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Wedding Date With The Army Doc
Lynne Marshall


It started at a wedding…Since her recent life-saving—and life-changing—operation, Charlotte Johnson has steered clear of romance…but brooding Jackson Hilstead is too delicious to resist! Surely some harmless flirting with the sexy army doc can’t hurt?Charlotte knows Jackson has his own emotional battles to fight, but she also believes they can be stronger together. So when she accepts his invitation to a family wedding, Charlotte hopes it’s a sign that one day, she’ll be walking down the aisle…with Jackson by her side!Summer BridesTwo unexpected journeys to ‘I do’—two perfect summer weddings…







Dear Reader (#ulink_98c939d7-4240-5f66-9e9b-e930487a01cc),

A few years ago I thought up a story about a female pathologist and ran it by my editor. The story had many flaws and needed much work. At the time I opted to put it away in a drawer, but I didn’t stop thinking about it. After letting the story rest for a while I went back to it and, with the extensive notes I’d received from my editor the first time around, I reworked everything. I’m so happy I did.

Charlotte, my courageous pathologist, made a life-changing decision based on a potential killer that many women have to face. Cancer. She opted to be pre-emptive, and her decision was radical, but in her mind it was saving her life. She had strong reasons for making this decision, based on watching her mother’s battle with and eventual defeat by cancer.

Jackson had everything going for him in life until a second tour of Afghanistan on an army medical team changed everything. He came home wounded and lost, and the already weakened fabric of his marriage didn’t hold up under the stress. But, having almost lost it all, he courageously fought his way back and changed direction. Unfortunately divorce was part of that change, but a new beginning three thousand miles across country in California turned out to be his saving grace.

Picture a small pathology office in the basement of a hospital, where these two wounded and healing people come together in a most unromantic way. Against all odds love still raises its head, as well as the consciousness of these two meant-to-be people. All it takes is their willingness to risk another chance at love.

Is it worth it? Come read Charlotte and Jackson’s story, so you can make your own decision.

Lynne

‘Friend’ me on Facebook!


LYNNE MARSHALL used to worry that she had a serious problem with daydreaming—and then she discovered she was supposed to write those stories! A Rgesitered Nurse for twenty-six years, she came to fiction writing later than most. Now she writes romance which usually includes medicine but always comes straight from her heart. She is happily married, a Southern California native, a woman of faith, a dog-lover, an avid reader, a curious traveller and a proud grandma.




Wedding Date

with the Army Doc

Lynne Marshall







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Many thanks to Flo Nicoll, with her uncanny gift of pinpointing the missing link in my manuscripts and for giving me the freedom to explore diverse and difficult stories.

Also, I’d like to dedicate this book to the ‘Dr Gordon’ I remember so well from my first job, working in a pathology department. I learned so much and was given many opportunities all those years ago! Knowing ‘Dr Gordon’ changed the direction of my life. May he rest in peace.


Praise for Lynne Marshall (#ulink_9fa2d78a-4ca1-5175-a01c-cecc1757da2a)

‘Heartfelt emotion that will bring you to the point of tears, for those who love a second-chance romance written with exquisite detail.’

—Contemporary Romance Reviews on NYC Angels: Making the Surgeon Smile


Contents

COVER (#ufbf77b30-bf46-562a-be70-dff10b310e42)

Dear Reader (#ud0941334-5c3a-5db3-9701-d3d6c7945299)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#uc44b243e-e771-538d-8a2b-94366007eedf)

TITLE PAGE (#ud1cd9ec5-8aa8-596f-a5ca-8a04e8cc4e31)

DEDICATION (#u98f25db2-227c-5cf4-8d94-ee33d04d1f45)

Praise for Lynne Marshall (#uc7ce5c26-b84d-5ca8-a9b1-cfe1e9de6dc0)

CHAPTER ONE (#udf657941-9b85-55c2-97e2-49797a24327a)

CHAPTER TWO (#u0024d8d6-e285-50ac-be1d-22fc5c972914)

CHAPTER THREE (#u2a53bab9-b256-5684-ae49-c9ce33d4d90f)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

COPYRIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_0dbda949-e65c-5446-8ed1-2fd6942812e6)

CHARLOTTE JOHNSON MADE the necessary faces to chew the amazing chocolate, nut and caramel candy she’d just shoved into her mouth between looking at pathology slides. Mid-nut-and-caramel-chew, she glanced up to see a hulking shadow cover her office door. Her secret surgeon crush, Jackson Ryland Hilstead the Third, blocked the fluorescent light from the hallway, causing her to narrow her eyes in order to make out his features. Be still, my heart, and, oh, heavens, stop chewing. Now!

Except she couldn’t talk unless she finished chewing and swallowed, and she figured he’d come for a reason, as he always did Friday afternoons. Probably because of his heavy schedule of surgeries on Thursday and Friday mornings. He’d ask her questions about his patients’ diagnoses and prognoses, and she’d dutifully answer. It had become their routine, and she looked forward to it. After all, as the staff surgical pathologist at St. Francis of the Valley Hospital, it was her job to be helpful to her fellow medical colleagues, even while, in his case, thinking how she’d love to brush that one brown, wavy lock of hair off his forehead. Yeah, she was hopelessly crushing on the man.

She lifted her finger, hoping her sign for “One moment” might compute with the astute doc, then covered her mouth with the other hand as she chewed furiously. Finally, she swallowed with a gulp, feeling heat rise from her neck upward. Great impression.

“Don’t let me interfere,” he said, an amused look on his face. “The last thing I want to do is come between a woman and her chocolate.” Obviously he’d noticed the candy-bar wrapper on her desk.

She grabbed a bottle of water and took a quick swig. “You’re sounding sexist. How unlike you,” she teased, hoping she didn’t have candy residue on her teeth. Of all the male doctors she dealt with on a daily basis, this surgeon was the one who made her feel self-conscious. It most certainly had a lot to do with his piercing blue eyes that the hospital scrubs seemed to highlight brighter than an OR lamp. She pulled her lab coat closed when his eyes surreptitiously and briefly scanned her from head to toe. Or as much as he could see of her with her sitting behind her double-headed microscope.

“Ah, Charlotte...” He sat down across from her. “How well you don’t know me. If you weren’t my favorite pathologist, I’d be offended.” Finally responding to her halfhearted “sexist” slur.

The guy was a Southern gentleman from Georgia, and she wasn’t above stereotyping him, because he was a walking billboard for good manners, charm and—perhaps not quite as appealing considering the odds in a competitive and overstocked female world, in California anyway—knowing how to relate to women. The word smooth came to mind. But it was balanced with sincerity, a rare combination. Plus there was no escaping that slow, rolling-syllable accent, like warm honey down her spine, setting off all sorts of nerve endings she’d otherwise forgotten. He spoke as though they had all the time in the world to talk. She could listen to him all day, and if she’d owned a fan she’d be flapping it now.

“Well, if you weren’t one of my favorite surgeons,” she lied, as he was her absolute favorite, “I would’ve eaten the rest of it.”

One corner of his mouth hitched the tiniest bit. “I think you already have, but don’t worry, your gooey-chocolate choice would be number ten on my list of top three favorite candy bars.”

Busted, she batted her lashes, noticing his spearmint-and-sandalwood scent as he moved closer. She inhaled a little deeper, thinking he liked to change up his aftershave, and that intrigued her.

