Beyond Just Us (Remington Medical Book 4): A Single Parent Marriage of Convenience Romance

by Kimberly Kincaid

  The rarity of a stolen moment alone sent a little, forbidden thrill up Tess’s spine, and she inhaled a long, deep pull of summer air. Her body loosened by another degree at the fresh warmth of the sunshine, sending a sensation of pure goodness through her that she hadn’t felt in…God, who knew how long. A smile broke free over her face—not the kind dosed with her trademark sarcasm, or dialed down to half-intensity because her eyes got too squinty otherwise, or her crow’s feet might show, or to cover up that tiny chip in her front tooth that her mother (and only her mother) always managed to laser in on with the speed and precision of a heat-seeking missile. Nope. Not today. No, this smile was like sleeping in on Sunday morning. Like a huge slice of chocolate cake. Like an I-saw-Jesus, out-of-body, name-bellowing orgasm—no, two of them. Back to back! Like—

  “Well, that’s a sight that’ll stop a man in his tracks, right there.”

  The lilting Irish brogue clotheslined Tess back to the ambulance bay in less than a blink, her whole body going rigid before she’d fully released the gasp in her throat. “Can I help you?”

  The man belonging to the voice stepped toward her, which did not one fucking thing by way of slowing the slam-bang of her heart. Muscle-packed body that was far more lithe than bulky. Bright, emerald-green eyes she’d swear were contacts, framed by long, black lashes she’d double-swear were fake. Darkly lined, swirling tattoos—Tess swallowed hard—covering both arms, slipping up into the snug sleeves of his dark gray T-shirt with forbidden suggestion and the weirdest hint of familiarity, and wait…

  “I’m lookin’ fer Connor Bradshaw,” the guy said, his sinful half-smile as sexy as the rest of him. “Big guy. Dark red hair. The woman behind the desk at his clinic, there”—he hooked a thumb over his shoulder without looking—“said he was here today. D’you know ’im?”

  Those tattoos…those cheekbones that could probably cut glass…that banked-fire stare…and he was asking for Connor, of all people…

  Jesus Tapdancing Christ! This was Connor’s buddy from the Air Force, the guy he talked about all the time. The guy who was now a romance novel cover model and graced the front of all the steamy books Connor brought in for the staff.

  The guy who headlined every last one of Tess’s filthiest sexual fantasies when she read said books. Over. And over.

  And over again.

  “Oh, shit,” she blurted, clamping down on her lip as soon as the swear had escaped.

  Irish didn’t seem to mind. “I take it you do know him, then.”

  Tess opened her mouth to answer—PG-13, this time—but he swayed on his feet, making her senses prick into alertness.

  “Are you okay?” She scanned him from top to toes, this time medically. His face had flushed slightly, although, that could be the whole hey-look-it’s-June thing, not to mention, the duffel he had slung over his shoulder didn’t look terribly light. His gorgeous green eyes seemed to have lost their focus for a second, because he gave up a slow blink, then another, his smile fading.

  “What makes y’ask?”

  The words sounded the slightest bit slurred, not quite a product of his accent, but not like he was drunk, either, and nope. Something was definitely not right.

  “Because”—Tess took a step toward him, then another, to bring her within arm’s reach of the guy—“you’re flushed, and swaying. And sweating,” she added, now close enough to notice the light sheen on his forehead. Shit.

  Irish quirked an inky black brow. “Y’don’t think it’s because I’m lookin’ at a pretty girl?”

  “Nope.” Tess’s answer was swift and sure. First of all, this guy? Calling her pretty? Was the most insane thing ever verbalized. Plus, she knew how to dodge a question with the best of them, and Irish, here, was in full-on deflection mode. “I sure don’t. But I’ll give you an A for effort.”

  His smile came back, although, this time, it was loaded with deference. “You got me. I am a bit wobbly.” He set his duffel down on the sidewalk, rolling one flawlessly sculpted shoulder. “I just flew in from California, and forgot to eat, I s’pose. That’s all.”

  Forgot to eat? Tess snorted. Who did that? Still, he looked far more composed now, his eyes clear and his smile back in place. Plus, it was kind of warm out here. Even she was sweating a little.

  Girl, that’s so not the weather.

