Praise for Lynne Marshall:

TEMPORARY DOCTOR, SURPRISE FATHER

‘A touching, tender and engrossing Medical™ Romance,

TEMPORARY DOCTOR, SURPRISE FATHER

is a wonderful story which I devoured in a single sitting!

Don’t miss this talented storyteller’s enchanting tale

of second chances, devastating secrets

and the redeeming power of love!’

—CataRomance.com

‘Lynne Marshall’s excellent writing skills

lend excitement and credibility to this story …

The tension between Jan and Beck is realistic, and

keeps you reading to the very end. A very satisfactory end!’

—The Pink Heart Society Reviews

“Maybe we should lay down some rules with this thing—” she gestured with her hand back and forth between them “—we’ve got going.”

“Such as?”

“No showing up out of the blue.”

“What’s the fun in that?”

“Okay,” she said. “How about you don’t have to feel obligated to call me the next day?”

“Unless I want to?”

“Unless you want to.”

“On this list of rules of yours, is there a limit on how often I can see you?”

“That’s a good question.”

“Did I tell you I hate lists?”

“We can skip the list, but I feel like we need some ground rules.”

“I’ve lived by ground rules my entire life,” he said. “Just once I’d like to wing it.”

“You mean, just see how it goes?”

“A novel idea. Let’s do that.”

Dear Reader

It’s wonderful to have another Medical™ Romance out, and DR TALL, DARK… AND DANGEROUS? is very special to me. I got the story idea while visiting my daughter in Boston, so I decided to use the lovely New England town as my setting.

I’ve often heard that our attitudes are the single most important influence in our lives, so I set out to prove it by giving Kasey one huge hardship with which to grapple. At first she feels defeated when she learns devastating news, but lying down and giving up isn’t her style. Instead, she decides to take another path—a more active approach, if you will—one that involves a certain aloof plastic surgeon.

Kasey is a savvy Nurse Practitioner who runs the small Everett Community Clinic. She is well aware of the phenomenon of cause and effect, or in her case actions and consequences, yet under her new circumstances she casts her cares to the wind and makes a play for that plastic surgeon anyway. Little does she know that she is precisely what Jared needs at the perfect time in his life.

I’ve heard other sayings throughout my life—that good often comes from bad circumstances, or difficulties can enlighten us and make us stronger individuals—and, well, I’ll let you read the book and decide if you agree with me about that or not…

I hope you enjoy Kasey and Jared’s book—a story about two people who really deserve each other!

All the best

Lynne

Visit Lynne Marshall’s website here: www.lynnemarshall.com and watch out for her weekly blog.

Or friend her on Facebook! She loves to hear from readers from all over the world.

About the Author

LYNNE MARSHALL has been a Registered Nurse in a large California hospital for over twenty-five years. She has now taken the leap to writing full-time, but still volunteers at her local community hospital. After writing the book of her heart in 2000, she discovered the wonderful world of Mills & Boon® Medical™ Romance, where she feels the freedom to write the stories she loves. She is happily married, has two fantastic grown children, and a socially challenged rescued dog. Besides her passion for writing Medical™ Romance, she loves to travel and read. Thanks to the family dog, she takes long walks every day!

To find out more about Lynne, please visit her website: www.lynnemarshallweb.com

Recent titles by this author:

THE CHRISTMAS BABY BUMP

THE HEART DOCTOR AND THE BABY

THE BOSS AND NURSE ALBRIGHT

TEMPORARY DOCTOR, SURPRISE FATHER

These books are also available in eBook format from www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dr Tall,
Dark…and
Dangerous?

Lynne Marshall

www.millsandboon.co.uk

DEDICATION

Heartfelt thanks to Sally, for keeping in touch and

encouraging me, and to Sheila for welcoming me back.

Also, special thanks to my daughter Emily,

for being my first reader on this book,

and for her input regarding Boston.

CHAPTER ONE

KASEY waved toward Vincent Clark in the clinic hallway. A baby cried in the background. “Room three,” she said. “Mrs. Gardner needs the second shot in her hepatitis B series.”

Nine in the morning and already the small clinic’s waiting room was full. A newborn needed his six-week examination; a toddler’s allergies were flaring up with spring and the coming grass season; a teenage mother needed counseling on diet; a senior citizen’s diabetes wasn’t under control. On and on went the list, making Kasey wish she had forty-eight hours in her day.

Although today she welcomed the non-stop regimen and distractions.

“I’ll get right on it,” Vincent said, grabbing his laptop, flashing his killer smile.

She forced a phony grin, since smiling was the last thing she felt like doing. He deserved no less, and she didn’t believe in dumping her foul mood on others. Charming, bright and sensitive, not to mention well groomed and fit, Vincent was everything Kasey looked for in a man, or used to, anyway. The catch was she wasn’t her RN and assistant clinic administrator’s type, because he was gay.

