by Dana Volney
A Heart for the Holidays
Dana Volney
Avon, Massachusetts
Copyright © 2016 by Dana Volney.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
Published by
Crimson Romance™
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.
www.crimsonromance.com
ISBN 10: 1-5072-0220-2
ISBN 13: 978-1-5072-0220-3
eISBN 10: 1-5072-0221-0
eISBN 13: 978-1-5072-0221-0
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © Shutterstock/Captblack76, © James Wheeler/123RF.
Thank you for purchasing a Crimson Romance novel. Please sign up for our weekly newsletter for information on new releases, contests, discounts and more.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Acknowledgments
About the Author
More from This Author
Also Available
To Tapher: For supporting my dreams—even when that means brainstorming a holiday novella at the lake in the middle of summer.
chapter ONE
“He doesn’t want a new heart?” Silver Morgenstern snapped her head up from her emails, which were piling up by the second.
No one on the National Organ Transplant List ever turned down an organ. Or purposefully removed themselves from the list.
Janae’s eyes behind thick, red-rimmed glasses darted to the note on top of a manila file cradled in her arm. “He stopped in, but you were busy.”
“Give me the file. What’s this guy’s name?”
“Fisher.” A small smile streaked across her assistant’s face.
“Did he say why?”
“He’s, ah, one of a kind. I never actually thought he’d go so far as to take his name off the list, though.” She pushed her glasses up and refocused her attention on Silver. “No, he didn’t give a specific reason.”
“We’ll see about that.” If this guy, a Mr. Fisher Tibbs, really wanted off the list, he could pull his name. But he’d already been on it for … Silver skimmed down … four years. That was a long time to give up on—and right when he was next in line for a viable match in the region. “Thank you, Janae.”
Silver leaned back in her oversized cognac-colored office chair and crossed one knee over the other. Prairie Wind Medical Center in her hometown of Casper, Wyoming, was a far cry from the third-world countries where she’d practiced for years.
She’d had aspirations once. Born of her own childhood, when her grandpa needed a liver transplant. Even at the age of ten, she knew she wanted to bring hope back into people’s lives.
That had been dashed with one flick of a wrist and lots of blood.
So now she held the medical director’s job rather than a surgeon’s position. Her ambition to help had been relegated to a polite, rote greeting every time the phone rang in this new life, the life that was slowly draining her soul.
She rubbed her left thumb and index finger together in a circular motion as she read through Tibbs’s chart. Idiopathic pulmonary arterial hypertension. Huh. A rare diagnosis causing the arteries flowing from the heart to the lungs to narrow. Usually people just had PAH. The idiopathic part basically meant there was no known cause for it, hereditary or otherwise. That was a bum hand to be dealt.
Still, what an odd time to call it quits on the list—he definitely needed a heart to live to old age. There wasn’t anything in his chart about depression or a reason why he’d be forcibly taken off the list.
She grabbed for the black, fine-tipped pen on her desk to write down the address he’d given for his employer and winced as she gripped the barrel.
It’s going to get better. It’s not permanent. Your body is healing. She automatically recited the words in her mind with each sting in her right thumb and index finger, and the subsequent burning in her wrist. Stupid, stupid words from a woman who knew better.
As a surgeon, she knew her hope of regaining the full use of her right hand had vanished twelve months ago. But her mind refused to give up on her dream, her accomplishments, and the future she’d laid out for herself more than two decades ago.
She couldn’t get a hand replacement to make everything in her life great again, but this guy might have an opportunity to receive an organ that could save his.
There had to be more to Mr. Tibbs’s story.
She couldn’t sit in her office one moment longer or look at another email. Mr. Tibbs needed some sense talked into him. She might not be able to do anything for him in the operating room, but she sure as hell could offer a well-informed conversation.
The medical director position at PWMC came with the distinct pleasure of managing the National Organ Transplant List regionally. It was the only part of her job she actually enjoyed. And today she was going to oversee the hell out of it.
Silver stood, adjusted the hem on her sensible eggplant-colored dress that tickled her knees when she walked, and grabbed the forms Mr. Tibbs was going to need to sign if he really wanted to remove his name. Although she intended to talk him out of that particular choice.
Soft holiday music streamed in the newly expanded main lobby as she pulled out her keys, tightened the belt on her black trench coat, and headed into the parking garage.
The office he’d listed on his contact form wasn’t far. He’d be frail, probably pale, and wouldn’t be able to walk far without losing his breath. The heart affected every part of the body, and this guy had been having problems for a while now.
She found the white building with a colorful sign that clearly stated she’d reached the Combat Children’s Hunger office and parked her Jeep Renegade.