“And since you brought up the subject of sexism, I’ve got to say you look great today. Turquoise suits you.”

He regularly paid her compliments, which she loved, but figured he was like that with all the women he encountered, so she never took them too seriously. Though she had to admit she longed for him to mean them. What did that say about her dating life? Something in the way his eyes watched her and waited for a response whenever he flattered her made her wonder if maybe she was a tiny bit more special than all the other ladies in the hospital. She liked the idea of that.

“Thank you,” she said, sounding as self-effacing as ever.

“Thank you,” he countered.

Their gazes held perhaps a second longer than she could take, so she pretended the slide on the microscope tray required her immediate and complete attention. “So what do you need?”

Intensely aware of his do-you-really-want-to-know? gaze—this was new and it was a challenge that shook her to the bone—she fought the urge to squirm. Yeah, sexist or sexy or whatever it was he just did with those eyes was way out of her comfort zone. So why did that look excite her, make her wish things could be the way they had been before her operation? Where was that invisible fan again? Shame. Shame. Shame. And she called herself a professional woman.

“Do you have the slides yet for Gary Underwood? A lung biopsy from yesterday afternoon. I’ve got an impatient wife demanding her husband’s results.”

“The weekend is coming, so I can understand her concern.” Charlotte hadn’t yet finished the slides from yesterday morning’s cases, but she was always willing to fish out a few newer ones for interested doctors. Jackson was as concerned about his patients as they came. Another thing she really liked about the guy.

She turned on the desk lamp, sorted through the pile of cardboard slide cases, each carefully labeled by the histology technicians, and found the slides in question. They settled in to study them, their knees nearly touching as they sat on opposite sides of the small table that held her dual-headed teaching microscope. She put her hair behind her ears and moved in, but not before seeing him notice her dangly turquoise earrings that matched her top. She could tell from the spark in his eyes that he liked them, too, but this time kept the fact to himself.

Yes, he was a real gentleman, with broad shoulders and wavy brown hair that he chose to comb straight back from his forehead. And it was just long enough to curl under his ears. Call him a sexy gentleman. Gulp. Very, very sexy.

Being smack in the heart of the San Fernando Valley was nothing new for an original Valley girl like her, but she figured it had to be total culture shock for a man from Savannah. Talk to me, baby. I love that Southern drawl. Why did she have such confidence inside her head but could never dare to act on it? She didn’t waste a single second answering that question. Because things were different now. She wasn’t the woman she’d used to be. Enough said.

In his early forties with a sprinkling of gray at his temples, Jackson had only been in Southern California for a year. Word was, if she could believe everything she heard from Dr. Dupree, Jackson had needed a change after his divorce. Which made him a gentleman misfit in a casual-with-a-capital-C kind of town. She liked that about him, too—the khaki slacks and button-down collared shirts with ties that he’d obviously given some time to selecting. Today the shirt was pale yellow and the tie an expensive-looking subtly sage-green herringbone pattern. Nice.

She turned off the desk light so they could view the slide better. They sat in companionable silence as they studied it. Hearing him breathe ever so gently made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. Good thing she’d worn it down today. Hmm, maybe that was what he liked? Stop it, Charlotte. This will never go anywhere. Maybe that was why she enjoyed the fantasy so much. It was her secret. And it was safe.

She fine-focused on the biopsied lung tissue, increasing the magnification over one particular spot of red-dyed swirls with minuscule black dots until the cells came into full view. They studied the areas in question together. “Notice the angulated nuclear margins and hyperchromasia in this area?” She spoke close to a whisper, a habit she’d got into out of respect for the solemn importance of each patient’s diagnosis.

“Hmm,” he emitted thoughtfully.

She moved the slide on the tray a tiny bit, then refocused. “And here, and here.” She used the white teaching arrow in the high-grade microscope to point out the areas in question.

He inhaled, his eyes never leaving the eyepiece.

“Here are mitotic figures, and here intercellular bridges. Not a good sign.” She pulled back from her microscope. “As you can see, there are variations in size of cells and nuclei, which adds up to squamous cell malignancy. I’ll have to study the rest of the slides to check the margins and figure out the cancer staging, but, unfortunately, the anxiously awaiting wife will have more to be anxious about.”

“Bad news for sure.” Jackson pushed back from the microscope, but not before one of his knees knocked hers, and it hurt her kneecap, feeling almost like metal. Maybe he was Superman in disguise? “I’ll get in touch with Oncology to get a jump on things.”

The situation caused an old and familiar pang in her stomach. Charlotte knew how it felt to be a family member waiting for news from the doctor. She’d gone through the process at fifteen, the year her mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer. That was the day she’d first heard the term metastatic and had vowed to figure out what it meant. And after that she’d vowed to learn everything she could about her mother’s condition.

“Is he young and otherwise healthy?”

“Yes,” Jackson said. “Which will help the prognosis.”

She nodded, though not enthusiastically. Her mother had been young and supposedly healthy, too. The loss of her mother soon after bilateral mastectomies had broken her family’s heart. Her father had never recovered, and within a span of three years of his downhill slide, he’d also died. From alcoholism, his self-medication of choice to deal with the emotional pain. She’d already stepped in as the responsible one when her mother had first been diagnosed, and after she’d died Charlotte had kept the family functioning. Barely. At eighteen, along with applying to colleges, she’d signed on to be the guardian of her kid sister and brother, otherwise they’d have ended up in foster homes.

Her mother’s cancer had changed the course of her life, steering her toward medicine, and later, with her never-ending quest to understand why things happened as they did, sending her into the darker side of the profession, pathology.

“Well, I’ve got to run,” Jackson said, bringing her out of her thoughts. “I’ve got a dinner I can’t miss tonight, and Mrs. Underwood to talk to first.” He stood and took a couple of steps then turned at her office door and looked at her again thoughtfully. “Do you happen to know offhand the extension for social services? I think the Underwoods could use some added support this weekend.”

Having put the desk light back on, she scanned her hospital phone list cheat sheet and read out the numbers, admittedly disappointed to know he had a dinner engagement.

“Thanks,” he said, but not before giving her a thorough once-over again. “Really like those earrings, too.” Then he left, leaving her grinning with warming cheeks.

Wanting desperately to read more into his light flattery than she should, she groaned quietly. The guy had a dinner date! Plus the man probably said things like that to all the women he encountered in his busy days. It had probably been drilled into him back in Georgia since grade school, maybe even before that. Treat all women like princesses.

Who was she kidding, hoping she might be more special than other women he knew? She was five feet nine, a full-figured gal, or had used to be anyway, a size ten, and not many men appreciated that in this thin-as-a-rail era. Besides, even if he did find her attractive, nothing could ever come of it. She’d pretty much taken care of that two years ago with her surgery.

Odds were most men wouldn’t want to get involved with her. She pulled her lab coat tighter across her chest. Her ex-boyfriend had sure changed his mind, calling off their short engagement. They’d been all set to go the conventional route, and she’d loved the idea of having a career, marriage and kids. Her mouth had watered for it. Then...

She’d cut Derek some slack, though, since her decision had been extreme and radical even. They’d talked about it over and over, argued, and he’d never really signed on. He hadn’t wanted to go there. He’d wanted her exactly as she had been.

