“I—” I catch movement in my peripheral vision and spot broad shoulders clad in a white coat. The tilt of his head shows thick-framed glasses sat on a strong nose and the sweep of a high cheekbone. A chiselled jaw, free from stubble is offset by the plump side curve of full lips. Blake.

  Elijah mistakes my silence for hesitance and adds, “Or lunch? I mean, I’d even swing dinner if you promise not to turn me into a stone statue.”

  “Sorry, what?” I reluctantly flick my eyes away from Blake’s disappearing form back to Elijah, when all I want to do is follow the man who ghosted me and demand that he tells me why. I know that’s a crazy woman’s thought. Blake owes me nothing. But we shared something, didn’t we?

  “You, me, drink, maybe food?” Elijah continues, his confidence never faltering.

  Maybe it’s seeing Blake, maybe its first day nerves, but I shut Elijah down in a way that I know I’ll feel guilty about later. “I don’t date staff. Especially not nurses. Now, if you don’t mind pointing me in the direction of Nurse Dobson, there’s a patient I’d like to check up on before I begin my rounds.”

  Elijah’s eyes shutter at my rude dismissal, but his smile doesn’t falter. He leans his hip against the edge of the nurse’s station, grabs some paperwork from behind it and offers, “I’ll send her over to speak with you. She’s probably in the silver room with the little ones.” His eyes leave mine as he clips a pen onto his chest pocket and proceeds to flick through his charts as if he never just flirted with me. “If you let me know the name of the patient you’re looking for, you can head to see them first, and I’ll make sure Nurse Dobson catches up with you.”

  “Riley,” I offer, my voice losing its abruptness. “I don’t know his surname. I met him the other week when I visited, and we played video games together.”

  Elijah’s eyes once more find mine, and I know the look they hold before he even opens his mouth. It’s sadness. It’s loss. It’s bad news. It’s the look you see far too often when you work where we do. “Riley Watson,” he murmurs. “Always a smile, never a frown. One of the coolest kids I’ve ever met.” His face softens. “He passed last week.”

  My heart stutters painfully, not like it’s missed a beat, more like it’s lost a breath. “When? What day? I was only here—”

  “Monday afternoon.”

  Monday. I was here last Monday.

  “I—” My words get stuck in my throat, and I blink away the emotion threatening me.

  Despite me being a rude witch to him not moments ago, Elijah kindly gives me an out. “Yeah, I know. Losing him hit the staff here pretty hard. Riley has been coming to us for almost two years on and off. That cheeky little chappy was family. It’s never easy to lose one of our kids, but Riley’s passing knocked us all, even though we knew it was coming eventually.” He leans towards me, reaches out a hand and softly squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll give you a moment before I send Nurse Dobson over, okay?”

  “Thanks,” I reply sincerely. “And I’m sorry about before.” I don’t offer an excuse because I don’t have one. My mind is reeling, my thoughts stuck back on last Monday.

  “Don’t sweat it. I know I’ll wear you down eventually. It’s all part of my charm.” Elijah shrugs before winking at me and walking away.

  When I let my eyes roam around my surroundings, shock and a million questions rolling through my brain, they land directly on the emerald green stare of Blake. If my heart lost a breath earlier, now it is downright gasping for air.

  I lift my hand and give him an awkward wave that’s actually more like a wonky salute. All he does is blink. And stare. He looks worn down. He looks pale. Dark rings shadow his usually bright eyes, and his face is blank, devoid of all emotion. I take a step forward to walk towards him, understanding finally seeping into my head. Riley passed away not long after I left that day. Before I can take another, his jaw tightens, and his eyes leave mine. He turns his back on me and without another look strides down the corridor out of sight.

  Yes, Blake Henshaw stood me up. Yes, Blake Henshaw ghosted me. But now I finally know why. And I refuse to let him push me away.

  Before this day is out, I will get the sad man carrying the weight of a young boy’s death on his shoulders to speak to me. Even if it’s to give me the brush off for good.

  We shared something. I know we did. He knows we did.