A rush of heat blew her scarf into her face when she opened the glass front door. She’d expected to see a warehouse full of food being packed and sent out for delivery or a bunch of offices where people were scurrying to drum up donations. There was none of that. The room before her was basically a large lunchroom like what would be found in an elementary school. It reminded her of some of the smaller, underprivileged towns in Tanzania with one-room schools where the kids did everything, including eating.
Brightly colored artwork hung on the walls—palm prints in paint on construction paper, drawings with colored pencils, and pictures of smiling faces, some young, some not.
Combat Children’s Hunger was stenciled onto the wall in black lettering beside a picture of a handsome man in a baby-blue button-up, smiling but showing no teeth. She stepped closer to read the tiny gold nameplate affixed to the wooden frame.
Fisher Tibbs.
Her gaze bounced back to the cheerful, golden-brown eyes forever memorialized in the photo. This was the guy who didn’t want to live beyond the next couple of years? The picture had to be recent, because the file said he was thirty.
“Can I help you?”
A head popped out of the meager office to her right. The same face, right down to the five-o’clock shadow, greeted her.
“Yes, hello. I wanted to—”
“Volunteer? Great.” He stepped completely out of his office, filling the doorframe with his tall build—he had to be at least six-foot-four. “We can use all the help we can get this time of year. Lots of food going out to make sure kids are fed for the holidays.”
She swallowed and nodded, the French twist she’d wrangled her long, blond hair into that morning staying perfectly in place. She basically funded Paul Mitchell’s hair thickening and taming product lines.
A slow smile flourished on his strong jawline, adding wrinkles on both sides of his mouth that were nearly invisible through his thick, brown five-o’clock shadow that was probably knocking on the door to a thirteen-hour stubble.
“Fisher Tibbs.” He stuck out his palm, and she let her hand slip right in and be consumed by the hard flesh, only pulling back when he did.
“Silver. Rae.” And now she wasn’t giving him her full name. Because he’ll know who I am.
What was she doing? She wasn’t here to volunteer. She barely had enough time in her day to do the work that was her day job. Volunteering and do-goodery was a thing of her past, as of twelve months ago. Another lifetime.
She was here to talk the man out of a death sentence.
Only the pink of his cheeks was healthy, his brown eyes sharp, and his white smile easy.
The man standing before her had a lot to offer. Especially to children who were hungry and single women who wanted to impress their mothers with a charitable-hearted hottie date for the holidays.
“Nice to meet you.” His gaze fell to her jacket then her nude heels, and he didn’t miss a beat when their eyes connected. “Do you have time now to go over the basics, or do you have to get back to work right away?”
“I’m on my lunch break. I’ve got some time.” Thank goodness the truth was coming out of her mouth again. She’d let him give her the tour and then dive in to a speech about the effectiveness of transplants and the success rate and that surely he had something or someone to live for.
She snuck a glance at his ring finger. Bare. She’d start with his job then.
“This way.” He held his palm toward the wide-open space before sliding his hand back into the pocket of his dark jeans as he led the way. And she let him.
She hadn’t volunteered, given back to any community, since her accident. Her chest tightened. Helping out a little wouldn’t hurt. She could still have a conversation with him about keeping his name on the list. The two actions weren’t mutually exclusive.
If she volunteered, got to know him, and gained insight into his life, then she could better convince him not to take his name off the list. Of course, there was no guarantee he’d get a heart in time but removing his name solidified the bleakest outcome.
“I expected a plain old warehouse with dried goods. This is quite different.” A small, fixed smile touched her lips for a moment.
“Shane,” Fisher said, his attention diverted over her shoulder, “you’re supposed to be in school.”
She spun around to find a slender teen who hadn’t grown into his feet yet.
“I have a free period and thought you could use the help.” The young male ambled toward them.
Fisher braced his hands on his hips. “Didn’t you have a math test today?”
“First period.”
“And?”
A smile filled the high schooler’s face. “Ninety.”
“Good job, bud.” Fisher held up his palm, and a grin filled his face.
The kid smacked his hand into Fisher’s. Pride filled both of their eyes.
“But now get back to class before they call you in.”
The teen strode away with a small hop in his step.
“We aren’t a daycare or Boys and Girls Club or anything like that”—Fisher focused back on her, satisfaction still filling his eyes—“but we do try to provide a safe space for kids to do homework and hang out while they wait for their parents to pick them up.”
“And help them study?” The program he was describing was a heck of a lot more involved than meals. Good. This was all good, and it was only going to further her argument regarding his transplant.
“Only when it’s not over my head.” He stopped in the middle of the large room. “Of course, we provide meals, too. There’s the kitchen”—he pointed to the left, at the cafeteria-style area—“where they can play games, hang out, and do homework. Our doors close at seven.” He smiled.