Besides, she’d given up on finding Mr. Right. Her last big love had told her he loved her one weekend and the next said that whatever he’d said last week he didn’t feel any more. What was a girl supposed to do with that? In reality, men had never stuck around for her or her mother. Since good old Arnie had broken her heart two years ago, her motto had been to keep it superficial all the way—no investment; no pain. It wasn’t everything she’d hoped for in life, but it would have to do.

Vincent patted her shoulder as he passed. They adored each other in a strictly platonic way, the perfect working situation, and he was a good friend, one she could depend on. Since she’d put so much time and energy into her job over the last few years, she could count her friends on two fingers, sad but factual. As an RN, she believed in facts.

Besides, she wasn’t in the market for a partner, and had given up looking, especially now, since she’d gotten the horrible news about her birth father. What would be the point of getting involved with anyone for the long haul?

She dashed to her desk to look for the notes on the toddler she’d seen last week, and found six more patient messages.

What would Vincent think if he knew her prognosis? Maybe, if things ever slowed down today, she’d tell him. No. Not here. Not quickly over a cup of coffee in the lunch room. She’d need an entire night over drinks and dinner to work up the nerve to say what frightened her more than anything on earth. But she needed to tell somebody, and soon, or she’d explode, and she needed to build her support system. She definitely needed more than two friends, especially as one lived out of state.

She let out a quiet breath and picked up a note from her receptionist and read, “Facial laceration”, then grabbed her laptop and strode toward room one. As long as she was married to the community clinic, there’d be no chance of making new friends.

Laurette Meranvil was a name she hadn’t seen before. After knocking, she opened the door and found a petite, brightly dressed woman sitting on the examination table, holding a cloth to her cheek. Kasey put her computer on the stand then reached for and shook the lady’s free hand.

“I’m Kasey McGowan, the nurse practitioner. What seems to be the problem?”

“I cut my cheek on glass,” the woman said with what Kasey had come to recognize as a Haitian accent.

Gingerly removing the cloth, Kasey discovered a jagged cut dangerously close to the woman’s eye and extending out over her cheek. Fresh blood oozed with the release of pressure. She donned gloves and checked for obvious glass slivers in the wound but didn’t find any.

“How did this happen?”

Kasey read the hesitation in the patient’s eyes before the woman glanced at the floor. So often the truth went untold at the clinic. “I fell into a glass door.”

Kasey ground her molars and hid her disbelief. Not that it couldn’t happen, but … It was more important to treat the wound, knowing she might never get to the truth.

Though she was trained to suture, this facial laceration would leave an ugly scar if not expertly handled. Kasey knew her limitations, and the woman deserved the best treatment possible.

“Ms. Meranvil, would you be able to stay at the clinic a bit longer while I have one of the plastic surgeons from the Mass General hospital stitch your wound?” She was aware that keloids could develop at the site of the scar, and because it was on the patient’s face Kasey didn’t want to take any chances of disfiguring the patient even more, so she wanted to bring in an expert.

Laurette drew her eyebrows together. “I cannot pay for special treatment.”

“This is the community clinic, remember? There won’t be an extra charge.”

After a moment’s thought, Laurette gave a serious-faced nod.

“Great. We’ll take you to the treatment room and get the RN to clean your wound while we wait.” Kasey carefully pressed the skin flap closed and put a sterile four-by-four over it to catch the slow flow of blood then discarded her gloves and entered a quick note into the computer. “The nurse will be right with you, but in the meantime keep light pressure on it,” she said, signing off and grabbing the laptop on her way out.

Once back at her desk, she found her co-worker sorting another stack of patient messages.

“Vincent, can you clean the wound in room one, give her a tetanus shot, and move her to the procedure room? I’ve got to make a call to see who’s taking plastics call this month.” As a nearby training hospital, Tufts regularly sent medical students to volunteer at the clinic, but this wound called for extra special care.

She went straight to her desk and dialed the long-memorized number of the massive teaching hospital. It supported the Everett neighborhood community clinic by supplying residents on call in various specialties as needed. After going through the usual chain of command, Kasey reached the department of surgery and was promised a second-year plastics fellowship doctor would be at the clinic within the hour. Just when she’d gotten used to last month’s doctor, a bubbly young woman, May rolled around and she’d have to readjust to yet another face and name and, most importantly, personality. But that was the name of the game when operating a community clinic with a limited budget that got scrutinized with a magnifying glass each month by the trustees. She took what she was given and smiled gratefully. Fortunately, the hospital thrived on the extra experience for their interns, residents and doctor specialists in training.

After hanging up the phone and on her way to see another patient, Kasey peeked in on Laurette, noting Vincent had done a fine job of cleaning and dressing the wound. The patient rested on the gurney, staring at the ceiling, the head of the bed partially elevated.