  “Right,” Tess said, knocking the thought back and giving him one last perusal. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Of course. I’m just grand,” he replied.

  And then he passed out in her arms.

  2

  Whoever was holding Declan Riley had really nice tits.

  Unfortunately for him, his savior was all up close and personal because he’d gone tango uniform on the goddamned pavement—again, fuck him very much—so he was going to have to table his dirty ideas, at least until he could get his blood sugar under control.

  Not that he’d been able to make that happen without serious medical assistance for the past two years, but hey. A guy could dream.

  “Whoa! Okay, Irish. Here we go, nice and easy.” The woman, whose face was even prettier than her curves, was shockingly strong, considering he was impersonating a sack of stones right now. Shite, he needed to focus.

  “M’grand,” Declan slurred, forcing himself to breathe deeply.

  Right. So much for that. His brain was practically fucking oatmeal. “Uh-huh,” she said, easing a shoulder under his arm and locking her hip against his to bear his weight. “You’re freaking fantastic. We’re going to try this one step at a time, okay? I need to get you inside so I can take a closer look at you, and I don’t want to carry you unless I have to.”

  His legs felt like wet ropes, loose and heavy. Still, he commanded them to move, hating how well he knew how to override a blood sugar crash when the occasion called for it. “Alright.”

  Declan leaned on the woman far more than he wanted to, at least for the purposes of not wanting to crush her or look like an even bigger arse than he did. He must have lost track of the time and forgotten to eat when he should’ve. He knew better, of course. But this cross-country trip to see his former Air Force unit-mate on a frigging Hail Mary of a chance that Connor could help had him really off his game.

  Declan needed a lifeline. Literally.

  Damn, the woman holding him smelled good. Her head fit perfectly under his chin, and if he leaned down just a little bit, maybe he’d be able to find out if her hair was as silky as it looked…

  “I need a little help over here!” she barked out, notching down on things a bit as she looked up at him and added, “You’re still with me, right, Irish? Can’t have you passing out on me twice in one day. My boss will be pissed.”

  His nod was more wobbly than he’d like—wait, where was he, again? He’d been on a flight, maybe two? Okay, yeah, the woman with the pretty smile was still there, gripping him tight, and he commanded himself to focus on her eyes. Light brown. Full of fire. Like really good whiskey over ice. “You’re a doctor, then?” His tongue felt thick, barely pushing the words out.

  “I’ll do you one better,” she said, maneuvering Declan over the gurney that someone had magically produced. “I’m your doctor.”

  “Lucky me.”

  Her face pinched at the reply. But things got a little blurry then, quick movements and clipped voices, and his confusion was quickly forgotten. The woman let him go—damn shame, that—yanking a pair of nitrile gloves out of the pocket of her white coat and snapping them into place as she doled out directives like Halloween candy.

  “Let’s go from the top. My name is Dr. Michaelson,” she said as soon as they stopped moving a few seconds later. “Can you tell me yours?”

  This one, he knew, despite the fog in his brain. “Declan…Riley.”

  “Okay, Mr. Riley. I’m going to help you out. Are you feeling any pain?”

  He knew the answer to this one, too, but she was moving her hands over him, taking his pulse and cradling his face to look at his eyes, and d
amn it, he couldn’t make his mouth form the words to tell her…what was he supposed to tell her?

  “Mr. Riley?” she repeated. Her voice was so calm. Strong, but not mean. “Are you feeling any pain?”

  Pain. Right. “No.”

  Her hands skated over his arms, her fingers closing over his wrist for a quick flip. “Well, that explains a lot.”

  Declan heard her say something about Exam Four and a tube of glucose gel. He wanted to protest—the gel was some nasty shite, the over-sweet chemical taste lingering on his tongue for days—but then it was in his mouth, polluting everything and kicking his gag reflex directly in the junk. The woman, whose name he’d forgotten but whose touch he hadn’t, was clipping out orders, all monitors and IVs—fucking hell, he hated needles even more than the glucose gel clinging to his teeth right now—and Declan had no choice but to let his thoughts drift for a few minutes until they found dry land.

  He returned to the room with a series of slow blinks. The doctor was still there (bonus) and his body felt like it belonged to a drunk on day three of a week-long tequila bender (no bonus), but at least his brain was mostly back online.

