One Night That Changed Everything

by Tina Beckett

  To be fair, he was helping a lot of people, and he was right when he’d said she hadn’t complained when she’d been on the receiving end of that help. But Greg had never had to face the harsh reality that life didn’t go on forever. It was up to each person to make the most of their time on earth.

  He was certainly doing that by giving back to those around him, but what about his own life? When did he start living? Really living?

  Maybe he hadn’t really meant his offer—maybe it was just the obligatory “take responsibility for your actions” spiel that faded away once the guilt loosened its hold.

  Hannah swallowed. She’d seen the look in his eye, had heard the quiet anger in his voice after she’d insisted the baby was hers alone.

  What a mess.

  And it was Saturday. Not even a day when she could throw herself into work and not have time to think. Her pregnancy test that morning had yielded nothing, which didn’t necessarily mean the I.U.I. had failed. Her doctor said it was better to test at the two-week mark, but she hadn’t been able to wait.

  What if she wasn’t pregnant?

  While it should be a relief to know she couldn’t possibly be carrying Greg’s child—and that she’d be able to have another procedure done after her next cycle—she couldn’t convince her heart it was for the best.

  Sigh.

  She turned away from the window and headed for the kitchen, where she had a batch of sunshine muffins baking. A perfect foil for the gloomy day. The wonderful scent of citrus washed over her as she dug her oven mitt from one of the drawers. Peeking inside the oven, she noted the muffins were just starting to set, their swollen tops curving over the edge of the pan, like twelve pregnant little bellies.

  Great, was this what she was in for? Picturing her future body at every turn?

  Just as she pulled the muffin tray out of the oven, the phone chirped. She dropped the pan onto the stovetop and hurried into the living room, tugging the mitt from her hand as she went.

  “Hello?”

  “Hannah Lassiter, please.”

  The brisk voice stopped her cold because she immediately recognized it. Greg. Why on earth was he calling her at home on a Saturday morning? “Th-this is Hannah.”

  “I know it is. Habit. Sorry.”

  What was a habit? Asking for the person, even when you knew who it was? Her heart took a dive when she realized why he was calling. “Where are you?”

  “At the office. I’ve had an emergency come up and need to pull some records off the computer. I already tried calling Stella, but nobody’s home.”

  “Is the computer on?”

  “No. I can’t find the damn power button on the system.”

  “It’s on the front of the tower, under the reception desk.”

  “I’ve already tried pushing that and nothing happened.”

  She licked her lips. Oh, no. That thing could be ornery at times. “Try it again.”

  There was a pause, and then a low curse. “Still nothing.”

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” Was she crazy? True, she’d just been complaining about having nothing to do, but this wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind.

  There was a lengthy pause over the phone. “Greg? Are you still there?”

  “I’m here. If I could just reach Stella…You don’t happen to have the number to her cell, do you? It’s not on the pad with the other numbers.”

  “No, sorry. It might be in the personnel records, but those would be on the computer, as well. The system’s temperamental. Stella showed me a few tricks, so hang tight.”

  “I don’t want you to have to come in.”

  Hannah could pretty much swear he didn’t want her anywhere around, since he’d steered clear of her as much as possible over the last week. “If it’s an emergency, I don’t mind. Who is it?”

  “Claire Taylor. Her husband thinks she’s having a reaction to the chemo and wants me to take a look.”

  Oh, no. The breast-cancer patient she’d seen a week ago. “Are they headed in now?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m on my way.” Before he could hand her any more arguments, she pressed End, cutting off anything he’d been about to say.

  She ran to the bedroom and threw on the nearest set of scrubs she found. How was it that more than half her wardrobe was made up of the comfortable clothes? She even slept in a clean set most of the time.

  Giving her hair a quick brush, she shoved a plastic headband up over her forehead so she wouldn’t have to blow-dry her bangs into any semblance of order. She decided to forgo makeup as well, in the interests of time—resisting the little voice inside her that urged her to make an effort. Neither Greg nor the patient cared how she looked. She’d stay long enough to get that computer system up and running, then she’d take off again. Fifteen minutes in and out, tops.

  The image of her and Greg and their quick “in and out” session ran through her head and she groaned aloud. Stop it.

  As she ran back through the kitchen, she grabbed a canvas grocery bag and slid the entire tray of muffins inside. She could eat in the car as she was starving. And since Greg’s call had come in just after eight o’clock, she doubted he’d fixed himself much of a breakfast either. He’d probably been at the office for at least a half hour, fiddling with that computer, before being forced to call for help. Besides, there was no way she could eat a dozen muffins by herself. She’d leave some there for him to take home.

  The trip to the clinic took less than ten minutes. Thankfully the light snow hadn’t turned into ice, so the roads were clear and dry so far. She hadn’t gotten a chance to listen to the forecast, so she could only hope the weather held until she got out of there.

  She found the front door to the clinic unlocked, so she pushed through it, muffins in one hand, purse in the other. Greg popped up from behind the desk, where he’d evidently still been trying to figure out the computer. His eyes skimmed over her and he blinked a couple of times.