The memory of her mother suffering had been the major influence on her final decision.

Her hand came to rest on her chest. The realistic-feeling silicone breast forms—otherwise known as falsies—she wore in her bra sometimes nearly made her forget she’d had a double mastectomy. Elective surgery.

She fiddled with Mr. Underwood’s slides, lining them up to study them more thoroughly.

She’d accidentally found her own damn cancer marker right here in her office. Along with the excitement and anticipation of getting engaged and the plans for having a family, some deeper, sadder dialogue threaded through the recesses of her brain. One morning she’d woken in a near panic. What if? She’d shivered over the potential answer. Then, unable to move forward with a gigantic question mark in her future, she’d had the lab draw her blood and do the genetic marker panel. The results had literally made her gasp and grab her chest. Her worst nightmare was alive and living in her DNA.

Knowing her mother’s history, the near torture she’d gone through, well, having preemptive surgery had been a decision she’d known she’d have to make. Why not take care of it before it ever had a chance to begin? She’d begged Derek to understand. He’d fought her decision, but he’d never seen what her mother had gone through.

Jackson appeared at her door again, making her lose her train of thought. He inclined his head. “You okay?”

“Oh, yes.” She recovered quickly, and he obviously accepted her answer since the concern dissolved from his face.

“Hey, I forgot to ask just now. Are you going to that garden party Sunday afternoon?”

Her old concerns suddenly forgotten, the hair on her arms joined the hair on the back of her neck in prickling. Was it possible that the handsome Southern doctor was actually interested in her?

“Yes. I kind of thought it was mandatory.” It was July, the newest residents would all be there and it was a chance to put names to faces.

“Good. I’ll see you there, then.” And off he went again, his long legs and unusual gait taking that Southern stroll to a new level.

For an instant she let her hopes take flight. What would it be like to date again, especially with a man’s man like Jackson Hilstead the Third? But he’d made no offer to go to the garden party together, and after all the thoughts she’d had just now, she wasn’t a bit closer to making her secret crush real. No way.

Feeling the fallout from rehashing her past, she exchanged the instantaneous hope for reality. There was no way anyone would want her. Not with the anything-but-sexy scars across her nearly flat chest.

She sat staring into her lap, letting the truth filter through her.

Dr. Antwan Dupree appeared at her door, a man so full of himself she wished she could post a “closed for business” sign and pretend no one was home.

“I brought you some Caribbean food from a little place nearby. Thought you might like to try a taste of your heritage.”

“I’m not from the Caribbean.”

“Yes, you are. You just don’t know it. Look at your honey-colored skin and the loads of wavy, almost black hair. Darlin’, you’ve got Caribbean brown eyes. There’s no question.”

“It’s brown. My hair is dark brown. Both my parents were from the States. My grandparents were from the States. My great-grandparents were from the States. I’m typical Heinz Fifty-Seven American. The name Johnson is as American as it gets.”

“I see the islands in you.”

“And that makes it so? Must be nice to live in your world.” She suppressed a sigh. She always had to try her best not to be rude to the young, overconfident surgeon, because she did have to work with him.

“I’m just trying to help you get in touch with your roots. Try this. It’s rice and peas and jerk chicken. You’ll love it.”

“I don’t do spicy.” She opened the brown bag, pulled out the take-out container and peered inside. Black-eyed peas were something she’d never tried before, but the rice was brown, the chicken looked juicy and, since the doctor had gone to the trouble to bring the food, she figured she should at least taste it. “But I’ll give this a try.”

“When you eat that you’ll be singing, ‘I’m home, at last!’” He had an okay voice, but she wasn’t ready for a serenade right then.

“I doubt it, but thanks for the thought.” Her number one thought, while staring at her unrequested lunch, was how to get rid of Antwan Dupree.

Just as Antwan opened his mouth to speak again Jackson appeared once more at the door, which pleased her to no end.

Would you look at me, the popular pathologist? The thought nearly made her spew a laugh, but that could get messy and spread germs and it definitely wouldn’t be attractive and Jackson was standing right there. She kept her near guffaw to herself and secretly reveled in the moment, though inwardly she rolled her eyes at the absurdity of the notion. Popular pathologist. Right.

Antwan was a pest. Jackson Hilstead, well, was not!

“Give it a try, let me know what you think.” Antwan turned for the door. “You have my number, right?” He made a point to look directly at Jackson when he said that.

“Thank you and good-bye.” She’d never found swagger appealing. She’d also learned that with Antwan it was best to be blunt, otherwise the guy imagined all kinds of improbable things. The thing that really didn’t make sense was that he was better than decent looking and had loads of women interested around the hospital. Why pester her?

He nodded. “We’ll talk later,” he promised confidently, and did his unique Antwan Dupree walk right past Jackson, who hadn’t budged from his half of the entrance.

“Doctor.” Jackson tipped his head.

“Doctor.” Dupree paid the same respect on his way out. No sooner had he left than Charlotte could hear Antwan chatting up Latoya, the receptionist down the hall. What a guy.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Jackson said.

“Not at all. In fact, thank you!”

Jackson smiled and her previously claustrophobic office, with Dr. Dupree inside plus him now being gone, seemed to expand toward the universe.

“Spicy beans and rice give me indigestion, but I guess I have to try this now. I was actually kind of looking forward to my peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

That got another smile from him, and she longed to think of a thousand ways to keep them coming. She also felt compelled to clarify a few things. “For the record,” she said as she closed the food container and put it back in the bag, “there is nothing at all going on between me and Dupree. He, well...he’s a player and I really don’t care for men who are full of themselves, you know?”

“He does like the ladies.” Jackson hadn’t budged from his spot at the door, and she began to wonder why he’d made another visit. “But in this case he does exhibit excellent taste.”

Really? He thought she was attractive? Before she let herself get all puffed up about his comment, it occurred to her that Jackson must have come back to her office for a reason. Maybe he wanted to ask her to go with him to the garden party? “Did you need something?”

“Yes.”

She mentally crossed her fingers.

“I was just talking to Dr. Gordon. He said he’d like to speak to you when you have a chance.”

The head of pathology, Dr. Gordon, was her personal mentor, and admittedly a kind of father figure, and when he called, she never hesitated. “Oh. Sure, thanks.” She stood and walked around her desk, then noticed the subtle gaze again from Jackson covering her from head to toe. If only she hadn’t chosen sensible shoes today! But she thanked the manufacturer of realistic-looking falsies for filling out her special mastectomy bra underneath her turquoise top.

Charlotte strolled side by side with the tall doctor down the hall. She pegged him to be around six-two, based on her five-nine and wearing low wedge shoes, plus the fact her eyes were in line with his classic long and straight nose, except for that small bump on the bridge that gave him such character. She forced her attention away from his face, again noticing his subtly unusual gait, like maybe one shoe didn’t fit quite right. When they reached Dr. Gordon’s office door, she faked casual and said good-bye.

When he smiled his good-bye, she secretly sighed—what was it about that guy?—and lingered, watching him leave the department.

“You coming in or are you going to stand out there gawking all afternoon?” As head of pathology, Dr. Gordon had taken her under his wing from her very first day as a resident at St. Francis, and she owed him more than she could ever repay. She also happened to adore the nearly seventy-year-old curmudgeon, with his shocking white hair and clear hazel eyes that had always seemed to see right through her. His double chin helped balance a hawk-like nose.