“Can I get you some water?” Kasey asked.

The woman nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

If only Kasey were a mind reader, a skill not taught in the Master’s in Nursing program, maybe she could find out how the accident had really happened. Once the young woman took the water and sipped, she closed her eyes, sending the message loud and clear: I’m not talking about it. So Kasey quietly left the procedure room.

As the other examination rooms filled up, Kasey became involved with patient care, physicals and treatments, and an hour and a half later she glanced at her watch and stole a moment to get back to the nursing station.

Just about to call again, a shadow covered her desk.

She glanced up to find deep blue masculine eyes staring at her from beneath brown brows, and the hair on her neck prickled. The strikingly serious eyes studied her as if she’d come from another planet. Dark brown hair swept back from a high forehead and curled just beneath his earlobes suggesting a professional haircut hadn’t found a date on his calendar in a couple of months. A day’s growth of red-tinged beard covered the man’s sharp jaw.

“You have a patient for me?” The quiet baritone voice sent more chills down her arms, throwing her off track and making her a little ticked off as he hadn’t bothered to introduce himself yet.

Needing to look away, Kasey glanced over the man’s shoulder at Vincent who, in his usual playful way, watched wide-eyed, biting his knuckle over the hunk, and she tried not to roll her eyes. Vincent was a sucker for a handsome face, and with this man Vincent’s assessment was right on target. Too bad the doctor’s impatient expression ruined the effect.

“Oh, um, yes, I do have a patient for you. That is if you’re the resident from Plastic Surgery.”

To be honest, she’d expected someone younger, more in keeping with the third—and fourth-year residents who’d normally been sent to the clinic, not a man who looked as if he’d been practicing medicine for a decade and had early signs of gray sprinkled at his temples to prove it.

He gave a slow nod, his haunting eyes as steady as a surgeon’s hands, making her feel edgy. She didn’t need any help with that edgy feeling today.

“I’m Jared Finch,” he said.

Snap out of it, girl. “Hi, I’m Kasey, and over there is my co-worker, Vincent.”

Vincent beamed, more gums than teeth showing. “Hi, thanks for coming.”

“Just doing my job,” he said, nodding hello to Vincent before turning back to Kasey. “Are you in charge?”

Unable to break away from his gaze, she fought the hitch in her breath and mentally kicked herself for falling apart. He was just a man. A doctor. She’d seen plenty of handsome men in her life, just not here in her clinic. And this man, in ten seconds flat, seemed to have absconded with her composure. She wanted to grab a rubber reflex hammer and pound some sense into her head.

“Yes. I’m the nurse practitioner and I run the clinic. Thanks so much for coming, Dr. Finch.” He reached for a quick handshake, though his felt barely alive, and she shook once then let go. Even lackluster, the fraction of a moment’s connection had left her off balance. He came for the patient, give him the information. Right. She looked through the mess on her desk, found the note, and handed it to him. Clutching the laptop that had Laurette Meranvil’s information on it tightly to her chest and feeling fortified, she stood. “Let me show you the patient.”

Jared followed the skittish NP down the hall toward the patient examination room. He’d been up all night, moonlighting, and the last thing he’d wanted to do was rush over to a satellite clinic for more work. Part of his commitment to the two-year plastic surgery certification program was volunteering at clinics such as this, all over town. During the month of May, as long as he wasn’t doing surgery with his mentors, he’d be at the beck and call of the Everett community clinic, and would be required to put in twenty hours’ service. It wasn’t a “get” to, it was a “got” to, something he’d have to endure.

The nurse practitioner flipped her dark blonde hair over her shoulder and glanced at him just before opening the door. Since beginning his plastic surgery fellowship, he’d gotten into the habit of looking at women and deciding how he could improve their features. He studied the arch of her brows and the almond-shaped green eyes, the larger-than-average nose with a bump on the bridge, and her lips, small, but nicely padded. Her loose lab coat and scrub pants hid her shape, but he guessed she was at least five feet six.

“Let me show you what we’ve got,” she said, with a polite office smile. It was nice to see she hadn’t used Botox, as he preferred expressive eyes.

The corner of his mouth twitched as he followed her inside, and that would have to suffice for a friendly smile these days.

“The patient says she fell against a glass door.”

He lifted one brow and shared a knowing look with the nurse practitioner as she opened the computer and brought up the patient’s chart. He quickly read over her shoulder, just enough to fill him in.

“Mrs. Meranvil, I’m Dr. Finch. Let’s have a look at that cut.” After he’d washed his hands and donned gloves, he removed the gauze and examined the depth of the wound and potential tissue damage. “Set up a sterile field,” he said to the NP, “and I’ll inject some anesthetic. Do you have a tendency to develop keloids?”

The quiet woman’s pinched forehead clued him to rephrase his question. “Do you get bumpy scars?”

