The Surgeon's New-Year Wedding Wish

“Why did he do this?” Anton’s mother asked. “Why?”

Again she had no answers. She glanced toward Quinn, whose face was drawn so tight he almost looked angry, but the agonized expression in his gaze reinforced his struggle to hide his own grief and helplessness.

“It’s not your fault,” Quinn finally said, taking a step forward to put a reassuring hand on the sobbing woman’s shoulder. “Please know, this isn’t your fault.”

“It has to be our fault!” The woman cried, nearly incoherent in her distress. “How could we not have known he was so unhappy? How could we have missed it?”

“It’s not your fault,” Quinn repeated.

“Teen suicide is very tragic,” Leila said in a soft tone, picking up a pamphlet from the rack of educational brochures on the wall. “It’s normal to feel responsible, but you need to know Dr. Torres is right. This isn’t your fault.” She slid the pamphlet toward Anton’s mother. “There’s a support group here for parents just like you. When things calm down after a few weeks, please consider giving them a call.”

Anton’s mother continued to cry and didn’t take the brochure. Anton’s father pulled himself together, the gut-wrenching sobs eventually quieting, and he reached for the information, folding the pamphlet before sliding it in his pocket. Leila sincerely hoped they’d get the help they needed.

After a few more minutes, she and Quinn left them alone. The ED nurses would keep an eye on the parents and for now their job was over.

“That was a rough one,” Leila murmured to Quinn. “He was so young.”

“Any suicide is rough, regardless of how young the patient is,” Quinn said in a harsh tone. “Suicide is a horrible thing to do to a family.”

Shocked by his outburst, she didn’t know what to say.

Instantly, his face changed, resuming the remote, cold mask he normally wore. “Excuse me, but I need to make rounds on the other patients in the arena.”

He left and Leila stared after him, the brief moment of camaraderie between them having vanished in a heartbeat.

Yet she wasn’t angry or upset. As she watched him move toward the arena and speak to the charge nurse, she found herself wondering about the enigmatic physician.

Because she was fairly certain Quinn Torres wasn’t nearly as arrogant and rude as she’d originally thought.

She was beginning to realize his outward aloofness might be a shield to hide the suffering he was feeling inside.

Chapter Two

QUINN tried not to dwell on Anton Mayer’s death as he finished the remainder of his work and prepared to head home. He’d split the night shift with Jadon Reichert who’d come in to relieve him at three in the morning to cover Simon Carter’s holiday. It was only fair, as Simon had worked the night shift on Christmas Eve.

Physically exhausted and emotionally drained, he crawled into bed, hoping to get at least four hours of sleep before he had to get up to face the day.

Yet as soon as he closed his eyes, the image of Anton’s bloody face bloomed in his mind. Squeezing his eyes tight and trying to push it away didn’t help because he could still hear the desperate sobs of Anton’s parents echoing through the room as Leila told them Anton was gone.

The young man’s death haunted him.

He didn’t need a psychiatrist to explain why. He knew full well the events of the night reminded him too much of his wife, Celeste. She hadn’t jumped off a two-story building onto concrete, but she’d died by her own hand just the same, abruptly ending her young life far too soon.

He’d resented reliving the grief and angst all over again while talking to Anton’s parents. Knowing you should have saved someone and hadn’t was an awful feeling. He’d known exactly what dark hopelessness they’d felt.

Thank heavens for Leila. He wasn’t sure what he would have done if she hadn’t come with him. She’d been the one who’d given them the bad news. And she’d also cried with them, while he’d stood and helplessly watched.

And then she’d tried to comfort him, and he’d snapped at her. He’d learned in the months since Celeste’s death that rudeness and arrogance kept people away.

So why did he regret the way he’d spoken to Leila?

Scrubbing his hands over his face, wishing he could erase the scars of the past as easily, he stared through the darkness up at the ceiling. He owed the beautiful, exotic surgeon a debt of gratitude. And an apology. She hadn’t deserved the harsh edge of his anger.

Thinking of Leila helped him to forget about Anton, at least temporarily. Those few moments when their fingers had tangled over the chart had sent his pulse skyrocketing into triple digits. The physical reaction, akin to being poked with a laser-tipped bovie, had startled him. He hadn’t felt anything remotely like it in the many months since Celeste’s death.