“Sorry. Hi.” She stepped inside his office. “You wanted to talk to me?”

He grew serious. “Close the door.”

His instruction sent a chill through her core. Something important was about to happen and the thought made her uncomfortable. He’d better not be retiring because she wasn’t ready for him to leave! She did what she was told, closed the door, then sat across from him at the desk, hoping she wasn’t about to get reprimanded for something.

He gave his fatherly smile, and immediately she knew she had nothing to worry about. “I’m not going to mince words. My prostate cancer is back and Dr. Hilstead is going to do exploratory surgery on me Monday. I want you to read the frozen sections.”

Stunned, she could hardly make herself speak. “Yes. Of course.” She wanted to run to him and throw her arms around him, but they didn’t have that kind of relationship. “Whatever you want.” His wife, Elly, had passed away last year, and he’d seemed so forlorn ever since. The last thing the man needed was a cancer threat. Her heart ached for him, but she fought to hide her fears. “I’ll go over those specimens with a fine-tooth comb.”

“And I’ll expect no less.” Stoic as always. Pathology had a way of doing that to doctors.

“Is there anything I can do for you this weekend?”

“Thank you but no. My son is flying in from Arizona for a few days.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“Oh, wait, there is something you could do. I guess you could fill in for me on Sunday afternoon at that new resident garden party deal.”

“Of course.” Not her favorite idea, since she’d hoped she could find a way to comfort him, like make a big pot of healthy soup or something, but she’d planned to go to the Sunday event anyway.

The good doctor winked at her. “Whatever we find, we’ll nip it in the bud, right?”

“You bet.” With her heart aching, she wished she could guarantee that would be the case, but they passed a look between them that said it all. As pathologists, they knew when cancer reared its head the hunt was on. It was their job to be relentless in tracking it down, the surgeons’ job to cut it out, and the oncologists’ to find the magic healing potion to obliterate anything that was left.

Medical science was a tough business, and Charlotte Johnson had signed on in one of the most demanding fields. Pathology. She’d never get used to being the bearer of bad news. Usually the doctors had to take it from there once she handed over the medical verdict. She considered Jim Gordon to be a dear friend as well as colleague and any findings she came up with he’d know had come directly from her. The responsibility unsettled her stomach.

Now that she’d dealt with her own deepest fear—and Jim Gordon had condoned her radical decision two years ago at the age of thirty-two—she was damned if she’d give up being an optimist for him.

Come Monday morning she’d be ready for the toughest call of her career, and it would be for Dr. Gordon. Her mentor. The man she’d come to respect like a father. But first she’d have to make it through the garden party on Sunday afternoon, and the one bright spot in that obligation was the chance to see her secret surgeon crush again. Dr. Jackson Hilstead.


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_249c86cc-be2e-53b9-89c1-a9030075e8c1)

CHARLOTTE DIDN’T WANT to admit she’d picked the Capri blue patterned sundress only because Dr. Hilstead had liked her turquoise top on Friday, though the thought had entered her mind while searching her closet for something to wear on Sunday morning.

It had been a long time since she’d even considered wearing a dress cut like this, which made her feel uncomfortable, so she’d compromised with a white, lightweight, very loosely knit, three-quarter-sleeved summer sweater. To help cover the dipping neckline, she chose several strings of large and colorful beads. On a whim, she left her hair down, letting the thick waves touch the tops of her shoulders and making no excuses for the occasional ringlet around her face. And this shade of blue sure made her caramel-colored eyes stand out.

With confidence, later that afternoon, she stepped into the St. Francis of the Valley atrium, which connected to an outdoor patio where dozens of doctors had already begun to gather. At the moment she didn’t recognize a single face, all of the residents looking so young and eager. But there was Antwan with a young and very attractive woman on his arm. Relieved he wasn’t alone, she glanced around the cavernous room.

She recognized several large painted canvases and they drew her attention to the bright white walls as she realized the ocularist down the hall from her office, Andrea Rimmer, had painted them. In fact, she’d bought several of her early paintings at an art auction because she’d loved her style so much, but these paintings were signed with a different name because Andrea had married a pediatrician, Sam Marcus, so her name had changed now. Anyway, the paintings of huge eyes peeking through various openings were amazing, each iris completely different from the next, and Charlotte was soon swept up in imagining their meaning.

Totally engrossed with admiring the newest paintings of her current favorite artist, she jumped when someone tapped her shoulder. That flutter of excitement flitted right on by when she realized it was Dr. Dupree.

“You’re looking extra fine today,” he said, making a show of looking her up and down.

“Thank you. Where’s your date?”

“Getting some refreshments.” His line of vision stayed on her chest. “All those necklaces remind me of the Caribbean.”

“They’re just some beads I threw on, that’s all. Oh, look.” She really wanted to divert his interest from her chest. “Your lady friend is searching for you.”

“If I didn’t assume you’d have a date today, I would have asked you myself.”

“I’m here as the representative of the pathology department. This garden party is all business for me.”

“Such a shame. If you ever want to actually have a good time, let me know. You don’t know what you’re missing until you’ve gone out with me.”

Seriously? “If this is any example of how you treat your dates, count me out. Now go spend some time with the very attractive woman you’ve brought. Shoo.” She used her hands to shoo him away, like the pest he was. Man, it ticked her off how he treated women as interchangeable objects.

Frustration and anger interfered with her enjoying the artwork, and though she already really wanted to leave, she had promised Dr. Gordon to be the face of Pathology today. So she forced herself to head toward the refreshment table, where several of the new doctors stood talking among themselves. She glanced up in time to see something to make her get excited. Jackson Hilstead was easy to spot, being a head taller than others in his group, as he moved into the atrium. Charlotte found her smile come to a halt when she noticed that to Jackson’s right was the assistant head of the hospital laboratory, Yuri Ito. His hand rested on her shoulder, like he was guiding her. Obviously they’d come together.

Why had Jackson asked if she was coming to the party if he was bringing a date? Her previous excitement turned to disappointment, making the thought of eating sour on her tongue. What else was new? Why had she even let herself follow her fancy in the first place? Antwan may have been right about the surgeon. Maybe he was as much of a lady’s man as Dupree. What was up with surgeons?

Halfheartedly, she moved on to the buffet and picked a few items to pretend she was busy, rather than try to make eye contact with Jackson. What was the point? She greeted a few of the new residents, introducing herself and inviting them to stop by anytime for a quick tour of the department. The two young women and one guy all seemed very receptive, maybe even a little too enthusiastic. The dip may have looked great but it tasted bland, matching her mood, since eyeing the tall surgeon with Yuri, but she forced herself to partake.

Another tap on the shoulder sent her heart skittering once more, until she turned to face Antwan again. How did he keep ditching his date?

“Here,” he said, handing her a glass of punch. “You’ll like this—it’s for grown-ups. And it reminds me—”

“Let me guess—of the Caribbean? Evidently everything does today.” She took the drink and sipped, pleasantly surprised by the sweet taste with a kick, as it was definitely a grown-up beverage. “Thanks.” She forced a smile and received a much-too-eager grin in return. The sight made her eyes immediately dance away in time to connect with Jackson’s where he stood a few feet away.