“Impressive.” Her gaze momentarily dropped to his smile. It was an easy, comfortable smile, one that instantly made her chest lighten in return. He was charm personified. His chart had to be a mistake. She cleared her throat in a poor attempt to collect herself. She had half a mind to really flirt with this man and figure out how to have his babies. But that was going too far. Especially for the first meeting. “How close are you to the school?”
He held the door open for her to enter a back room that was more like the warehouse she’d expected. “We’re a block away from the elementary and two away from the high school.” His almond-shaped eyes crinkled on the sides as he surveyed the expansive stacks of boxes of macaroni and cheese, cans of soup and ravioli, and jars of peanut butter.
She couldn’t ruin his day with morbid talk about the pros and cons of living. He’d been all smiles since that boy said he’d scored well on his exam. Something must’ve happened to steal Fisher’s spark for life, but you wouldn’t know it by his championing of his nonprofit. Breaking into their meeting with why she’d really stopped in would be abrupt and probably not go over well.
She didn’t have to take his name off the list today anyhow—and he hadn’t signed the proper forms yet. The papers she’d tucked into her bag would stay put. For now. Heck, she could even mail them to him, and if he returned them before she had a chance to reverse his decision, then she wouldn’t file them. Filing mix-ups were common. Eventually she might lose the battle he didn’t even know he was in, but it wouldn’t be today.
Or maybe even this week.
• • •
He tried not to glance at Silver’s calves again, but they were just so perfect. Not skinny—there was an actual roundness that was sexy as all get-out, and then with her high heels … Nope, there was no point. She was here to volunteer, and that was great. They were short on help as it was.
“You have a great … location.”
His gaze traveled over her cute, round nose and up to her eyes, where he caught a glimmer of curiosity as she adjusted her shoulders before continuing. Damn right he’d found the perfect spot. He’d had to fight the city for the permit. But it had been an election year, and no candidate wanted to go on the record as being against feeding kids.
“That wasn’t by accident.” He winked without thinking.
Her eyes were big, round, very blue, and intensely focused, as if she were computing everything he was saying for some greater outcome. Was she here to volunteer or to size up his operation? If she was here to spy on him, she was certainly the right person for the job. She was just his type—sexy as hell, eyes that he could stare into for hours, and probably the best in her field.
He may not have a long life expectancy, but he wasn’t dead. Not yet. He could still appreciate a beautiful woman when he saw one.
Which wasn’t a fact he normally had to remind himself of, but there it was. Flashing like a railroad crossing. No good could come from crossing that line. For either of them.
“How many meals do you provide on a daily basis?” Her heels clicked on the polished concrete floor.
“We’re open for dinner Monday through Friday and noon to six on Saturdays. We hand out meals for kids at the schools on Fridays to get them through the weekend.” There was so much more he wanted to do, but funding was tight and they’d had to cut Sundays out completely last year. “The project I’ll have you start on is packing backpac
ks with food supplies for over the holidays, when school isn’t in session. We’re still open, but many of the kids won’t be able to get here.”
How parents could not make sure their child was fed, he’d never know. Although, he knew sometimes the parents were going without food as well. It was a fact of life for many all over the world.
Which was why he’d started CCH in the first place. The thought of a child not having food for a day, or a week, was enough to bring tears to his eyes. He didn’t even turn away adults when they needed a meal.
“How do you stay funded?” She cupped her hands in front of her jacket. “Your smile is great and all, but unless it turns into dollars, I’m assuming there are some donations involved.”
A chuckle escaped his lips. And here he’d thought she was so proper. What would she do if he randomly started singing his answers?
“More like schmoozing at fundraisers and tons of mind-numbing paperwork—for grants.” Some of which were drying up as of late, and the endowment he’d set up wasn’t going be able to make up the difference for too many more years.
The last thing he wanted was for his life’s work, the work he did in the name of his daughter, to fall apart. He was meeting with his lawyer later this week to come up with a succession plan. If the doctors were to be believed, he had only a couple years left without a new heart.
He led Silver to a long conveyor belt where palates of dried goods, organized by food, were stacked.
“This is where we stuff the bags, assembly-line style. We’ll start packing them tomorrow and pile them up to go to the schools. They’ll be given away here as well.”
“Efficient.” She smiled.
“It’s a good operation once it gets going. This is about it.” He took a couple steps in a half circle. “The kitchen connects here.” He waved his hand to his left. It was a basic commercial kitchen, which he managed to rent out to chefs as an extra income source for the CCH.
“Did you start Combat Children’s Hunger?” She walked side by side with him as he held the kitchen door open for her to go first and refused to check her out from behind. His decision to remove his name from the transplant list hadn’t been easy, but it was the right call to make. What wouldn’t be right was to start a relationship with someone who’d have to bury him soon.
