with the full details, but one of my housemates at university was a chemist,’ Ryan told her. ‘He wrote his dissertation on the smokiness of whisky and what affects the flavour, and he tested out his theories on the rest of the house.’
‘Sounds like fun,’ she said. ‘So did you study in Edinburgh?’
‘Yes, and I trained here, too. I assume you went to London?’
‘Yes. I followed in my brother’s footsteps,’ she said. ‘Actually, I work with him now. Technically, he’s my boss.’
‘And he was OK about your job swap?’
‘We had a bit of a fight about it,’ she admitted. ‘He thought I was making a mistake.’
‘And you don’t?’
‘No. I needed a change,’ she said. ‘Though I do feel bad about deserting him.’
‘Clara’s an excellent doctor and she gets on well with everyone. She’ll do a great job,’ Ryan said.
‘I don’t mean professionally,’ she said. ‘I’m Joshua’s back-up for Hannah—his daughter,’ she clarified. ‘He’s a single dad. He does have a nanny, but I’m there if he needs me. He lives in the same apartment block as I do, a couple of floors up.’ She bit her lip. ‘I feel guilty for being here because I’ve deserted them. But if I’d stayed in London I would’ve gone crazy.’
Yeah. He’d been there. Truffle had got him through the worst bits. The loneliness and the misery and wondering why he couldn’t be the man his wife needed. But he’d come to terms with it now. He was who he was. And if that meant being alone, so be it. ‘Sometimes you need to do what’s right for you, even if it puts someone else out.’ Which was, at the end of the day, all Clara had done, too. ‘Your brother will forgive you. Since he worked with you, he must’ve seen how all the pity was getting you down.’
‘Maybe.’ She yawned, and blushed. ‘Sorry. It’s either the whisky or all this country air. And I’m on an early tomorrow. I’m off to bed.’
Ryan had to stifle a sudden picture of her curled up under the duvet, her hair spread over a pillow. His pillow.
For pity’s sake. He was too old to start suffering from insta-lust. And he was just going to ignore the physical attraction. Nothing was going to happen between them. She was a widow. Still grieving. She’d made it very clear that she wasn’t looking for a relationship. He didn’t want one, either: he had no intention of setting himself up to fail all over again.
So he’d just have to look a bit harder to find a house that would suit him and Truffle, and put a little bit of distance between himself and Georgie as soon as he could.
CHAPTER THREE
‘YOUR NEW HOUSEMATE’S a bit on the quiet side,’ Alistair, one of the junior doctors, said to Ryan on Tuesday morning when they grabbed a cup of coffee in the staff kitchen.
‘Georgina’s all
right,’ Ryan said.
‘But she’s not Clara, is she? She’s not the life and soul of the party.’
‘It’s early days. Give her a bit of time to get used to us. Anyway, the most important thing is how she is with the children,’ Ryan reminded him.
‘Aye, and their parents,’ Alistair agreed.
It made Ryan think, though, when he was back in his office, wrestling with paperwork. Being the new person in the department wasn’t much fun. He hadn’t made anywhere near enough effort at making her welcome; he hadn’t even done the welcome dinner he’d promised Clara he’d sort out. Georgina had been really kind to him yesterday, when he’d opened up about his nightmare case. It was his turn to show some kindness and include her in the department a bit more. Maybe he could organise a team night out or something.
Georgina Jones had clearly had a rough year, being a widow. So he needed to do what Clara would do, and make his new colleague feel at home. He pushed aside the thought that it wasn’t the only reason why he wanted to make her feel better. Yes, she was physically attractive. And the way she’d teased him about hot mango sorbet had made him feel lighter of spirit, a feeling he’d forgotten; part of him wanted more, but part of him was scared spitless at the idea. He’d failed in his marriage, and it wasn’t as if Zoe was difficult. She wasn’t high-maintenance or spoiled; she’d just wanted him to love her and make a family with her, to raise children with her. They weren’t whims or wishes out of the ordinary.
Yet he hadn’t been able to do it.
He’d loved his wife, but he just couldn’t let down his barriers enough to let her properly close, the way a husband should. He didn’t want children and he knew he’d be rubbish as a father—with his past, how could he be otherwise? He hadn’t a clue how a real father behaved.
Having a family with his wife should’ve been the easiest thing in the world. He hadn’t done it. His relationship had crashed and burned. And how much harder would it be to start a relationship with someone who’d experienced such a terrible loss already? Where he might not measure up against her late husband?
