One Night She Would Never Forget

He grinned. ‘Happy dreams.’

And by the time she looked up again, his door was clicking shut.

Patrick Costello flopped fully clothed back on his bed, a smile on his face. Four nights of interrupted sleep—three with an ill child and last night in the operating theatre with a kidney transplant—had left him utterly wrecked.

But Miranda Dean’s cute little blush had perked him up considerably.

He lay in the dark, the lights off, staring at the ceiling. It was so quiet. The low hum of the air-con was all that could be heard in the well-insulated room and it was unnerving. Back home in suburban Sydney he was surrounded by the constant chatter of a four-year-old and the blare of the television as his mother-in-law settled in for her nightly shows.

Silence was a novelty.

It should be bliss, he supposed, but it just felt wrong. It always felt wrong when he was away from Ruby.

He sat up and flicked the television on, clicking the remote until he came to a news station. But the noise wasn’t the same and the room felt cold and empty.

He wondered if it felt like that next door. Was Miranda missing her daughter too?

He’d noticed her as soon as the lift doors had opened—hard not to as she had been the only occupant. But he’d have noticed her through a crowd with that curtain of wavy ebony hair falling forward as she trawled through her voluminous bag. A sleek navy skirt with fine pinstripes clung to hips and thighs that could only belong to a woman. A glossy dark grey blouse fell against very nice breasts, her nametag swinging enticingly between them.

Miranda Dean.

Did she always carry the little pink teddy or was it just one of those things that seemed to find their way into bags when a child was in the mix?

Interesting that she too had a four-year-old daughter.

Very interesting.

He caught himself smiling again and groaned as he flopped back. Get a grip. You have a presentation to embellish and sleep to catch up on.

Now have a shower and get to work!

Patrick obeyed the stern voice in his head, knowing it was right. He wasn’t here to swap baby photos and funny kiddie stories with a woman he barely knew just because he was missing Ruby. It was only one night and two days. He could get by without mentioning her name, surely?

He jumped in the shower, dunking himself under the spray, washing away some of the exhaustion but knowing no matter how long he stayed it could never wash away the accumulated hours of lost sleep and worry over the last four-plus years.

They went bone deep.

He got out, dried off, ruffled his damp hair, pulled on some jeans, snagged a beer out of the fridge and headed for the desk, the flickering light from the television guiding the way. He switched on the desk lamp as he sat and opened his laptop then took a deep swallow of his beer and got to work.

Two hours later he’d checked his emails, added some slides to his presentation and done some literature reviews for a new study he and three other anaesthetists were trying to get off the ground.

It was ten-thirty and he was yawning. He dropped his head from side to side, stretching his neck and knowing that it was useless going to bed this early. Bitter experience had taught him that no matter how tired he was, he’d lie in bed and think and overthink until he was too wound up to drift off.

Nope. Going to bed before midnight never worked out well for him.

He stood and stretched some more. Maybe some of his colleagues would still be hanging around the bar. A bit of relaxed conversation … a couple of whiskies …

Now, that was the recipe for sleep.

Miranda gently swirled the red wine round and round her glass as she tracked her sexy neighbour’s progress across the bar. She’d spied him the instant he’d walked in and their gazes had locked within seconds. He’d smiled at her and she’d smiled back.

And where her heart had been hammering at the sight of him it settled instantly as he started to walk towards her. There was a surrealness about it. But at the same time it felt natural.

It felt a lot like fate.

Which was a big thing for someone who didn’t do bar pick-ups. Who didn’t do anything rash or spontaneous.

Not since she’d been seventeen, anyway.

Yet strangely she didn’t seem to be able to stop watching him.

He sat on the stool next to her. ‘Couldn’t sleep, Miranda Dean?’

That teasing tone of his was so charming and flirty it stole her breath. ‘Someone was snoring next door, Patrick Costello,’ she murmured.

‘Ah … you’ve been looking me up. Should I be flattered?’

Miranda shook her head. ‘Not by that mug shot of you—you look like a criminal.’

He gave a chuckle and it was deep and rich and Miranda found herself wanting to move in even closer. His hair curled in wisps around his ears and at his nape. He was wearing jeans and a casual long-sleeved T-shirt.

‘I think that was taken after a particularly heinous nine-hour op,’ he said as he motioned to the bartender for a Scotch on the rocks. ‘Plus I’m not very photogenic.’

Miranda found that exceedingly difficult to believe. He had that laid-back sex appeal that cameras adored.

‘So, Miranda, are you from around here?’

It was Miranda’s turn to laugh. ‘I’m from Brisbane, yes, but I should let you know right from the start that I am a responsible single mother of one and do not let guys in bars pick me up. I don’t even go to bars.’

Patrick smiled. So she was single. ‘Would you believe me if I told you I don’t either?’

Miranda shook her head. ‘No.’ He looked exactly like he hung out in bars. And never went home alone. Drinks with colleagues after work. Flirting with the nurses. Smiling that sinful smile at the waitresses.

He gave her a faux wounded sigh. ‘Sad but true.’

And somehow she found she believed him. ‘So how come you’re here now?’

‘Can’t sleep.’ His drink arrived and he held his glass up. ‘To insomnia.’

Miranda clinked her glass against his. ‘I’ll drink to that,’ she said, taking a sip of her Shiraz, watching him over the rim as a slug of amber liquid slid down his throat.

Patrick felt the burn all the way down to his stomach. He placed his glass on the bar and turned to face her. Up this close her smoky green eyes and heart-shaped face, free of lines or any kind of adornment, were even more appealing.

He was attracted to her. But more than that, he wanted to talk to her.

There was no harm in that, right?

‘So where’s your daughter tonight? Lola, right?’