Winter Solstice. Michelle Garren Flye

a GSW was but a head shot sounded serious, and John’s suggestion that she “sit this one out” made her determined to do the exact opposite. She took her spot in the corner, watching the arrangements going on around her.

      Nothing could have prepared her for what they rolled in on a stretcher. Maybe it had once been a man, though what was left didn’t really resemble one. The face was a bloody pulp and at least a part of the skull had been ripped away, leaving the spongy gray tissue of the brain exposed.

      For the first time that day, Becky felt nauseous. She turned away, trying to find a safe spot away from the destruction on the stretcher. She concentrated on John as he worked over the near-dead man, calling instructions to residents and nurses. When at last John stood back and said, “He’s stabilized, get him to surgery,” her respect for him tripled.

      He turned and frowned when he caught sight of Becky sitting in the corner. “Bet you wish you’d taken my advice and stayed in the break room.” Pulling off his gloves and chucking them into a red trashcan in the corner, he turned as if to leave the room but paused, looking at his own shirtfront. A large bloodstain marred the scrub top, and after a moment he yanked it off and disposed of it.

      “You saved his life.” She breathed the words, unable to speak above a whisper. “That was incredible.”

      “Might’ve been better if I hadn’t.” John sounded grim. “It’s hard to reconcile myself to saving someone who could do that to themselves. I doubt he’ll ever have a face again.” He turned to a sink in the corner, turning on the faucet.

      Becky gasped. “It was self-inflicted? How do you know?”

      “Bullet entered at an angle from under the chin.” He spoke as if by rote, reaching for paper towels before turning. “I can’t swear nobody would shoot him with a shotgun from that angle, but most likely he’s the one that pulled the trigger.” He looked as if he wanted to say more, but when he saw her face, he hesitated.

      “Look,” he said in a gentler voice than she’d heard him use all day. “The shift ended a half hour ago. I’m heading for a shower and a change. I suggest you do the same. Then go home and get some rest. Today was bad, but tomorrow will probably be more of the same.”

      Unable to summon the strength to argue, Becky nodded and dragged herself into the locker room. As the door shut behind her, the nausea hit full force. Determined not to get sick, at least not until she could make it home, she sank onto the concrete floor, her back against the cool tile of the wall, and let her head hang between her knees. Her brain fast-forwarded through the day, pausing on the most grotesque and anguishing scenes she’d witnessed. Like the worst nightmare she’d ever had, she couldn’t get away from the vision of the man with half his head blown away.

      After several long minutes, she felt strong enough to stumble to the sink and splash water on her face. She rinsed her mouth and stood with her head bowed as she waited for the last of the weakness to dissipate.

      “Feel better?”

      Startled, Becky raised her head to meet John’s gaze in the mirror. He shrugged and smiled at her reflection. “You didn’t look too good, and when you weren’t out by the time I finished my shower, I decided I’d better check on you.”

      He crossed the room and turned her to face him, touched her sweaty forehead gently, then reached back and released her hair from its knot. Perhaps his only intention was to help her relax, but as her hair fell around her shoulders, Becky realized with a jolt of self-consciousness that she enjoyed the intimacy of the gesture.

      When she looked at him, he moved a little closer, his hand lingering at the nape of her neck. He drew his fingers through her hair, letting it slide through them, and she closed her eyes in pure sensuality, forgetting every tragedy she had witnessed in a simple desire to live in the moment.

      Neither spoke as he bent his head to cover her mouth with his. She lost herself in his touch, aware of his arms around her, his lips first on hers, then on her neck. She slid her hands up his biceps, caressing as she did so, wanting to encourage his response. He smelled good–clean and male in a way she had never experienced. In some detached part of her brain, she thought maybe it was the hospital soap.

      She clung to him, thankful for the strength of his body as her own betrayed her weakness. Not until his hands slid beneath her scrub top did she come to her senses.

      “Not here.” She could only think that she didn’t want to become another of the legends–the PR woman who couldn’t resist the irresistible John Grant in the locker room.

      “Where?” His body still pressed hard against hers, his lips against her hair. Becky felt the cold porcelain sink behind her, but he was warm and solid and the heat of their passion was thick in the air around them. In such a position, restraint was the last thing on her mind.

      “My place,” she whispered and told him the address.

      “I’ve got a few things to take care of.” His lips brushed her ear and she shivered. She felt his smile. “I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

      Before she could change her mind, he left, taking the warmth and safety of his arms with him, and Becky was left to wonder if she had suddenly gone insane.

      * * * *

      John Grant closed the door to the women’s locker room and leaned against it for a moment, glad there was no one around. “Goddamn it.” He pushed himself away with a violent gesture. He couldn’t quite believe the intense feelings she’d awakened in him. He hadn’t felt this way since the earliest days of his long-over marriage. In fact, had he ever felt this way?

      Shaking his head, he strode down the hallway, finding his office and retreating inside. He sat behind the desk, staring at the stack of paperwork waiting for his signature without really comprehending it. All he saw was the expression on Becky’s face when he’d loosened the clip binding her hair–that sudden but slow transformation from distress to sensual longing. Even the memory was enough to draw a spontaneous reaction from him.

      But then, she’d been able to do that all along. Even that first day, he’d reacted by instinct to her innate honesty, liking her immediately, even though Dr. John Grant was not known for liking people.

      This woman was something else entirely from John’s previous experience with women. He wanted to wrap her up and keep her warm and safe at the same time he wanted to release her and see what she was going to do next. When he’d seen her in the reading room watching him, he’d felt a mild shock when their gazes met, but that was nothing compared to what he’d felt when their lips had touched just moments before.

      John drew the stack of paperwork to him and cursed again. He didn’t know what else to do. Going to her apartment was a bad idea. She was more trouble for him than he needed.

      But he had no idea how he was going to stay away.