“Hi,” he said, over the crowd.

“Hello,” she mouthed back.

Jackson couldn’t miss Antwan standing right beside her, which was probably why he quickly looked away. But she’d been clear with him about having nothing going on with Dr. Dupree, and hoped he’d believed her. Which further proved that looks could be deceiving.

So much for getting all dolled up for a man. Except Antwan seemed to appreciate her efforts. Backfire! “Oh, look, there’s your date. Isn’t she one of the new surgical residents? I’m going to introduce myself.”

Antwan’s smile faded quickly, and that brought hers back to life as she made her way over to the pretty African-American doctor across the room. She particularly enjoyed watching the too-sure-of-himself doctor squirm.

As the afternoon wore on and she got to know a few of the new batch of residents, who’d just begun working at the hospital July first, she secretly kept tabs on Jackson, who never left Yuri’s side, though it sure didn’t seem like they had much to say to each other. As in her case with Antwan, could looks be deceiving there, too?

Don’t get your hopes up. She felt the urge to adjust her specially made bra but fought it. This further proves the uselessness of secret crushes. Oh, they’re fine when you keep them secret, but start letting them out on a rope and disasters like this happened. Reality was like looking into a magnifying mirror. What I see up close is never pleasant.

She glanced up to find Jackson watching her, and, as crazy as her thoughts had been seconds before, that mere eye contact from the man she’d let her guard down over got her hopes right back up again. She had it bad for the guy, which meant one thing—she needed to get over it!

When she’d felt she’d spent the obligatory amount of time mingling with the new doctors, inviting them to visit Pathology, and also with several of her staff colleagues, she decided to skip out, admittedly feeling disappointed. With no chance for witty conversation with her doctor of choice, that Southern charmer who appeared to be taken anyway, there was no point in sticking around another minute. Unfortunately, her path of exit brought her by Jackson and Yuri, who looked like they were edging their way out, too.

Yuri gazed at her, tension in her eyes. “Hi, Charlotte.”

“Hi, Yuri.” No hard feelings. Yuri was a nice woman. “See you Monday.” She scurried on by but not before someone tapped her on the shoulder. A third time! That Antwan didn’t know when to give up. She swung around, less-than-kind thoughts in her mind and probably flashing in her eyes, to see Jackson’s laid-back smile.

“You going already?”

Switching gears fast, she skidded into sociable. “Oh, uh, yes. Got a big day tomorrow, with Dr. Gordon’s surgery and all. Well, you obviously know that.”

“Yeah, I’ll be leaving shortly, too.”

Hmm, he’d said “I’ll,” not “we’ll.” Stop it. Don’t continue to be a fool. “Well, good-bye, then. I’ll be ready with the cryostat bright and early. I promise to get those frozen sections cut, stained and read in record time.”

“I’m sure you will. Well, listen, I just wanted to make sure you knew how stunning you look today. I could hardly take my eyes off you.”

Was he saying this right in front of Yuri? What was with men these days? But Yuri smiled up at him approvingly.

“Well, thank you.” Her head was officially spinning with confusion. “I guess.” She glanced at Yuri again, who continued to smile. “Good-bye now.”

Jackson grinned and nodded and let her leave with a wad of conflicting thoughts clumping up her brain. What was going on?

Once she hit the street and got some fresh air, she inhaled deeply to clear her head, then gave herself a stern talking-to. That’s what I get for letting a man get under my skin. I should know better!

* * *

On Monday morning Charlotte came into work early, hoping to see Dr. Gordon in the hospital before he’d been given his pre-op meds. Unfortunately, he already had, but he wasn’t yet so out of it that he couldn’t squeeze her hand and give her a smile and a thumbs-up as they rolled him from his hospital room toward surgery. His slightly intoxicated grin nearly broke her heart.

The vision of him stripped down to a bland hospital gown, with a little blue “shower cap” covering over his abundant white hair, lying on the narrow gurney as the transportation clerk pushed him toward the elevator, made her eyes blur and her chest squeeze. It also brought back sad memories of seeing her mother in the same position years ago, and reinforced why she’d chosen the safety of the isolated pathology department to the hospital wards after medical school.

To distract herself, she stopped at the cafeteria and bought a large coffee, then headed to the basement to her department, where she’d double-check the cryostat before Dr. Gordon’s first specimen arrived.

Jackson planned to send down from surgery a sentinel node for her initial study, and depending on her findings, they would proceed from there.

By eight-fifteen the OR runner appeared in her lab with the first node from Dr. Gordon. The specimen came with exact directions as to where it had been resected and she made a note of that with a grease pencil on the textured side of the first of several waiting glass slides. She carefully put the specimen in a gel-like medium and placed it in a mold for quick freezing in the cryostat. She helped the process along with special fast-freeze spray, then within less than half a minute mounted the fully frozen specimen on the chuck and set up the microtome to her exact specifications.

After dusting the initial cut away from the blade with a painter’s brush, she made the next cut and got the full surface of the node on the microtome then pressed her labeled glass slide to pick it up. She used H&E stain for immediate results since the hematoxylin and eosin stains worked best for her purposes, then placed a coverslip.

Whisking the now stained slide to the lab microscope, she began her study, and soon her hope for a benign node was dashed. Within five minutes of receiving the first specimen, she had to report the bad news over the intercom that connected surgery to her little corner of the world. The protocol was not to get into histologic details with frozen sections, instead sticking to a “just the facts, ma’am” approach.

“Dr. Hilstead, this is Dr. Johnson reporting that the first lymph node is positive for metastatic cancer.” The words tangled in her throat, and she had to force them out, refusing to let her voice waver in the process.

“I see,” Jackson replied. “I’ll proceed to the next lymph node. Stand by.”

“I’ll be here.”

* * *

Jackson continued with abdominal lymph node dissection, and she dutifully and quickly made her cryosurgical cuts and examined each and every specimen under the microscope, tension mounting with each specimen. The head of histology poked her head in the door, wearing a sad expression. Word soon spread in the small laboratory section about Dr. Gordon. Charlotte worked on in silence. After three positive-for-cancer lymph nodes, her voice broke as she reported, “This one is also positive.”

A lab tech standing silently behind her in the tiny cryostat room moaned and left, grabbing a tissue on the way out. Dr. Gordon was well liked by his staff because he treated everyone decently, and in Charlotte’s case, taking her under his wing and mentoring her when she’d been a green-behind-the-ears pathologist. She owed so much to him, yet all she could do today was be the bearer of bad news on his behalf.

There was no hiding the fact her findings were tearing her up, and her favorite surgeon must have felt compelled to console her. “We’re almost done here, Charlotte. Just a few more, I promise.”

“Of course.” She recovered her composure, knowing the entire surgical team could hear her over the intercom. “I’ll be here, Doctor.”

And so it went until they found a benign node after six specimens.

* * *

Early afternoon, stowed away in the comfort of her dark office, studying yesterday afternoon’s surgical slides, Charlotte sipped chamomile tea. With her heart loaded down with emotions, feeling like a brick around her neck, it would be a long day that she’d just have to force herself through. She’d had plenty of experience willing herself through days at a time, beginning as a teenager and more recently two years ago after her surgery had been done and she’d had to deal with the reality of her decision. She’d stripped herself of part of her female identity and hadn’t yet figured out how to move forward. Derek’s reaction the first time they’d made love after surgery, his expression when he’d seen her, would forever be tattooed in her mind.