She shook her head, and he wondered if she’d completely understood him. He glanced over her skin for any evidence of old scars to compare, but her long-sleeved, frayed-at-the-cuffs blouse didn’t reveal anything.

The nurse practitioner hustled to set up the pre-sterilized pack, and he switched to sterile gloves from the basic tray then gestured to her. “I’ll need five-zero polypropylene sutures.”

She rustled through the cupboard until she found exactly what he wanted, opened the sterile pack and dropped it onto the sterile field. He nodded his thanks.

“Let’s get started,” he said, nodding toward the anesthetic. Using sterile technique, she handed him antiseptic cleanser and the tiny-gauge needle and syringe. He swiped the rubber stopper as she held the bottle upside down, and he withdrew a couple of ccs, then discarded the first needle and switched to the next, which the nurse extended to him from within its sterile wrapper.

“You’ll feel a little pinch.” He injected into the subcutaneous fat around the laceration as gingerly as possible. Once the effect set in, he’d look more closely for glass slivers or debris in the wound, though the nurse had cleaned it well.

Since he was up close, he gave a tight-lipped, woefully out-of-practice smile. The patient barely responded.

“Are you okay?” the nurse named Kasey asked. The patient nodded.

Right, he should employ some light banter. He cleared his throat. “Need anything?” It came out sterner than he’d meant. The patient shook her head as if afraid to talk to him.

That was the limit of his bedside manner these days, a fact he was gravely aware of and which, considering the field he was going into, needed to change. In his own good time. He took the delicate-toothed forceps and a small curved needle holder and began his meticulous suturing.

Suturing was nothing new to him—he’d been a practicing general surgeon for eight years before making the decision to go into plastic surgery. He almost gave a rueful laugh out loud over that thought as he sank another stitch and tied it off. He’d been forced to go into the big money specialty field after his wife had financially cleaned him out in the divorce two years ago. After all, a doctor of his skill and experience should be able to support his children and ex-wife without going broke.

He needed to think a hell of a lot more pleasant thoughts while treating this patient. She deserved his undivided attention and surgical expertise. The one thing he was sure of these days was his ability as a surgeon. Make that plastic surgeon.

Kasey was impressed with Dr. Finch’s technique if not his bedside manner, and how he took great care with each stitch. If all went well with the healing process, Laurette would wind up with only a fine pale scar beneath her dark chocolate eye.

After the procedure was finished, she helped Laurette sit up. Vowing never to clean houses like her mother, she’d been a nurse since she was twenty-two, and four years later, when she’d become a nurse practitioner, she’d been initiated by fire when this clinic had opened. Nothing fazed her now. She’d worked with plenty of fussy doctors. Dr. Finch wasn’t fussy, just particular about how he wanted things done. Showing a serious lack of bedside manner, he obviously had no intention of sticking around to reassure the patient. Task done, he’d already shoved the surgical tray aside, ripped off his gloves and was halfway to the door without a single word. At least he’d disposed of the trash and the used needles into the sharps container on his way, she’d give him that.

“Thanks, Doc,” she said, tongue in cheek.

“Not a problem,” he said in a gruff tone. Just before closing the door, he turned toward the patient. “Ms. Meranvil, we’ll need to see you back in four to five days to take out those sutures.”

“Yes, Doctor,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

Slam, bam, thank you, ma’am?

“One more thing …” He popped his head back inside the exam room. “Has she had a tetanus booster?”

“Already taken care of,” Kasey said, organizing the dressing. Sheesh, you’d think he could at least try to fake some patient concern! “Ms. Meranvil, I think you’ll be pretty as ever after these stitches come out,” she said as she lightly bandaged the wound.

After giving an encouraging smile to her patient, Kasey glanced over her shoulder. Jared had paused at the door.

“Agreed,” he’d said.

Those unreadable steel-blue eyes almost responded to his flat, partial smile. Or maybe it was just a nod with a grimace? Talk about not putting your heart into it. At least he was a top-notch technician.

Yet those eyes …

Feeling pulled into his stare, she forced herself to look away, back to her task at hand, just as the door closed. “There. I think you’re good to go.” She patted Laurette on the arm, already planning her revenge on Dr. Finch.

Despite his lack of charm, Jared Finch’s haunting eyes reappeared in her mind. There were far too many patients to tend to, so why get swept up in a remote and mysterious doctor’s gaze?

There was just no point.

Jared sat at the corner desk in the clinic office, typing his electronic chart entry, when Kasey reappeared. Fortunately, she left him alone to go about his business while she shuffled reports and folders at the adjacent desk. There was nothing worse than being interrupted by a chatty person while trying to concentrate. He cast a furtive glance at her from across the room. Dressed in scrubs and a lab coat, there was no telling what kind of shape she had.