  Now it’s time for him to find out that I don’t give up. My twin sister may be the one everyone thinks is the fighter, but we share identical genes, after all. Tremere’s go after what they want. I may have been steadfast and determined all these years chasing my career in medicine, but now I want a chance at more.

  I saw that more in Blake’s smile when he left me that day.

  I want to see that smile again.

  With a heart still heavy from learning of Riley’s passing, I go about my first shift on the children’s ward. I don’t bump into Blake again, but with each child I meet, and each treatment plan I oversee, my steps get lighter.

  Fresh hope is an ever-expanding balloon in my chest, filling my lungs with air and buoying my resolve. By the time I swipe out my staff card at the end of my twelve-hour shift, I may not have a plan, but I have a mission.

  Operation Make Blake Smile is a go.

  6

  Blake

  An eight-inch, bright yellow plush Pikachu is propped up against the windscreen of my car.

  Yesterday, I’d finished a long and stressful double shift to find an old Tiger Woods video game in the same place.

  Walking over to retrieve the soft toy, I pick it up and slowly search the surrounding area before tucking it under my arm and climbing behind the wheel. Once inside the dark interior of my car, I bring the toy in front of me and stare at it like it holds all the answers.

  Not the answer to who left it for me because I know. But I don’t understand why. I mean, I know why she’s chosen the two seemingly random gifts so far—the game from our afternoon with Riley, the toy from the date I’d busted up by giving her a ride home—but why was she doing this? I’d been avoiding her. The truth is, I’d been avoiding life, not just her. I was going through the motions, running on autopilot. I was a medical robot, not a human being. Yet, this woman wasn’t accepting my withdrawal from life or from the budding if tentative connection we’d made. She was letting me know she was still there waiting, and damn if that didn’t make the centre of my chest ache, and that part of my body hurt enough already.

  “What should I do?”

  Pikachu remained silent. Stupid stuffed toy.

  I huff out a breath, plonk Nicola’s gift on the passenger seat and drive my tired self home to an empty apartment where a microwave dinner for one awaited.

  * * *

  The two days that followed brought two more random gifts. A car air freshener shaped like a Ronaldo football shirt, and some interior leather wipes—for the mud imprint of her bottom that she’d left on my seat.

  The closer I got to the end of every shift, the more I found myself anticipating what she’d leave for me next. She was inevitably going to run out of both ideas and the desire to keep this going much longer. I hadn’t so much as even sent her a thank you text, and I’d purposely ensured my shifts were the opposite to hers so as not to bump into her again.

  I knew that seeing Nicola would make me feel, and I wasn’t ready for that, especially not after attending Riley’s funeral earlier today. I’d had to shut my emotions down and lock them up tight in order to remain detached from the day. Which, when seeing a small coffin at the front of a church surrounded by loved ones and their grief so thick you could taste it, had left me weary down to my soul.

  Attending a patient’s funeral wasn’t something I usually allowed myself to do, but I needed to say goodbye to Riley. I needed to tell him sorry that we’d—that I’d—failed him.

  “Doctor Henshaw.”

  I blink away my thoughts, take a quick look at the clock on the wall telling me I have twenty minutes left of my last double shift of the week, and then turn and face Nurse Kirstie Dobson with my best attempt at a smile.

  “Can you sign off on these final few charts before you leave?” She hands me a stack of four files before catching my gaze. Her voice softens, and she adds, “And I may not be your superior, but I’d like to see you get out of here on time today. You need rest, Blake. You look seconds away from falling asleep on the desk.”

  “Is that your way of trying to tell me I look like crap?” I run a hand down my face before looking up at her and waiting for her to agree. Kirstie and I have known each other for a long time, I’ve even gone for dinner at her house with her husband and kids. She’s the closest thing I’ve got to a genuine friend and not just a work mate.

  “I wouldn’t say crap,” she replies straight-faced. “I’d say more like crap warmed up and spread on raisin bread.”

  She knows I hate raisins.

  “You say the sweetest things,” I deadpan. “I can see why Tom married and had babies with you.”