A light double tap on her closed door drew her out of the doldrums she’d been intent on wallowing in. “If it isn’t important, I’d rather be left alone.” She went the honest route, hoping the staff would understand, especially since they all seemed to already know about Dr. Gordon’s diagnosis.

The door opened, and Jackson, ignoring her request to be left alone, stepped inside. He was still in OR scrubs, his wavy hair mostly covered with the OR cap as he closed the door behind him. “I thought you could use a friend right about now.”

Not giving Charlotte a chance to respond, he walked to her desk, took one of her hands and, finding little resistance from her, pulled her to standing like a reluctant dance partner, then into his arms. He hugged her tightly and sincerely and the warmth washed over her like a comforting cloud, all soft and squishy, with every surface of her skin reacting to his embrace in goose bumps. Yes, she did need this, and Jackson had no idea how much it meant to her.

They stood together like that for several moments, her breathing in his scent and finding it surprisingly not sterile-smelling at all, even though he’d just come from surgery. She leaned into his solid body, enjoying it, knowing this was a man she could literally lean on. One of his hands wandered to her hair, as if unable to resist the opportunity to feel it. She liked that he was so obvious about it, and smiled against his shoulder.

Before standing in the dim light and holding each other became awkward, Jackson spoke. “Chemotherapy can work wonders these days. I’ve already got Marv Cohen working on Jim’s case, and I feel that already shifts the prognosis into a more positive direction.”

Who was he kidding, trying to cheer her up? He was talking to a pathologist. She was a doctor from the end-of-the-road department where patients wound up after all the great medical plans hadn’t panned out. The thing that hurt was that she knew Dr. Gordon himself had taught her to think that way. “We have to be realistic, Charlotte,” he’d say. How would he feel when he woke up and got the news?

With all her dreary thoughts, she appreciated Jackson’s desire to make her feel better. But this fight wasn’t about her, it was Jim Gordon’s to fight, and she promised she’d do everything in her power to help him. “I’ll read the slides first thing in the morning, and report directly to Marv, after you, of course, so he can come up with a magic potion and stop this mess.” No matter what, her mother had insisted to the very end, don’t lose hope. Becoming a pathologist had made her cynical.

“I’m sure you will.” His hands slid to either side of her face, fingers gently cupping her ears. Then he studied her eyes. She’d never been this close to him before, and loved looking up into his angled features and, in her opinion, handsome face, into those often world-weary eyes. Distracted by the thickness of his eyelashes, she didn’t see what was about to happen until his mouth lightly kissed hers. Surprising herself, she let him, relaxed and enjoyed the feel of his lips pressing on hers. This kind of comfort she could get used to really fast.

But wait. This couldn’t happen! It meant things, like getting close to another human being again. A man. Which could lead to, well, sex. Which wouldn’t happen because once Jackson found out about her surgery and the fact she’d stripped herself of many a man’s favorite playground, the breasts, he’d be like Derek. Not able to accept her as she was—still a woman, but scarred and different.

The pain from Derek’s walking away had sliced too deep.

She ended the kiss, not abruptly, just not allowing it to go any further. She prepared a quick cover, with a single thought planted in her head since yesterday. “Didn’t I see you with Yuri yesterday?” By his confused expression, it seemed like she had the perfect antidote to stop this kiss cold.

“You did. I was doing her a favor.”

Charlotte was very aware that even though they were no longer kissing, he hadn’t let her out of his arms. “A favor?” Did he really expect her to believe that line?

“She’s got a thing for Stan Arnold.”

“The head of the medical lab?” Trying to picture petite Yuri with tall, gangly Stan made Charlotte smile.

“He would be the one. Apparently she’s had a thing for him for years, and recently found out his wife had dumped him. So she cooked up this plan to make him jealous.”

“I don’t remember seeing Stan at the party yesterday.”

“That’s the joke. Yuri sets up this elaborate plan, me pretending to be her date, and the guy doesn’t show up.” He smiled and shook his head. “She’s got it bad.”

“I guess I shouldn’t listen to everything Antwan tells me.”

His eyes widened, as if amazed she’d listen to anything Antwan said, let alone everything. “Like what?”

“That you’re a ladies’ man, and you’ve dated a lot of women from St. Francis.”

An odd look crossed his face. “Not at all true. I’ve had only a couple of dates since I’ve moved here, no one from the hospital, and once they got to know me, neither lady bothered to stick around.” What was he telling her? Was there a Mr. Hyde to his charming Dr. Jekyll? Before she could delve into that loaded statement, Jackson spoke again. “And by the way, I noticed Dr. Dupree hanging around you a lot yesterday. If you hadn’t already told me you don’t have anything going on with him, I might have thought you were there together.” He’d expertly changed the subject.

“Oh, no! I hope no one else thought that.” She was well aware of still being in Jackson’s arms, and was also dying to know if she’d made him feel jealous yesterday, even though she knew it was pointless, just a little ego bump.

“I don’t really care what anyone else thinks, but I’m relieved.” He kissed her again, this one far from a comfort kiss and sending shivers dripping down her spine. If she’d had any doubt about his interest before, he’d sure proved her wrong now. This kiss felt intimate, like they kissed like this every day, and she liked it. Kissing Jackson shut down her never-ending thoughts and questions, allowing her to stay in the moment and enjoy the soft yet persistent feel of his lips on hers. At first he kissed like a gentleman, but something she did—she’d got carried away and opened her mouth and pushed her tongue between his lips, to be exact—had fired him up. She reeled with the feel of him getting a little wild with the kisses because of something she’d set off. How long had it been since she’d done this to a man?

As his mouth worked down the side of her neck, finding many of her trigger points and setting loose chills, his hands began to wander over her shoulders and down her arms, soon skimming the sides of her chest down to her waist and back up. As much as she was enjoying everything, he’d moved into “the zone” and it shocked her back to reality.

This can’t happen. Not here. Not now. Not ever?

She pulled herself together and stepped back, letting him know they’d crossed a line for which she wasn’t ready. She searched for and found her voice, barely able to whisper the words. “Though this is really nice, it probably isn’t the best way to work out my concerns for Dr. Gordon.”

“Seems like a pretty damn good replacement, though.” Jackson, like the perfect gentleman that he usually had been until about five minutes ago, took a second to pull it together. “I’m pretty sure Jim will be out of Recovery by now. Want to go visit him with me?” It had been spoken as if nothing monumental had just happened between them, like he kissed women in their offices all the time.

“I’d love to.” She’d also love to continue kissing him, but only in her dreams could she have what she really wanted from Jackson. Just like the reality of Dr. Gordon with metastatic cancer, some things weren’t easily worked out.

With more questions about Jackson than she’d ever had before, and a boatload of mixed-up feelings, both mental and physical, for him, she still managed a daring last kiss. She’d call it a gratitude kiss. Granted, it followed a quick hug of thanks and was only a buss of the cheek, but at least it was something.

After graciously accepting her parting gift, and searching her stare for an instant, he headed for the door and she followed him toward the elevators for the post-op ward. Something significant had happened between them. Figuring out what it meant would be left for another time.

Before just now, never in her wildest imagination could she have seen that kiss coming.