“Since you need to see this patient again next week,” she said, ruining his hopes of blessed silence, “why don’t we send out a flyer to the neighborhood?”

He stopped typing in mid-word. “A what?”

“A flyer. We can do a one-day surgical clinic.”

He leveled her a look similar to that he gave his his son when he got out of line. Apparently it didn’t register.

“You know, since you have to come back to follow up with Laurette’s stitches?”

His dead stare stopped her for a moment. Ah, peace. He went back to the second half of that word in the report.

She cleared her throat. He tried to ignore it.

“You said yourself she has to come back in four to five days to have the stitches removed. What if there’s a problem? Do you want to leave that woman scarred?” He hadn’t sustained a dead stare this long since the last time his kids had ganged up on him about flying to a theme park in Florida. “Why not set up an open clinic for the local residents on Tuesday as you’ll have to be here anyway?”

He slowly lifted his eyes, sending her another warning glance.

“Did you know there’s a huge need for the underserved and minimally insured population in this area?” she said, undeterred. “And also, on the brighter side, you could chip away at some of the required hours for your month-long clinic rotation.”

He didn’t give a damn how good a saleswoman she was, he just wanted her to shut up so he could finish his report and get back to the hospital. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll give you one whole day to see your clinic walk-in patients. There. You happy now?” May as well take up her suggestion and get this volunteer time out of the way as quickly as possible. Now maybe she’d be quiet.

She tossed him a don’t-do-us-any-favors look before she commenced rushed clicking and clacking on the keyboard.

Yeah, he’d said the words, and they had seriously lacked enthusiasm, but he’d already gathered she was a smart cookie and wasn’t about to let an opportunity like this slip by. Now maybe he could finish this consult and head out.

“I’ll print up a flyer and hire some of the local boys to distribute them to the houses and on cars in the area.”

“Great. Whatever. Now, could you let me finish my report?” That got a rise in her brows, and more speedy typing, as he’d hopelessly lost his train of thought about the wording in the report.

His concentration thrown out of the window, he recalled on his drive through the neighborhood that the boulevard was lined with red-brick and mortar storefronts, and had an eclectic assortment of businesses. Many looked rundown. The place probably could use a day-long walk-in surgery clinic, and the sooner he got his volunteer hours done the sooner he could get back to focusing fully on plastic surgery.

“Maybe you should post flyers in the local business windows, too,” he said. “Though you may want to skip all the mortuaries—don’t want to send the wrong message.”

Quick to forgive, she laughed, and it sounded nice, low and husky. Almost made him smile.

“What’s up with that anyway?”

“The overabundance of mortuaries?” she said. “I think it must have something to do with having a hospital in the area since the late eighteen hundreds and the odds of folks making it out alive.” Unlike him, she could multitask, and never missed a beat typing and staring at the computer screen. “I guess the morticians went where they were guaranteed business. Though it does seem like overkill these days, pardon the pun.”

He nodded, stretching his lips into a straight line rather than a smile, and grudgingly admitted he liked her dry wit and Boston accent. Pah-din. “Yeah, so I figure if I’m volunteering time for the month, like you said, I may as well make it worth everyone’s while.” Code for get it over with ASAP. That’s what he was all about these days—meet his obligations as quickly as possible and move on. In another year he’d get his life back and begin his own private practice back home in California. Besides, he hated it when he ran out of things to do, preferring to work until he could pass out and sleep. Then work more. Anything to keep his mind occupied.

He scratched his jaw. “So I’ll come at nine and work until seven—that way folks can stop by after they get off work,” he said.

“Then why not make it eight p.m.? Would that work? With long commutes, some people don’t get home from work until after seven.”

Sure, squeeze an extra hour out of me, lady. “Fine,” he said, staring at the last dangling sentence in his report.

Truth was, unless he moonlighted, he had nothing better to do with his time most nights. He sublet a basement bachelor apartment near Beacon Hill, with rented furniture and noisy pipes, paid through his nose for the privilege to live there, and after a year had yet to meet a single neighbor.

“That way you’d get half of your required volunteer hours out of the way in one day,” she said.

He wanted to protest, say that wasn’t the reason he’d agreed to do the all-day clinic, but she’d seen right through his tidy little plan. He cleared his throat. “Good point.”

Her fingers clacked over the keyboard again. His concentration shot, he stood, crossed the room and looked over her shoulder at the screen. Within a couple of minutes she’d produced a first-rate flyer, complete with clip art of a stethoscope and all the pertinent information, clear and concise.

“What do you think?” She glanced up, their gazes connected. Up close he was struck by how green her eyes were, and that she was a natural blonde, and he wondered why it registered.

“Looks great,” he said, leaning away while she pressed “Print” and stood.

She walked across the small and cluttered office to the antiquated printer to snag the first flyer. Holding the goldenrod paper like a picture for him to see, she smiled. “Not bad.”