  Did she look that bad? Because he sure didn’t. His hair was sticking up a bit, probably from dragging his fingers through it in frustration as she’d seen him do many times before. He was more casual today in a dark T-shirt that hugged his chest and arms.

  Setting her things on the counter so she didn’t end up staring, she slid the muffin pan from the bag. “Here, eat.”

  He stood the rest of the way, and she noted that his lower half was as casual as the upper. Worn jeans gripped his lean hips and thighs, the color fading where the fabric followed a certain decadent curve. One that had her biting her lip in an effort to rip her gaze away from it.

  A throat cleared, the sound shocking her back into action. “What are they?”

  They? Oh, the food.

  “Sunshine muffins. They have pineapple and orange zest. They’re happy tasting.”

  His lips curved as he took the napkin-wrapped muffin she held out. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone refer to food as ‘happy.’”

  “Wait until you taste one.” She took a muffin for herself, realizing she hadn’t eaten in the car as she’d intended.

  Greg’s white teeth cut the miniature cake in half, his brows going up. He swallowed and then studied the muffin. “Okay, so maybe there’s something to that description.”

  “Told you.” She took a bite of her own piece, loving the way the pineapple chunks provided a little extra spurt of moisture. Anyone who’d ever eaten these knew they were about as close to heaven as you could get.

  She swallowed. Well, she used to believe that. Up until a week ago.

  “Well, I’ll see about that computer.” Taking her muffin with her, she edged past Greg, who’d finished his first one and was reaching for a second.

  “Thanks for these. I forgot to eat.”

  Just as she’d suspected. Kneeling in front of the computer, she took another bite as she felt around the back of the CPU box and jiggled one of the many cords snaking behind the equipment to make sure it was tight in its slot.

&nbs
p; She pressed the power button and heard the promising whine of success.

  “It’s coming up.” Greg’s voice came from beside her and, as she knew they would, her eyes paused as they traveled up his leg—even though it was obvious he was talking about the computer monitor coming up and not something else.

  Gawd. What was wrong with her? Wasn’t she in enough trouble as it was?

  She forced herself to look at his face. “Come here, and I’ll show you what to do the next time it happens.”

  The second he crouched beside her, she realized asking him to do so had been a huge mistake. Ducked down behind the desk together, their knees touched, making the space seem smaller and much more intimate.

  She held up the attached cord, horrified to note it shook in time with her hand. “This one comes loose periodically. Stella says that if you bump it the wrong way, it shuts everything off. The thing drives her crazy.”

  “I’ll have to have it fixed,” he murmured. “Where does the cord lead?”

  His fingers touched hers for a second before sliding along the piece of wiring, her heart crashing around in her chest as the scent of soap and cool aftershave hit her senses. She could lean three inches to the left and her cheek would slide along his jaw. She forced her body to go rigid instead and held her ground.

  “Ah, there you are.” He withdrew his hand and turned to look at her, their faces now inches apart. “So all I need to do is make sure there’s a good connection?”

  “C-connection?” Her brain struggled with the word, since the only connection she could think of involved having her lips mashed up against his. “Oh, the power cable.”

  “What did you think I was talking about?” His voice was impossibly low, his breath gliding across her cheek.

  He didn’t want to know.

  “The computer, of course.”

  “Ah, and here I thought you were talking about matches.”

  As in the “playing with matches” comment she’d made a week ago?

  His lips curved with a secret knowledge. He knew exactly what she’d been thinking.

  “Hannah.” The chiding tone should have made her smile back, but it didn’t.

  Instead, the tip of her tongue came out to moisten her mouth just as Greg’s fingers walked up her nape then curved around it, the warmth of his hand sending a shiver over her.

  Lord, was he going to kiss her? Again?

  The sudden tinkle of the bell over the front door made Hannah rear back so quickly she landed on her backside with a grunt. She then jumped up from behind the desk, her hand automatically going to her hair as if she’d just been caught doing something naughty. Which she hadn’t. At least, not yet.

  It was the patient and her husband. She could only hope that Greg had crawled away on his hands and knees and made his escape, because if he stood up right now…

  As if on cue, her boss unfolded his long length and casually climbed to his feet, brushing dust from the front of jeans, while she cringed inwardly.

  He came around the counter, and offered his hand to each of them. “One of our computer connections seemed to have come loose, and I couldn’t switch it on. Hannah was showing me which cable it was.”

  Not a tremor or a warble affected his voice, and even Hannah believed him. What he’d said was true, after all. So why did her face burn like the inside of a kiln? Because her boss could quite possibly be the father of her child? And she’d been about to let him try for a double. Ack!

  In the background, she heard Greg asking about Claire’s symptoms in low, soothing tones. By now they were all seated in the waiting room’s leatherette chairs, with Greg leaning forward as if trying to catch every word his patient said.

  Hannah could remember him doing exactly the same thing when he’d visited her in the hospital that first time. He hadn’t written anything down, instead he’d let her pour out all her hopes and fears and had answered each of her questions. A little black book had sat in his lap, but he’d never opened it until the very end, when he’d scheduled her appointment.

  That appointment book was nowhere in sight right now, but she had no doubt Greg would remember everything spoken in that room.