  “Welcome back,” the doctor said, taking the no-horseshite route right to Declan’s unhappy place. “Type 2 diabetes is no joke.” Her eyes zeroed in on his medic alert bracelet, and for once, he didn’t hate wearing the thing.

  “No. It’s not.”

  “I know you’re probably feeling really tired, but I need to ask you some questions. Think you’re up for that?”

  His body begged him to say no, and his brain tag-teamed in on the idea. Although more alert than he’d been—not that it took much—he still felt like his limbs were moving through wet cement and his mind wasn’t much better. But the questions might help ground him, and since that would get him a step closer to not being stuck on this gurney, he nodded.

  “Okay, great. Are you feeling any nausea or dizziness?” the doc asked.

  She ran through a gamut of questions, all of which made Declan feel weak as hell, even though most of them were a negative. Fuck, he knew better than to lose track of how long it had been since he’d eaten. The jet lag must’ve knocked him and his body for a loop he hadn’t been expecting.

  Dr. Michaelson—whose first name was Tess, according to the loopy script on the doctor’s coat she wore over her dark green scrubs—finally asked, “Can you tell me what meds you’re taking and when your last dose was?”

  It required far more mental effort than he could easily spin up, but Declan managed to relay the information. “I’m not an idiot. I don’t skip my meds.” He dragged in a breath, feeling as if he was at the tail end of a marathon. “I just had a long flight and the time change must have thrown me off. I’ll be fine.”

  Funny, she didn’t look convinced. At all. “Let’s see where your blood sugar is, now that you’ve got that glucose on board.”

  Leaving a check of his vitals to the nurse who had accompanied her into the exam room, the doctor scooped up his hand, rolling the tip of his ring finger between her index finger and thumb.

  “Little pinch,” she warned, placing the glucose meter on the side of his fingertip. Declan barely felt the finger stick. Dr. Michaelson’s frown at the reading? That he felt everywhere.

  “That good, eh?”

  “Let’s just say I hope you don’t have plans for this afternoon that don’t involve hanging out on this gurney. Ah!” To the scrubs-clad woman who entered the exam room, the doctor said, “Dr. Young, this is Declan Riley. Type 2 diabetic, exhibiting signs of hypoglycemia. Which are?”

  The other doctor—a resident, if Declan had to guess—didn’t hesitate. “Confusion, dizziness, excessive thirst, profuse sweating, and possible loss of consciousness.”

  Dr. Michaelson nodded. “Brief LOC outside a few minutes ago.” She tacked on his vitals, which weren’t great, and his blood sugar levels, which downright sucked, making Declan officially feel as weak as his body wanted him to. “Glucose gel was administered and his vitals are improving. So, how do we treat him now?”

  Dr. Young barely blinked. “IV dextrose to stabilize his blood sugar levels, place him on oxygen, and perform cardiac monitoring, plus labs.”

  “You get a gold star. And, Young? Go find Connor and tell him I need him in here, please.”

  “Oh.” Now the woman hesitated. “Dr. Sheridan pulled him in on a code red that came in on the medivac a few minutes ago. I can go see—”

  “Not necessary,” Dr. Michaelson interrupted, though not rudely. “Just page him and tell him to find me as soon as he’s done, then check in on Mr. Kirk’s sutures while I treat Mr. Riley, here.”

  The younger woman nodded. “You got it, Dr. Michaelson.”

  Damn, his doc was so confident and in control, Declan couldn’t help but be impressed. And, okay, yeah, maybe a little turned on. For fuck’s sake, he might be hypoglycemic, but he wasn’t dead.

  Yet.

  Shoving the voice inside his head away, he said, “I should warn you. Connor’s going to be ragin’ mad.”

  The guy might not be the sort to get bent out of shape, but there were the not-so-small matters of Declan’s health condition, his resulting early dismissal from the Air Force, and the current dilemma of his meds no longer doing their job—none of which he’d told his friend.

  But to Declan’s surprise, Dr. Michaelson laughed. “Let me deal with Connor. I’m going to put you on some oxygen and get that dextrose on board, which should make you feel better. But you’ll need tests and monitoring. I’m going to let Marcus, here, help you change, then we can get moving on your workup.”