  At that, she laughs. “He married me for my sparkling wit and limited cooking skills. We all know that. Now, stop trying to deflect—” she looks up at the clock before giving me a warning glare “—you’ve got fifteen minutes to finish off, or I’ll have security remove you from the building.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yes, mother. No need to nag.”

  “Don’t make me use the tone I reserve for my kids,” she says as she turns and walks away. “I wouldn’t want to make you cry.”

  I watch her leave, the smallest of genuine smiles trying break free from my lips, and I crack open the first folder. The thought of going home to an empty apartment is less than appealing but staying here a moment longer isn’t an option either. And then I remember Nicola’s gifts. Thoughts of what she’ll leave on my car today, have me racing through my final task in record time.

  Half an hour later, I’m walking towards my MX5, a small grin on my lips and anticipation tightening my gut. I can see something small tucked under one of my windscreen wipers, but I can’t yet make out what it is. With each step closer, the object comes into focus—it’s a slip of folded white paper. A note, maybe? With greedy fingers, I pluck it from my windscreen and fumble with my key fob to unlock the car. Once inside, I waste no time in unfolding it, eager to see what she’s left for me today.

  A bark of laughter explodes from my lips. There, on the paper before me, is an image of Nicola Tremere—the woman I can’t get out of my head—sprawled on her backside in a rather large puddle, legs akimbo. An overexaggerated and comical frown paints her pretty face, and beneath the picture, she’s written the words ‘You saved me from drowning once, I think I need your help again.’ Beneath her caption is her phone number.

  After the day—hell, the two weeks—I’ve had, I didn’t want to feel, but somehow, she’s made me do just that. Warmth begins to melt the ice in my chest, thawing a fortnight’s worth of guilt, grief, and feelings of incompetence. But, with her face in my view, and her words lightening my heart, I can ignore the undercurrent of pain long enough to grab my phone. With sure fingers, I open my text app and type in her number. With less sure fingers, I try and compose a message.

  Thank you for the gifts… Delete.

  I got your message… Delete.

  I’m sorry… Delete. Delete. Delete.

  I groan at my inability to do something as simple as sending her a text and throw my phone into the cup holder. With my palms stinging from the slap I just gave my steering wheel, I start my car and pull out of the staff carpark with more speed and aggression than is needed.

  “You’re pathetic, Blake the Brain,” I mutter sullenly to myself. “Fucking pathetic.”

  By the time I’ve pulled up in front of my apartment block, I’ve mocked and berated myself more than any bully from my childhood ever could. I’m not that boy any more. I’m a grown fucking man with his shit together. I’m a top children’s doctor, for Christ’s sake.

  With steady fingers, I begin to text.

  7

  Nicola

  .

  Have you heard from Doctor Hottie yet?

  My twin sister, Lilah, will not give up. Ever since I told her about Blake, she’s hounded me for information. The trouble is, I don’t have anything to say to her. I’ve gone all out to show the man I’m interested, and so far, nada. Nothing at all. I bought the man a teddy bear for heaven’s sake—okay, a Pikachu, not a teddy—and I sat in a freezing cold puddle, again. You’d think that warranted some kind of acknowledgement.

  How’s the lovely Harry? Taken him to any more biker bars lately?

  Yeah, I ignore her question and throw her one of my own. She’s in the midst of a budding romance herself, and after everything with her ex-husband, I don’t begrudge her one second of happiness. Thinking about that bastard, Wayne, my body gives an involuntary shiver. Lilah lived through hell when she was married to him, and I also bore the brunt of his violence one night, but that’s all in the past now, and I’m ready to embrace the future. With my final gift not getting a response from Blake, I think chasing my future will take a different path. But I’m ready for it. What I’m not prepared to do is share Doctor Hottie’s rejection with my sister yet.

  My phone buzzes with her response, and I lie down on my sofa dragging a soft fleece throw over my legs and placing my peanut butter popcorn in reach before queueing up my next Netflix binge. It won’t hurt for Lilah to wait a few minutes. Once I’m comfy, a hot cop paused and ready for me on the TV screen, I hit open on my text app and see Lilah has replied, but there’s also a text from a number not stored in my contacts. I ignore my sister and tap the screen to bring up the other message.