He looked her up and down before looking at the flyer. Yeah, not bad. “Guess I can’t weasel out of it now.”

She rewarded his honesty with a smile, a very nice smile. “Nope. I’m going to hold you to your word. We’ll put one of these by the receptionist’s window right now and start handing them out after lunch.”

As she breezed across the room toward the connecting front office in her oversized lab coat and scrubs, he caught a scent of no frills soap and enjoyed the clean smell, then discovered there was something else he favored about her. Unlike so many of his patients—size four with forty-inch chests—she wasn’t skinny trim. She was sturdy and healthy looking, not like the lettuce-and-cilantro-eating women he saw in the plastic surgery clinics.

“Look,” he said, needing to get away before he discovered anything else he liked about her, or before she bamboozled him into working there the entire month. “I’ve got to run back to the hospital. I’ll see you next Tuesday.”

Kasey hopped off the bus on her street, the rich smell of fresh pizza from the corner ma and pa shop making her instantly hungry. She strode briskly against the chill and drizzle toward her house, eager to take off her shoes and relax. In a neighborhood lined with hundred-year-old two-story houses, most divided into two units, she lived amongst an interesting mix of people: the working class; families and seniors; immigrants; and Bostonians who could trace their American heritage back for centuries. She loved her converted first-floor apartment with hardwood floors and mustard-colored walls, and appreciated her quiet neighbors, except for that constantly squawking cockatiel next door. Skipping up her front steps to get out of the drizzle, which had now progressed to rain, she wondered if spring would ever break through the dreary weather.

After grabbing the mail from the box on the porch, she used her key to open the front door, immediately disabling the alarm system. Sadly, living alone in the city, it was a necessary expense, and one that gave her peace of mind. Well worth the cost.

She tossed her mail on the dining table on her way to the kitchen, and the corner of another letter left opened from yesterday caught her eye and brought back a wave of dread. Try as she may to put it out of her head all day, she’d failed. She needed a cool glass of water before she dared read it again. Maybe the words had changed. Maybe she’d misunderstood.

A quiet mew and furry brush against her ankle made her smile. She bent to pick up Daisy, her calico cat, who’d come out of hiding to greet her.

“What’s up, Miss Daisy? Did you watch the birds today?” She thought how her cat sat perched on the back bedroom window-sill, twitching her tail for hours on end, most likely imagining leaping into the air to catch a chickadee busy with nest-building. “You want your dinner?”

After she’d fed the cat and drunk a whole glass of water, she went back to the table and picked up the letter from the Department of Health and Welfare.

“It is with great sadness we inform you that your birth father, Jeffrey Morgan McAfee, has passed away from Huntington’s disease …”

She tossed the letter on the table, closing her eyes and taking a seat. She hadn’t misread it. With elbows planted firmly on the worn walnut surface, she dropped her head into her hands and did something she rarely allowed: she felt sorry for herself.

“We recommend you meet with a genetic counselor and set up a blood test …”

She’d never known her father, her mother had never spoken of him, and this had been one hell of an introduction. She’d called her mother to verify her father’s name last night, but had only got her message machine. Then later, Mom had called back to break the bad news. He was, in fact, her father. That’s all she’d said, but Kasey intended to get the whole story one day soon.

“Did he leave you anything in his will?” So like Mom. Always looking for a free ride and never coming close to finding one.

“Yeah, Mom, one doozy of an inheritance …”

Kasey wouldn’t wish the progressive, degenerative disease on anyone, yet with her birth father having and dying from it, she had a fifty percent chance of developing Huntington’s. And once the symptoms began, if they began, which was a mind-wrenching thought in itself, there would be a tortured journey of wasting nerve cells, decreased cognition, Parkinson’s-type rigidity and myriad other health issues until it took her life.

At least Mom had apologized, but how could a person make up for sleeping with the wrong guy, getting pregnant, and never seeing him again? Actions and consequences had never really figured into her mother’s style of living.

She couldn’t dwell on the disease. There was no point. While removing her head from her hands, her stomach protested, reminding her it had been hours since she’d eaten. She either carried the marker or she didn’t, the ticking clock had already been set or it hadn’t. Thinking how her ignorance had been bliss all these years, she had no control over anything, and now her life must go on just as it had before the letter had arrived.

She stood, losing her footing and having to grab the table for balance. Could it be an early symptom? Her throat went dry. Hadn’t she been bumping into things more recently? She shook her head, scolding herself. She’d always been clumsy, especially when she rushed, and she rushed all the time at work. There was no need to second-guess every misstep. She needed to eat, that was all.

And if she wanted peace of mind, all she needed to do was make an appointment and have a blood test and find out, once and for all, if she carried the defective gene. Be done with it or face it head on.