* * *

Dr. Gordon’s eyes were closed. The head of the hospital bed was elevated slightly, and the white over-starched sheets seemed to bleach what little color he had from his face. Oxygen through a nasal cannula helped his shallow breathing. The sight of her mentor looking so vulnerable made her stomach burn. She took his hand, the one with the IV, and his eyelids cracked open. He needed a few seconds to focus before he smiled.

“Hello, Jim. Glad to see you survived surgery,” Jackson said, as if he’d had nothing to do with it.

“Yeah, some lunatic tried to kill me today.” His gaze shifted to Charlotte rather than look at Dr. Hilstead any longer, and his tough facade softened as he did.

“How’re you doing?” She could hardly hear herself.

“Besides feeling like I’ve been shot with BBs in my gut, okay, I guess.”

“When was the last time you had pain medicine?”

“I lost track of time a while ago. I’m supposed to push this.” He nodded toward the medicine dispenser attached to his IV pole, which allowed the patient to regulate pain control on the first day post-op. He pressed it. If enough time had passed since the last dose, he’d get more now, which of course would put him back to sleep.

“Can I give you some ice chips?”

“Sure.” He let her feed the ice to him from a plastic spoon, and it struck her how over the past few years he’d spoon-fed her knowledge as her mentor. Helping now was the least she could do. She found a pillow on the bedside chair, fluffed it and exchanged it for the flattened one behind his head, just like she’d learned to do with her mother. He groaned with the movement but let her do it.

Their eyes met briefly. Appreciation, with flecks of hard-won wisdom, conveyed his thoughts. Jackson had probably already talked to him about the findings, and Dr. Gordon had assigned her to the frozen sections for the surgery. They all knew the outcome. There was no point in bringing it up.

She tried to keep sadness from coloring her gaze as they shared a sweetly poignant moment, almost like father and daughter. Emotion reached inside her and gripped until her throat tightened and she feared she’d start to cry. She inhaled as reinforcement. “You probably feel like sleeping.”

He let her use the excuse, squeezed her hand one last time and let her go. “Thanks for coming by.”

“I’ll be back later, okay?”

He nodded, snuggled back on the pillow and shut his eyes again.

Jackson guided Charlotte at the small of her back from the bedside out the door to the nurses’ station. “He knew before going in what the likelihood was of his having mets.”

She hated this part of her job, verifying the worst outcome. Seeing her mentor’s tired face just now, looking nothing like the strong head of the department she’d always looked up to, had knocked some of the air from her. She gulped and the swelling emotions she’d tried to ward off with little bedside tasks took hold. Her eyes burned, and her chest clutched at her lungs. Memories from nearly twenty years ago threw her to the curb, and she broke down.

Jackson swept her under his arm and walked her to a quiet side of the ward, back near the linen cart. “Let’s go get a cup of coffee, okay?”

Trying her best to get hold of her runaway feelings, she nodded and swiped at her eyes. He handed her some nearby tissues, and she used them. Then, with his arm around her waist, he led her back to the elevator, which they had all to themselves.

“I didn’t realize how close you are to Jim.”

“He’s been like a father figure to me. I lost my mother to breast cancer when I was fifteen, and my dad a few years after that. Dad just couldn’t go on without her, I guess. I still miss them.” Jackson’s grasp tightened around her arm. “Dr. Gordon pretends he’s an old grump, but I knew the first time I met him that he was a teddy bear. I guess I let him step into that vacant parental role. I don’t know what I’ll do—”

“Don’t go down that path. We’ve got a lot of options at this point.”

She nodded, further composing herself in preparation for their exit from the elevator. “My mother’s missed diagnosis and subsequent illness was the reason I went into medicine and pathology.”

“I wondered why a beautiful woman like you had chosen that department.”

His honest remark helped lighten her burdens for the moment, and she smiled. He thought she was beautiful? “Do you think I’m ghoulish?”

It was his turn to grin, which definitely reached his eyes, and he laughed a little, too. “I can safely say you and that word have never come to mind at the same time.”

“Whew.” She mock-wiped her brow. “Wouldn’t want to make the wrong impression.” Because I really like you.

They entered the cafeteria and, taking the lead, he grabbed a couple of mugs and filled them with coffee, after verifying with caffeine or not for her. Then he picked up a couple of cookies on a plate, and after he’d signed off on the charge, they went to the doctors’ seating in a smaller and quieter room than the regular cafeteria. Leading the way, he chose a table and removed the items from the tray then waited for her to sit before he did. Yeah, a take-charge gentleman all the way.

“You feel like talking more about what tore you up back there?” He got right to the point.

She inhaled, poured some cream into her coffee and thought about whether or not she wanted to revisit those old sad feelings about her parents any more, and decided not to. “I’m good. Just worried about Dr. Gordon.”

He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I understand.”

She hoped her gratitude showed when their gazes met. From his reassuring nod she figured it did. She accepted a peanut-butter cookie and took a bite. “Mmm, this is really good.”

He picked his up and dipped it in his black coffee before taking a man-sized bite. His brows lifted in agreement. “So,” he said after he’d swallowed, “since we’re going to change the subject, I have an observation. I’m thinking you might be dating someone?”

Her chin pulled in. “Why would you think that?” Hadn’t they been making out in her office earlier?

“You put a quick stop to our...” He let her finish the sentence in her mind, rather than spell it out.

She lifted her gaze and nailed his, which was, not surprisingly, looking expectant. He was definitely interested in her, which caused thoughts to flood her mind. She’d gone through a long, tough day already, and it wasn’t even two o’clock. She’d once again seen firsthand how things people took for granted, like their health, could change at any given moment. It made her think how much more out of life she longed for. Shouldn’t she grab some of what it had to offer, especially when it, or rather, he, was sitting right across from her, dunking his cookie like it was the best thing on earth? Instead of day in and day out spending most of her time with the biggest relationship in her life, her microscope?

But would Jackson want her as she was? Admittedly, she’d always been proud of her figure, never flaunting herself too much but not afraid to show some cleavage if the occasion and the dress called for it. Now every day when she showered she saw her flat chest, the scars. There wasn’t anything sexy about that. Yet she was a woman, lived, breathed and felt like a woman, but one who strapped on her chest the symbols of the fairer sex every day before she came to work. Pretending she was still who she’d used to be.

The decision had seemed so clear when she’d made it. Get rid of the tissue, the ticking time bomb on her chest. Never put herself in a position to hear the words that had devastated her mother’s life. You have breast cancer.

Because of lab tests and markers, she’d thought like a scientist, but now she had to deal with the feelings of a woman who was no longer comfortable in her body.

Then there was tall, masculine and sexy-as-hell Jackson sitting directly across from her, smiling like he had a secret.

She bet his secret was nowhere as big as hers. “You took me by surprise earlier.”

“I took myself by surprise.”

She liked knowing that the kiss had been totally spontaneous. “So, since you asked, I’m not seeing anyone. Today’s just been hard. That’s why I—”

“I understand.” His beeper went off. He checked it. “Let me know when you’re leaving later and after we pop in on Jim again I’ll walk you to your car.”

It wasn’t a question. She liked that about him, too. “Okay.”