  I’m no Zac Efron, but I’m sure I have some red swim trunks somewhere and can possibly paint up an empty four-pint of milk to look like a rescue buoy.

  Followed quickly by the next message:

  It’s Blake, by the way, offering to save you from drowning, but I’ve realised you don’t have my number and that my first text could appear a little random. And, if by some chance you’re not Nicola, I hope you’re having a great evening, and sorry for the weird texts about buff men in red trunks.

  And the three little dots are currently moving, indicating he’s typing something else. Sure enough, another message follows.

  I forgot to say thank you for my gifts. So, thank you.

  And then another.

  And I’m sorry for standing you up. If I haven’t made a hash of this, I’d love a second chance to take you out. I promise not to wear Baywatch swimwear if you promise not to throw yourself in any more puddles.

  My cheeks hurt from smiling so hard. He’s cute when he’s nervous. Hell, who am I kidding, he’s always cute. No, not cute. He’s hot in a nerdy, geeky way that really tickles my pickle. Like, if Clark Kent were a doctor his name would be Blake Henshaw.

  I wait to see if his text stream has finished, before pushing myself upright while worrying my bottom lip with my teeth. I’ve chased this man, it’s time he chased me.

  Blake? Are you a bona fide lifeguard? I feel you’re offering someone called Nicola services that may be false advertising. Perhaps you need to let her know exactly how it is you save lives. Nicola seems the type of girl who deserves that information up front.

  I hit send and wait.

  Five minutes pass and I wonder if I’ve messed up.

  “Shit,” I mutter with my finger poised over the screen trying to think of something else to send. But, before I do, those little three dots appear.

  If I said I didn’t wear red trunks but a white coat, would that get me the girl?

  Cute. I smile as my fingers tap away my response.

  Are we talking a white coat with nothing underneath like a flasher? Do you hang around in the bushes at the local park? Or are we describing someone with a dress-up fetish who likes to pretend he’s an important doctor?

  I snort out a giggle when I read his reply.

  Are nipple tassels classed as nothing? And define fetish. I feel I need more clarity before giving a final response.

  A quick internet search has me attaching a picture of a beer-bellied guy wearing red sequin nipple tassels and not much else. I’m chuckling to myself so much I forget to add a caption, so when his next text comes through, I full on choke on a laugh.

  Ah, I see. That’s a great example of a fetish. Tell me, do you spend most Friday nights scouring the internet for tassel porn?

  Quickly followed by:

  In all seriousness, I loved my gifts, and I’m sorry for being an arse. I really would like that second chance. But, please don’t make me wear red swim trunks or nipples tassels. Or both at once. It’s cold this winter.

  I swear, my face may split from my grin.

  Yes, you’ve been an arse. You’re welcome for the gifts, I hope they made you smile, and I’d love you to take me out fully clothed. We can’t have you catching a cold, plus, anticipation is… everything. We can try the tassels for date number 2 ;)

  Oh, God. Did I really send that last line? Kill me now. I should not be allowed to flirt via text.

  I agree. Can we set a date in your busy schedule? That way, I have something more to anticipate ;) How about this weekend? I’m off for the next four days.

  My fingers itched to type out a swift ‘Yes’. I wanted to tell him tomorrow morning. I wanted him to take me for breakfast. I wanted to see what he spread on his toast and how his nimble fingers used cutlery. I wanted to watch the bob of his Adam’s apple as he drank his coffee. I wanted to thirst as his tongue slipped out to lick butter from his plump bottom lip. I wanted— Get a grip, Tremere. You’re descending into breakfast food porn featuring Doctor Hottie.

  I shake my head to clear my increasingly X-rated thoughts of Doctor Henshaw. For a virgin, I seriously needed to get laid. Or so my sister is fond of telling me. With excited fingers, I typed out:

  How eager are you to see me? I’m torn between dragging out this anticipation, after all, I’ve earned it, and giving in because I’ve earned that too.

 

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