She’d been drawing blood from patients for years, never thought twice about having her own lab work done. Not since a kid had the thought of a laboratory test sent an icy chill of fear down her spine. Until today. What would she do if she had Huntington’s? She tightened her jaw and stood straighter. If she had the disease, she’d just have to make the most of each day … until the symptoms began, and even then, she promised to live life to the fullest for as long as she was physically able.

Though her stomach growled a second time, she’d just lost her appetite.

CHAPTER TWO

FRIDAY night, hidden in a booth and lost in the noise of the local Pub, Kasey took another sip of her beer. She’d asked Vincent to join her for dinner, her treat, hoping to work up the nerve to tell him her troubles. So far they’d each had a deli sandwich, hers the chicken breast, his the beef dip, and they’d shared a Caesar salad. Vincent had just ordered a second round of beer, yet she still hadn’t broached the subject etched in her genes and squeezing her heart.

“O. M. G., look!” Vincent pointed to the bar with the neck of his low-calorie beer bottle. “It’s him, Dr. Tall, Dark, and Gorgeous.”

Kasey almost choked on her drink when her eyes focused on the broad shoulders covered in a well-cut jacket, and the trim hips and jeans-clad legs. Though from Vincent’s perspective Dr. Finch might be, she wouldn’t go so far as to call him tall, but somewhere more in the vicinity of five eleven or so. Why split hairs, when the conclusion was the same? The man was a hunk.

Speaking of hair, and since she was now officially living her life for the moment, waves like those gave her the urge to run her fingers through them, just to see how they felt. She glanced at Vincent and realized he was probably thinking the same thing, and it made her blurt out a laugh. They shared the same taste in men. Where Jared Finch might possess superb physical traits, he sorely lacked both personality and charm, going from the short encounter she’d had with him. Looks could only take a man so far in her opinion. Maybe she wasn’t the only person in the world with problems? Kasey continued to glance toward the bar, intrigued.

“I wonder what he’s doing here,” she said.

“Well, duh, drinking!” Vincent reached across the booth table and patted her hands. “He must be human, just like us. Isn’t that sweet?”

Vincent had been teased mercilessly all his life about his carrot-top hair, which he now kept meticulously combed and perfectly spiked, resembling a torch on top. If the red hair didn’t set him apart, his alabaster-white skin dotted with free-flowing freckles sealed the deal when combined with his fastidious style of dress and precise mannerisms. He’d survived a tough childhood and now lived life exactly as he pleased. As a result he owned the sweetest content smile on the planet. Right now he shared that smile with Kasey. Sparkles beamed from his eyes—even in the darkened pub Kasey could see them—as he watched Jared standing at the bar, hoisting a mug, taking a swig and watching the Red Sox on the big screen.

“I don’t think he’s with anyone,” Vincent said. “I’m going to invite him over.” He shot out of the booth and zigzagged through the crowd before Kasey had a chance to stop him.

“Don’t do that!” she said, her voice overpowered by piped-in Irish rock music as he was halfway across the bar. “I need to talk to you … tell you my horrible news. And that guy’s a real pill.”

Biting her lips, she refused to watch Vincent. Instead, she cringed, took another drink of her beer and hoped Dr. Finch had a short memory. Or that he thought Vincent was too forward and invading his privacy and refused to associate with subordinates. That would suit his attitude.

Unable to stand the suspense, she glanced from the corner of her eye toward the bar. Damn, the men were both headed for the booth. She sat straighter and fussed with her bangs, then wished she hadn’t left her hair in the French braid tucked under at her nape. They’d come here straight from work, and a whole lot of hair had escaped since that morning, judging by the tendrils tickling her neck. She must look a mess, and what had been completely acceptable for spending time with Vincent would now fail miserably for making an impression on Vincent’s Dr. Tall, Dark, and Gorgeous. Why should she care?

Catching an errant strand of hair and tucking it behind her ear, another pang of anxiety got her attention. What the heck was she supposed to talk about? The plan had been to wine and dine Vincent, then tell him her woes, not have a social encounter with an aloof plastic surgeon. She hated it when her plans didn’t work out.

When Jared arrived at the booth, his tentative smile made her suspicious he’d had a drink or two already, since friendliness hadn’t been his strong suit at the clinic. “Hi,” he said. “I was just on my way out when Vinnie caught me.”

Vincent preened in the background over his job well done.

“Hi, Dr. Finch, what are you doing here?” she said, ignoring her gloating friend and cringing over the lame question.

“Having a drink—what else?” He pinched his brows together and glanced around the pub just as a group of three waiters broke into song at the booth next to theirs. They sang “Happy birthday” to a young woman who didn’t look a day over sixteen, though they served her a fancy umbrella drink with a flaming candle in it, so she had to be at least twenty-one. Yep, by the end of the song they’d sung, “Happy twenty-first birthday to Shauna”.