Leila was a good surgeon, he’d figured that out shortly after working with her the very first time. And she was the one who’d noticed Anton’s compartment syndrome in his legs. He didn’t blame her for not being able to save the young man. He’d known right from the first that Anton’s chances of surviving his severe injury had been slim.

Leila’s ability to be compassionate with her patients and their families, while maintaining her professionalism, was a trait he admired.

Yet admiring the woman was one thing, being interested in her on a personal level was completely out of the question. Certainly she was beautiful, her ethnicity portraying a hint of the Orient, with her slightly almondshaped eyes and straight black hair. But he’d been surrounded by beautiful women before and hadn’t once felt even a flicker of interest.

Testosterone, he thought as exhaustion weighted his eyelids. He was a man who’d been celibate for too long and she was a beautiful woman. His response to her had been nothing more than chemistry, plain and simple.

Nothing more.

A gentle, yet insistent patting on his chest caused Quinn to rouse from sleep. He swallowed a groan and groggily opened his eyes, realizing he was not alone.

His six-year old son, Danny, was patting his chest, silently asking him to wake up. He swiped the grit from his eyes and smiled at him. “Good morning, Danny,” he said, hoping but not expecting a response.

Danny grinned, showing a small gap between his two front baby teeth. His son signed the word breakfast and Quinn nodded.

“Yes, I’m hungry for breakfast, too.” He automatically signed the words, even though he knew perfectly well there was nothing wrong with Danny’s ability to hear. Still, if he didn’t practice his signing, he tended to get rusty. “Where’s Auntie D.?”

In the kitchen, making oatmeal, Danny signed in response. She wants to know if you want some, too.

“Sure.” He might have preferred eggs and bacon, but Celeste’s aunt, Delores Newkirk, had been on a major health food regimen lately, so he suspected fried eggs and bacon were not an option. He was so grateful that she’d stepped up to help him with Danny, agreeing not only to taking care of his son during whatever chaotic hours he had to work but also relocating with them from Boston to the tiny town of Cedar Bluff, that he’d decided long ago not to complain. He couldn’t imagine raising his son without the help of the plump, middle-aged godsend, the one member of his wife’s family who didn’t blame him for Celeste’s death, although he certainly understood their feelings. “Just give me a few minutes to shower and I’ll be ready.”

Danny grinned again. Okay, but you’d better hurry ’cause oatmeal tastes bad when it’s cold.

“Right.” He nodded in agreement, swinging his legs out of bed and wishing there was an easy way to mainline caffeine. He needed to blow the cobwebs from his brain. The scent of coffee teased him mercilessly as he made his way to the shower.

Fifteen minutes later, he padded into the kitchen, where Delores was seated at the kitchen table across from Danny. “Good morning, Quinn. Did you have a rough night?”

“Not too bad,” he said with a shrug, making a beeline for the coffeemaker. “Thanks for making breakfast.”

“You came home pretty late,” she commented. Her tone was casual, but the glint in her eye betrayed her interest. “Did you go out after your shift?”

Quinn hid a sigh. Lately, Delores was becoming obsessed with his social life or lack thereof. He was growing weary of her not-so-subtle hints. “No, the night shift physician worked Christmas Eve night, so I split the shift with the day shift doctor to cover the night shift for Christmas night. I stayed until three in the morning and Jadon came in at three.”

“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose in disappointment. Then her expression brightened. “But you’re off the rest of the day, right?”

“Yes, and so are you.” He took a seat next to her at the table and helped himself to the large bowl of oatmeal she’d set out for him. “You’re going down to Chicago for a holiday visit with your sister today, and don’t pretend you’ve forgotten.”

“But I don’t have to go if you need me to stay here,” she said, rising to her feet to refill her coffee mug. “Cynthia would surely understand if Danny needs me to stay.”

“Hardly,” he muttered, unable to imagine his wife’s mother caring one way or the other about the grandson she hadn’t seen in well over a year. Her anger toward Quinn at causing her daughter’s death had unfortunately carried over to his and Celeste’s son. He felt bad for Danny, not himself. “In fact, if you don’t go, she’ll blame me for that, too.”

Delores sighed and nodded. “I guess you’re right. But what about next weekend? Surely you can make some plans to go out next weekend?”