  She nodded at the male nurse who’d been in charge of Declan’s gurney, and held up a standard-issue hospital gown in a plastic bag, and hell. Just because he’d known this moment was coming didn’t mean he had to like it. “I don’t need help.”

  Dr. Michaelson’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, you do.”

  Biting down on his frustration and tilling up what little was left of his pride, he said, “I think I can manage dressing myself.”

  “And I think I know how to do my job.” A hand planted against her hip, and ah hell. With fire like that in her eyes, he should’ve known she’d dig in. “You’re a fall risk, Mr. Riley, and you’re under my care. Until your glucose levels stabilize and you’ve been treated to my satisfaction—”

  “Alright, alright.” Declan held up a hand. He’d been raised by a fierce woman, and he’d spent nearly a quarter of his twenty-seven years in the Air Force. He knew a losing fight when he was eye to eye with one, and she wasn’t exactly wrong. His body wasn’t likely to cooperate with any major commands he gave it until that dextrose worked its magic. “But it’s Declan. Or…what was it you called me earlier? Irish?”

  “Oh.” The doc’s face flushed, and Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, she was pretty. “That was just to keep your attention so you wouldn’t keel over on me.”

  “It’ll do, if you like. But no more mister.” He felt out of place enough. Being reduced to a formality on top of it? Not on Declan’s list of fuck-yes.

  The corners of Dr. Michaelson’s mouth kicked up. “Will it get you into this gown any faster?”

  He took the bag from her without releasing her stare. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then I guess you should get moving, Irish. Carefully,” she added.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Declan ditched his clothes, albeit slowly and clumsily and, damn it, with help, swapping them out for the hospital gown and letting the male nurse tuck his jeans, T-shirt, and boots into the larger bag he’d provided from beneath the gurney. Declan still felt like hell, but being off his feet helped a bit. The oxygen mask the nurse handed over as he settled back against the gurney was another bump in the right direction, and Dr. Michaelson reappeared in a manner that suggested she hadn’t gone far in the first place.

  “How come you’re not havin’ your resident do this?” Declan asked, gesturing to the IV bag she’d begun to hook up to the tube taped to his
arm.

  “I could,” she agreed. “Young’s a pretty decent student. But, as it turns out, my med school diploma isn’t just a wall decoration.” Her body tensed, so slightly that if her gloved hands hadn’t actually been on Declan as she spoke, he likely would’ve missed it. “Plus, you and Connor served together, and he’s already going to have his boxers in a triple-knot since I take it he doesn’t know you’re diabetic.”

  Declan shook his head, his gut clenching. “I’ve got my reasons for not tellin’ him.”

  “And they’re none of my business. These leads for the cardiac monitor might be a little cold. Sorry,” Dr. Michaelson said, and whoa, how had she already placed two of them?

  She was done with the rest in a matter of seconds, and Declan admired her handiwork. “Nice. Well done on the IV, too. Usually the ink throws people.”

  Her eyes traveled over his tattoos, which spanned both of his arms from wrist to shoulder. Never mind the one he’d gotten across his abdomen six months ago.

  “It’s more by feel than anything else. Second nature once you do enough of them.” Shrugging, she checked the readout on the cardiac monitor standing next to his gurney “So, how long have you been diabetic?”

  “No beatin’ around the bush for you,” he said. It was a classic deflection, of course.

  And one she didn’t hesitate to call him out on. Of course. “I’m your doctor, remember? Taking a detailed history is part of my job.”

  Declan blew out a breath. She’d discover the extent of things soon enough. At least Connor wasn’t here to hear him say, “I was diagnosed a little over two years ago.”

  The lift of her brows was the only indication of her surprise. “Marcus, let’s get a CBC, blood gas, metabolic panel, and urinalysis on Irish, here. And tell the lab tech that I want the results rushed…unless he wants me to come up there and use my extensive knowledge of human anatomy and my wildly inventive imagination against him.”

  “Well, Dr. Michaelson,” Declan said as soon as he’d jumped through all the medical-test hoops with the nurse and watched the guy duck out the door, presumably to hightail it to the lab, lest the doc hold him responsible for any delays, too. “What’s next, then?”