Except later, when Jackson walked her to her car, after visiting the hospital and finding Dr. Gordon deeply asleep and looking like he floated on air, Jackson reverted to perfect-gentleman mode. No arm around her shoulder or hand-holding as they walked. Whatever magic they’d conjured earlier had worn off. He simply smiled and wished her good night, told her to get some rest, more fatherly than future boyfriend material, and disappointingly kept a buffer zone between them as she got into her car.

As she drove off, checking her rearview mirror and seeing him watch her leave, his suit jacket on a fingertip and hanging over his shoulder, looking really sexy, she wondered if he’d had time to come to his senses, too. Something—was it her?—held him back. Then, since she knew her secret backward and forward, and how it kept her from grabbing at the good stuff in life, she further wondered what his secret was.


CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_7ce212d3-e004-5e4a-8ce9-c8490536f8ad)

JACKSON TOSSED HIS keys onto the entry table in his Westlake condo, thinking a beer would taste great about now, but knowing he’d given up using booze as an escape. It had cost what had been left of his marriage to get the point across.

A long and destructive battle with PTSD had led to him falling apart and quitting his position as lead surgeon at Savannah General Hospital just before they’d planned to fire him three years ago. The ongoing post-traumatic stress disorder had turned him into a stranger and strained his relationship with his teenage sons, frightening them away. It had also ensured his wife of twenty years had finally filed for divorce.

He’d lost his right lower leg in an IED accident in Afghanistan. It had been his second tour as an army reservist. He’d volunteered for it, and for that his wife had been unable to forgive him. She’d deemed it his fault that the improvised explosive device had caused him to lose his leg. He’d returned home physically and emotionally wounded, and, piled onto their already strained marriage from years of him choosing his high-maintenance education and career over nurturing their life together, she couldn’t take it.

His fault.

Their marriage had been unraveling little by little for years anyway. High-school sweethearts, she’d then followed him on to college. His grandfather used to tease him that she was majoring in marriage. Then they’d accidentally got pregnant the summer before he’d entered medical school. With their respective families being good friends, there was no way he could have let her go through the pregnancy alone. So he’d done the honorable thing and they’d got married right before he’d entered medical school.

It hadn’t been long before they’d realized they may have made a mistake, but his studies had kept him too busy to address it, and the new baby, Andrew, had taken all of her time, and, well, they’d learned how to coexist as a small family of three. In his third year of medical school she’d got pregnant again. This time he’d got angry with her for letting it happen when he’d found out she’d stopped taking birth control pills. Evaline had said she wanted kids because he was never around. And so it had gone on.

Then at the age of twenty-seven and in the second year of his surgical residency, he’d signed up for the army reserves. One weekend a month he’d trained in an army field medical unit, setting up mobile triage, learning to care for mass casualties. When he’d finished his surgical residency and had been asked to stay on at Savannah General, his wife had thought maybe things would get better. But he’d started signing on with his reserve unit for two-week humanitarian missions for victims of natural disasters at home in the States. Soon he’d branched out to other countries, and when he’d been deployed to Iraq, Evaline had threatened to leave him.

He’d made it home six weeks later in one piece, his eyes opened to the need of fellow US soldiers deployed in the Middle East, and also finally accepting the trouble his marriage was in. They seeked out marriage counseling and he’d focused on working his way up the career ladder at Savannah General, and things had seemed to get better between them. He’d stayed on in the army reserves doing his one weekend a month, catching hell from Evaline if it fell on either of his sons’ sports team events, but he hadn’t been able to pick and choose his times of service. They’d limped on, keeping a united front for their boys and their families, while the fabric of their love had worn thinner and thinner.

Then, after a brutal series of attacks on US military personnel, they’d needed army reserve doctors and he’d volunteered to be deployed to Afghanistan. He had been one week short of going home when the IED had changed everything.

His fault?

He’d come home, had hit rock bottom after that, then eventually had got help from the veterans hospital, and had spent the next year accepting he’d never be the man he’d once been and cleaning up his act. He’d been honorably discharged from the army, too. But the damage to Evaline and his sons and his reputation as a surgeon had already been done. She’d filed for divorce.

As time had passed his PTSD had settled down and he’d felt confident enough to go back to work. That was when he’d figured there wasn’t anything for him back home in Georgia anymore. His wife had divorced him. His oldest son had wanted nothing to do with him. So since his youngest son would be attending Pepperdine University in Malibu, California, he’d sought employment in the area, hoping to at least mend that relationship. St. Francis of the Valley Hospital had been willing to give him a chance as a staff surgeon. With less responsibility, not being the head of a department but just a staff guy for a change, not having to deal with his ex-wife and her ongoing complaints anymore and enjoying the eternal spring weather of Southern California, his stress level had reached a new low.

Until today, when he’d had to tell his friend Jim Gordon some pretty rotten news—that he had metastatic cancer—and they both knew there’d be one hell of a battle ahead. Then, in a moment of weakness, seeing the distress Charlotte Johnson had been in, he’d let his gut take over and he’d moved in to comfort her. But it hadn’t worked out that way, because he’d played with fire. He knew he’d thought about her far, far differently than any other colleague. That he’d been drawn into her dark and alluring beauty while sitting across from her, looking at patient slides, for the last year. Come to think of it, could he have been any slower? How long had he had a thing for her anyway? At least three-quarters of the last year, that was how long.

Could he blame himself for kissing her when she’d fit into his arms so perfectly, and she’d shown no signs of resisting him? Still, it had been completely improper and couldn’t happen again because he wasn’t ready to have one more woman reject him because his lower leg had been replaced with a high-tech prosthetic. Maybe it wasn’t sexy, but it sure worked great, and he’d been running five miles a day to prove it for the last two years. In fact, he’d never been in better condition.

Ah, but Charlotte, she stirred forgotten feelings, that special lure of a woman that made him want to feel alive again. Something about her mix of confidence on the job and total insecurity in a social setting made him hope what they had in common might be enough to base a new relationship on. When he’d kissed her, because of her response, he’d got his hopes up that maybe she felt the same way. But she’d stopped the kiss and an invisible barrier had seemed to surround her after that. He’d pretended everything had been fine when he’d walked her to her car—he hadn’t noticed her need to be left alone—but the message had got through to him. Loud and clear.

He wandered into his galley kitchen and searched the refrigerator, hoping there might be something halfway interesting in the way of leftovers. He grabbed a bottle of sparkling water and guzzled some of it, enjoying the fizzy burn in his throat. Today he’d kissed the woman who held his interest more than any other since his high-school sweetheart. That was the good news. The bad news was he knew he couldn’t do anything further about it. Her invisible force field wouldn’t let him through, and if that wasn’t enough, his boatload of baggage held him back.

Out of curiosity, though, he did have one little—okay, monumental—test for Charlotte, one that would really determine her mettle before he totally gave up.

* * *

Saturday was the annual charity fund-raiser five-and ten-kilometer run for St. Francis of the Valley trauma unit. Charlotte had signed up a while back and had forgotten to train for it, but she showed up anyway in support of the event. What they’d neglected to tell her was that this year they’d added zombies. Someone had got the bright idea to raise more money by getting employees to pay professional makeup artists, who’d donated their time for the event, to be made up as the undead. The sole purpose, besides getting their pictures taken, was to chase down the runners and tag them with washable paint, and hopefully improve some personal best times for some participants in the process.




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