  She wasn’t sure what to do. Did he want her to leave now that the computer problem had been fixed? She could at least look up Claire’s chart, as that’s what he’d wanted the computer for in the first place. She sat behind the desk and flipped through screens until she came to the patient’s information. Hitting Print, she went over and retrieved the small stack of papers that contained digitized test results and observations. Then she padded over to Greg, who held out a hand for the packet without taking his eyes off his patient.

  “I want to take a look and see what’s going on, okay?” He glanced at the woman’s husband. “Why don’t you come back with us?”

  A wave of relief washed over her. She could escape while everyone was in the back.

  Right before Greg walked through the door, he glanced back. “Would you mind waiting around for a while? I could really use another of those muffins.”

  A muffin? He really expected her to believe that?

  “Um…no, not at all. I’ll be happy to stay.”

  As soon as he left, Hannah sank into a chair, leaning her head against the cream-colored wall behind her with a roll of her eyes. She’d be happy to stay? Why hadn’t she just said, “And where would you like me this time, sir? In your office? Or shall we climb back under the front desk?”

  * * *

  Greg wasn’t sure why he’d asked Hannah to stay, other than to find out if she’d heard anything about her hormone levels. Had her HCG spiked? Or remained level?

  His patient lay on the exam table, her husband murmuring softly to her. She looked so remarkably like his sister that he often found himself staring as if she could suddenly morph into Bethany at any moment and start laughing about old times. Even the eternal spark of optimism was something his sister had had. He was convinced that if Bethany had lived, she would have turned out very much like Claire—a kind, giving, cheerful person. She would have had a happy life…had a husband who adored her, just as Claire’s husband obviously doted on his wife.

  Watching the pair, he saw nothing of the grasping greediness he’d felt when he had gone after his PA last week.

  There was so much he should regret about that night, but he couldn’t seem to wring that particular emotion from his brain, or any other part of his body. Instead, he had been ready to move in for another sample just before his patient had walked through the door.

  Luckily she had, because seeing her had snapped him back to the present and reminded him exactly why he was there. Especially when he saw how pale she was, how tired looking. He hadn’t been able to save his sister, but he was damned well going to do everything in his power to help Claire. Was he using his patient as a substitute? Doing for one what he hadn’t been able to do for the other? Maybe, but in the end it didn’t matter as long as it worked.

  He forced his attention back to Claire. He could have asked Hannah to come in with him, but he needed a little breathing space. Besides, taking blood pressure and temperature gave him something concrete to do with his hands, and with his thoughts.

  He glanced at the readout on the tympanic thermometer and frowned. One hundred point one degrees. A low-grade fever. The beginning of an infection? Not good when dealing with a chemo patient’s weakened immune system. A thread of worry twisted inside him. “Have you been exposed to anyone who’s ill?”

  “I don’t think so. I had chills last night, and stomach cramps. I had a little fever, but nothing too terrible.”

  He felt her abdomen for signs of tenderness. “Does anything hurt right now?”

  “No. I actually feel better, but Doug insisted on calling.”

  Good man. He nodded at him in reassurance.

  “And he was right. You still have a slight fever. I’m going to prescribe some antibiotics, just in case, but if your temperature climbs above one hundred and two degrees, I wa
nt you call me and then head straight to Anchorage Regional and let them give you some intravenous meds.”

  Her husband placed his hand on her shoulder. “Do you want her to do her chemo treatment this week?”

  “When’s it scheduled?”

  “Friday morning.”

  Almost a week away. She needed to stay on the regimen if at all possible. “If her fever’s gone completely, then go ahead, as long as her blood count looks good.” He glanced back at his patient. “Can I check the incision?”

  He knew this was hard for her, but he had to be sure nothing was acting up.

  Claire swallowed, but opened the gown so that he could check the mastectomy site for signs of redness or infection. Her husband held her hand and leaned down to whisper in her ear again while Greg studied the area. It looked clean and well healed. Her pulled her robe closed and gently squeezed her shoulder. “I don’t see anything here to worry about.”

  Grabbing a pad from a nearby drawer, he scribbled a prescription for antibiotics.

  Claire spoke up. “Sorry to drag you away from whatever you were doing.”

  It took him a second to realize she was talking in generalities and not about catching him and Hannah under the figurative boardwalk. Being able drop everything at a moment’s notice to help patients like Claire was the exact reason he’d chosen not to have a wife and family. His sister had stayed on his case until he’d agreed to at least try med school for a year. She’d been right. He was meant to be a doctor.

  His throat tightened. She hadn’t lived to see the completion of that dream. But he could honor her memory by being the best damned doctor he could be. Especially since the doctor who’d ultimately treated her during her illness had been everything he’d learned to despise in a physician. He’d cared more about his golf swing than his patients.

  Maybe that wasn’t an entirely fair assessment, but that particular specialist’s reputation—as he’d discovered later—left a little to be desired.

  “Don’t apologize. I wasn’t doing anything special today. And I always want you to call if something’s worrying you. It’s usually easier to head problems off than to try to fix them once the wheels have been spinning for a while.”