Midnight, Moonlight & Miracles

“I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. You’re not fooling me, mister. You’re trying to distract me.”

“Is it working?” he asked.

“What do you think?” She half turned and reached into her medical bag for the blood pressure cuff and her stethoscope.

“I think I’m on a roll.”

“Since when are you a glass-is-half-full kind of guy?”

“Since I’m interested in what the doctor had to say about Bayleigh’s eyes.”

“He said they’re progressing normally.”

He frowned. “What does that mean?”

A slip of the tongue. She hadn’t meant to phrase it like that. Because she had no intention of telling him her daughter was a walking, talking, seeing medical miracle. That she’d had a cornea transplant and her progress was more than anyone had hoped for. That there was always the chance of rejection and every successful checkup was a blessed gift and a result of another family’s devastating loss and incredibly generous, courageous sacrifice.

Simon Reynolds had his own demons to wrestle. He didn’t need, or really want, she suspected, to know the latent anxiety Megan and Bayleigh lived with on a daily basis.

“The doctor said that everything is fine.”

“Isn’t she a little young for eye doctor exams?”

Megan shook her head. “She started kindergarten this year. It’s for my peace of mind. I wear contacts and struggled with seeing the board in school and too shy to say anything.”

“You? Shy?” The corners of his mouth curved up.

“What can I say? I’ve blossomed. Anyway, I wanted her to have a baseline guide so that if she begins to have problems in school, we can eliminate vision as the culprit.”

“What a dedicated mom.”

“And how would you know that she’s on the young side for an eye exam?”

“I know a little something about kids.”

Which was all Simon intended to say on the subject. Anything more would open up a painful wound that all her cleaning and ointment and taking vitals wouldn’t help.

How he envied her. He also knew there was more to her story. Her phrasing, quick backpedaling and the shadows in her blue eyes told him so. He guessed something about her daughter’s health had sent her bonehead boyfriend running for cover. The idiot didn’t know what he’d given up.

Simon would trade his own life if it would bring Marcus back. He would face health challenges or anything else for another chance to look into his son’s smiling face, his sparkling, intelligent blue eyes.

But at the moment, another pair of big, beautiful blue eyes regarded him seriously. Megan. She was wearing shapeless pink cotton pants and a matching top that he knew were called scrubs. They looked more like pajamas. The idea gave him thoughts an injured man shouldn’t be entertaining. How could she make the shapeless, sexless outfit look so damn sexy?

Megan cleared her throat. He’d noticed that was a habit of hers to get his attention. And a good thing for him that she did it. His train of thought was not only counterproductive, it was dangerous. He didn’t want to care about anyone again. Caring and loss hurt more than anything he’d endured at the business end of Megan’s healing hands.

“I’m going to take your temperature.”

She sat down beside him and he could smell the sweet perfume of flowers, the innocence of a blooming meadow. Her hair was up, twisted into some sort of complicated braid. That left her long graceful neck bare. It was a beautiful neck.

“Open wide.” She stuck the thermometer into his mouth. “Keep it under your tongue. It has to stay there for about a minute.” She gave him a wry look. “In the hospital, they’ve got fancy gizmos that can do this in the blink of an eye.”

He wasn’t worried about time or inconvenience as much as he was that the darned thing would shoot off the scale. Because his temperature was definitely on the rise. Along with other parts of him. How could he be walking wounded one minute and hyperaware of a beautiful woman the next?

The answer was a simple five-letter word. Megan. Suddenly, he wanted to see another side of her, something besides the sensible, sarcastic smart aleck.

She pulled the thing out and read it. “Ninety-eight point six. What do you know? Right on the button. Completely normal.”

“Don’t I get points for that?”

“Let’s do the blood pressure and pulse before we start negotiating for pats on the back, hotshot.”

She wrapped the black cuff around his upper arm and pressed the Velcro together to hold it in place. Pumping on the bulb, she inflated the contraption, then put the stethoscope in her ears with the flat, circular part on the inside of his elbow. The feel of her small, delicate fingers burned into his arm. He heard the slow whoosh of air as she released the pressure, and he watched her study the gauge.

When it was completely deflated, she ripped off the cuff and met his gaze. “Hmm.”

“What is it?”

“One-twenty over eighty.”

“I’ve watched enough medical dramas to know that’s right on the money.”

And he was relieved that it hadn’t gone off the scale. The warmth of her body, the subtle scent of her perfume, the sight of her soft skin combined to make him feel that the reading might blow the hell out of the indicator gauge. Insanity was the only explanation for his sudden, powerful urge to pull her into his arms.

“Let’s not do the dance of joy just yet,” she cautioned. “There’s still your pulse.”

Uh-oh. If she took that, he wouldn’t be able to hide his reaction to her. His heart was pounding, and she’d know it, too, as soon as she put her fingers on his wrist to take the reading. This whole thing was a bad idea. What had he been thinking to ask for her? Answer: he obviously hadn’t been thinking. At least not with his head.

She took his forearm in her small hands and pressed two fingers to his wrist. He pulled back.

Meeting his gaze, she said, “You lose points for that.”

“I’ll chance it. As you can see, everything is in working order.” And then some, he thought ruefully.

Why now? Why did he feel something? He’d trained himself when, where and how to let loose his feelings—when he was on the edge. And she’d made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him, which was fine and dandy, because he didn’t want anything to do with her, either. His mistake had been not settling for another nurse. He had to get rid of her.

And he knew just how to do it.

Simon reached over and took her small, pointed chin in his hand. Leaning forward, he noted the startled look in her eyes, just before he lowered his mouth to hers. He tasted shock and surprise. Then, for several heart-stopping seconds, her full lips softened and he swore he heard the barest hint of a sigh. Obviously, he was wrong, because she broke the contact and jumped up.

She backed away several steps, as if he was fire and she was underbrush that hadn’t seen rain in months.

“What in the world are you doing?” she asked, brushing the back of her hand across her mouth.

“I think that was pretty obvious.”

“Why did you do that?”

“You’re a beautiful woman. I lost my head.”