First-Time Valentine. Mary J. Forbes
be up before you know it.”
She turned to go.
“Doc? I’m sorry for last night. What I said. About the throbbing.”
“No offense taken. Sometimes pain will make people say strange things.” Which was true.
“You’re Peter Wilder’s sister.”
“I am.”
His dry lips worked up a semi-smile. “Much prettier to look at. But…this won’t stop me from moving NHC’s agenda forward.”
Of course it wouldn’t. “Mr. Sumner. I have larger issues to worry about than what’s up your sleeve.”
His gaze touched her bare arm. “Cute arm up your sleeve.”
“Later,” she said. But his look felt like a touch of his big hand.
“The pretty lady blushes.”
Shaking her head, she left recovery vexed he could knot her tongue with less than a handful of words. With just a look. Get ahold of yourself, Ella. You’re a doctor and he’s…he’s a patient!
And the most virile man she’d seen in years.
Lord, the mere length of his eyelashes had her heart in arrhythmia. Oh, yes. One look from him and her palms sweated as though she sat behind the hottest boy in ninth grade—instead of being the accomplished doctor she was and a woman of almost thirty.
And still a virgin, Ella. Let’s not forget that.
The thought of celebrating her next birthday in another maiden voyage had her shuddering.
Dammit. Four years ago she should have worked harder to coax Tyler out of his issues of impotency and away from thinking he wasn’t a “whole” man because he sat in a wheelchair. However, she’d been so busy interning she’d let them fall into a platonic relationship. Which in itself was a revelation. She hadn’t truly loved Tyler as a woman should. She’d loved him as a friend.
Perhaps, if they’d had sex… Who was she kidding? She’d chosen him as a safety net—one that kept her focused on her honors status rather than her status as a woman.
Still, had they had some form of sex she’d be more suave today, more adept around the J.D.’s of the world.
Pretty. His word swirled in her mind. She’d never considered herself pretty. Anna, her sister, was the pretty one. No, the beautiful one with the white-blond hair and lovely blue eyes.
If J. D. Sumner saw Anna, he wouldn’t look a second time at Ella with her plain brown eyes, the straight dark hair she hacked off the instant it closed in on the collar of her lab coat.
Be grateful for what you’ve got Ella.
And she was grateful. For many things. Her siblings. This hospital, founded on the ethics and standards of her late father. Her family’s resources to send her to university. Her intelligence.
So…why couldn’t she be grateful and pretty?
She gave herself an inner shake. She didn’t have time for this—this silly vanity. She’d taken the Hippocratic oath, for God’s sake. Nothing mattered but her skill. She had no time to think about J.D. and the experiences he had with beautiful women.
So she told herself…every spare second of her shift.
Chapter Two
At 8:00 p.m. that night she pulled her Yaris into her garage from the back alley and shut off the ignition. Bone-tired, she sat listening to the engine tick. The car had been her father’s last birthday gift, a month before his retirement—and untimely death.
She remembered the massive red ribbon on the hood, the gigantic card with Happy 29th, Ella! Love always, Dad on the driver’s seat.
Her eyes stung. Never again would she see her barrel-chested daddy, hear his kind voice, feel his big bear-paw hands stroke her hair or rub her shoulder affectionately.
That birthday had been the best. Sometime during the night, he’d driven the car into her garage and had her beatup Chevy removed. Then he’d rung her doorbell at five in the morning, an hour before her shift at the hospital. He’d stood there on her little porch with a cup of Starbucks in one hand and The Boston Globe in the other. And the biggest grin.
The early morning sun dappling his gray hair, he’d led her through her little backyard, with its grand old maples, to the garage, saying he needed a ride to the hospital because he’d cabbed it to her house to wish her a happy birthday.
And there sat the little blue Yaris.
Ah, Daddy. I hope you know I miss you like crazy.
Sighing, she hit the remote for the garage door before climbing from the car with a sack with homemade clam chowder from Prudy’s Menu, a deli she frequented when she worked overtime.
Tugging her wool-lined coat tight around her, she headed across the snowy, moonlit backyard for the rear door of her small Cape Cod house, the one her maternal grandmother had lived in for sixty-two years and bequeathed to Ella and Anna three years ago. From the start, Anna hadn’t wanted the house, but Ella vowed to buy out her half by setting up an account and depositing monthly increments in her sister’s name.
As she stepped inside her quaint country kitchen, a squeaky meow greeted her before a three-legged bundle of gray fur came around the corner. A year ago, Ella had found the wounded kitten on the side of a highway, and brought her home to heal.
“Hey, Miss Molly.” She cuddled the animal close. “Smell the soup, do you? Let’s find you some nice tuna instead.”
At nine, she turned out the kitchen lights and headed down the hall to take a bath. Oh, but she was tired.
Today had been a grueling one. Ice on the highways resulted in two traffic accidents, causing broken legs, a shattered shoulder and a fractured spine. Then there was the man shoveling snow off his roof who’d fallen to a cement patio, smashing both heels.
And of course, J. D. Sumner with his damaged knee.
She had popped into his room before leaving the hospital. Why she’d left him until last on her evening rounds, she couldn’t say. Normally, she checked each patient room-by-room, ward-by-ward.
But she’d gone to check the roof faller first before backtracking to room 239—one of only three private rooms in the hospital.
Nothing but the best for the executive of Northeastern HealthCare, she thought wryly.
Eyes on the small muted TV, cell phone attached to an ear, he’d been resting comfortably when she entered the room.
Finally, I get some attention, he’d grumbled after ending the call. His sensual lips quirked and between his lashes there lay a gleam. Heard you in the corridor, he’d gone on. Either you were afraid to come into my room or I’m your favorite patient and you saved the best till last.
At that, she laughed. She couldn’t help it. Despite his helplessness in that hospital bed, the man had an impossible ego. She explained that his room was near the exit—at which he’d chuckled and called her a fibber.
The banter continued for several moments before she examined his surgery, checked his blood pressure, pulse and temperature. And then he asked, Why are you doing the nurse’s job?
Why, indeed? she thought now, letting herself slide beneath the steamy water for a moment before rinsing out her hair.
How could she characterize her father’s legacy to a man geared to implementing the type of corporate practices armed to decimate the care of WRG? Practices that filed a patient under a number rather than a name, that sent patients home with little more than a fare-thee-well.
So the rumors went.
James