Betrayer.
Guilt seared him like the dry heat from a furnace, sucking the oxygen from the joy until it shrivelled to nothing. He didn’t deserve to feel happy. He wanted to turn and leave—march away from Chloe immediately. Away from the temptation that represented everything he could no longer have in his life.
You have to work with her.
He did, and it wasn’t Chloe’s fault that Anna was dead. It wasn’t Chloe’s fault that with one ill-timed action he’d screwed up his perfect life.
He stood facing her with his fingers clenched on his Swiss pen and tried to apologise. ‘I do appreciate your work here, Chloe.’
‘Thank you.’
This time her smile made her dimples and her eyes dance, and the treacherous heat flared again, filling him with longing before vanishing and leaving only bitterness. Hell, he couldn’t cope with this roller-coaster ride of emotions every time he came to the ward, but he could hardly ask Administration to have her removed. A thought struck him—the perfect solution for six weeks or more.
‘You did a great job with Made, so great, in fact, that I think you should sign up for the foundation’s cleft palate tour that leaves next week.’ He tried for what he hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘Jenny Patrick’s looking for people and you’re a natural with kids.’
She flinched as if he’d struck her. ‘I appreciate the compliment but that won’t be possible.’
No. ‘Why not?’ He heard the bark in his voice and wished he could snatch the words back because, damn it, his fear sounded the same as anger.
She blinked at him as if she couldn’t believe he’d asked her the question. ‘Because…’ Her cheeks flamed red and she twirled her ponytail tightly around her forefinger as if she was struggling to give a reason. ‘Because it’s just not possible.’ She picked up Glenda Wharton’s drug chart and slapped it against his chest. ‘Please write up some milder analgesia for her and I’ll take out the drain tubes now.’
Her expression—a combination of defiance and pain—was all too familiar and it silenced him. As much as he didn’t want to have to see Chloe every day, he didn’t want to hurt her either. While he quickly wrote the order across the page, neither of them said another word.
He got the distinct feeling both of them were battling demons they wanted to keep secret.
‘HE SHOULD SLEEP all afternoon because I ran him halfway to Burleigh Heads this morning,’ Chloe told Nick as she settled Chester into his basket inside a playpen.
Even though Lucy had taken the twins to visit a friend, Chloe didn’t want the puppy to escape and cause her sister-in-law any more work. Being the mother of twins was enough to exhaust her, without adding anything extra. Despite today being Chloe’s weekend off, the hospital had called, asking if she could come in for three hours. She was happy to work but her puppy was still too small to be on his own for more than an hour.
‘You’ll be fine with your uncle, won’t you?’ Nick fondled the pup’s golden ears.
‘Enjoy him, because he’s as close to a nephew as you’re ever going to get.’
The acrid words spewed out of her, shocking her. For years she’d kept a tight lid on her sorrow, and she wasn’t sure why today it had momentarily lifted, especially with her brother. He was the one person who knew the details of what had happened to her all those years ago at sixteen. If it hadn’t been for Nick and his quick actions, she’d be dead.
Nick’s eyes, the identical colour to hers, darkened with concern. ‘You okay?’
‘I will be.’ She forced a smile. ‘I think turning thirty was harder than I thought.’
‘It can be a tough birthday,’ Nick said, still patting the dog.
‘Oh, yeah.’ It had been a tough couple of weeks in so many ways—her birthday, working with Luke Stanley and nursing the little Balinese boy. She’d even added to it by walking past the special care nursery, instead of avoiding it like she normally did. For an extra dose of agony she’d paused, gazing at the babies. Reminding herself of what she could never have.
‘You know, Chester reminds me of Cerberus,’ Nick said, his voice filled with surprise.
‘Sorry.’ Chloe bit her lip, thinking about their childhood dog. When their strict Greek father had discovered she’d broken his draconian rules and had snuck out of the house to meet a boy, he’d punished her by having the dog put down. Her actions had cost Nick his beloved dog. ‘I think that’s why I chose him.’
‘Don’t let your mind go back to that toxic place, sis. Baba just wanted an excuse to get rid of the dog, and if it hadn’t happened then it would have happened another time.’ Nick rose to his feet and gave her a hug. ‘You really are having a tough time, aren’t you?’
‘Just a bit.’ She pulled back from her brother. ‘I’d better get going. At least Luke Stanley won’t be in today to upset everyone, so that’s something.’
‘Give the guy a break, Chloe,’ Nick admonished gently.
She slung her leather backpack over her shoulder with a jerk. ‘He’s mostly fine with Keri and Kate and I’ve done my best to be understanding, but there are times when he’s tough to work with.’
‘There’s no time limit on grief.’
‘You’re preaching to the converted, Nick. Say hi to Lucy and the twins for me.’
He grinned at the mention of his wife and children. ‘Will do. And, Chloe…’
She paused at the door. ‘Yes?’
‘Keep looking forward. Promise?’
She nodded at their old mantra—the cluster of words that had kept them strong through difficult times. ‘Will do.’
Closing the door behind her, she walked the short distance to the hospital. Accident and Emergency was seething with humanity on this fine and sunny Saturday afternoon and she signed in, introducing herself to the staff.
‘There are two rugby players with concussion and head lacerations who’ve just arrived,’ said Greg Lindall, the nurse-in-charge. ‘I’ve called Plastics and someone will be down.’
‘I’m on it.’ She pushed her arms into a gown, grabbed some dressing packs and made her way to the cubicles. Two burly men, their toned and buff bodies dwarfing the hospital trolleys, sat holding icepacks to their heads.
‘Hi, I’m Chloe.’
‘Finn Hudson,’ replied one of the men.
‘Harry Jameson,’ said the other.
Chloe flicked through the head-injury charts that the ambulance officers had commenced and saw their ages. ‘So, guys, your chart says you’ve both had concussion twice before. Isn’t it time to give up the game?’ she flicked on her pencil torch and checked Harry’s pupils.
‘We’re thirty-two, not dead,’ he said, flinching as she inspected the nasty gash on his head.
‘That may be, but serial concussions are serious. You don’t want to be forty and suffering from memory loss. What about taking up tennis?’
The guys stared at her as if she’d just suggested they take up floristry. She laughed. ‘Okay, then, maybe not tennis, but there are plenty of other non-contact sports to challenge you.