“I feel so old,” Jared said, after watching the celebration. “Is there an upper age limit at this bar? No one over thirty allowed?”

“Oh, no. That’s not what I meant when I asked what you were doing here. What I meant was I’m just surprised to see you here, that’s all.” This was more of a locals bar, not a place for doctors, especially future plastic surgeons.

He sat next to her, and she scooted several inches in the other direction, though there wasn’t far to go, her hands clutching the glass of pale ale. “And, besides, if the age limit is thirty, I’d be too old, too.”

“You’re not over thirty, are you?” He sat with a hand on each knee, back to looking stiff and out of his element.

“Thirty-two last January.” She didn’t care if he knew her age—she wasn’t looking for his approval.

“I would have pegged you around twenty-six or-seven.”

Well, then. She sat a little straighter. Yes, he was being nice, she knew it, but nevertheless he’d scored a few plus points over the unintentional compliment. His attempt to be kind was a far cry from the standoffish guy she’d met the other day.

“Now I know you’ve had a couple of pints.” She felt the blush from his compliment as deeply as when she’d been twelve and regularly embarrassed. How silly was that?

He stopped just before he finished off his dark brew. “From these thirty-nine-year-old eyes, you look twenty-six. Trust me.”

“How old do I look?” Vincent asked, looking a little desperate to get into the game.

“Vinnie, I’m thinking twenty-four.”

Vincent giggled, actually giggled. “Oh, Doctor, you’re so funny, I’m thirty. And could you call me Vincent, please?”

“Apologies, Vincent. Then we’re all over the hill. Good. I don’t relate to the younger generation, anyway. All the face piercings and tattoos, fake boobs.”

Kasey took another swallow of beer to help the dry patch in her throat as she thought about the four silver hoops in various sizes in both of her ears, the silver ball in her left tragus, the small rose tattoo hidden on her right hip, and the hummingbird on her left shoulder. Her breasts were her own, though. She sat a little straighter, thinking about it. “But you’re going to be a plastic surgeon, so won’t you be augmenting a lot of those ‘boobs’?”

“I’m depending on it. Lots of cash in breast augmentation. And lipo. Ah, and we can’t forget Brazilian butt lifts. Big bucks there, too.”

He seemed too caught up with the money side of the job, and it made her subtract some of those points she’d just awarded him. Her thoughts must have shown on her face.

“There’s nothing wrong with helping people look the way they want,” Vincent said, practically shushing her as if she’d been rude to their guest.

“Within reason.” For some crazy reason—maybe the second half of the pale ale—she wasn’t ready to back down. “You wouldn’t give anyone cat eyes if they asked, would you? Or a doll’s nose, or pull someone’s face so tight they looked like they’d just hit G-force?”

Surprising her, Jared gave a good-hearted laugh—a deep, really nice-sounding laugh, which suited his urbane appearance and classy charm. “I’ve often wondered if some plastic surgeons forget their oaths to do no harm.” He touched her forearm, sending her focus away from his mesmerizing eyes. “You’d probably think less of me if I said, ‘If the price was right’, so I won’t answer that question.”

His dodge disappointed her, and he looked less handsome for it. Then she mentally kicked herself, wondering who was shallower, him for doing what his patients asked or her for getting all caught up in a man with an intriguing face before knowing a single thing about him.

Everyone around the table stared at their drinks. The silence had gone on long enough.

“You’re not from Massachusetts, are you?” she said.

He shook his head. “California.”

“What brings you out this way?” Vincent asked.

“My kids.” He got a distant, almost pained look in his eyes, but quickly snapped out of it. “They go to school out here.” He took a long swig of his drink. “My ex-wife insisted on sending them to an exclusive boarding school back east, which meant moving across country and driving two hours in order to see them every other weekend.”

“So does your ex live here too?” Vincent asked.

“Nope. Patrice is still back in California.”

This earnest dad who’d do anything, including move across the country, to be near his kids, took her by surprise. If she had been keeping tally, he’d moved back up the plus column. “I’ve heard it’s a great school.” Meaning it was expensive.

“Oh, yeah, the best.” He finished another long drink. “Which is the main reason I chose plastic surgery this time around.” He gave an I-don’t-give-a-damn-what-you-think glance, meant only for Kasey.

Yes, he came off gruff and uncaring, and maybe a little drunk to be talking about this with near strangers, but Kasey saw through the façade and did the math. He had an ex-wife who got alimony and kids in a private school. The man was upgrading his pay scale by going into plastic surgery. A perfectly respectable specialty in this day and age so she wasn’t going to come down hard on him for that.

Her father had never even tried to find her. This guy had moved across the country to be near his kids.

He took a long draw on the last of his beer. Vincent waved his hand to the passing waitress and ordered another round. “You’re not driving, are you, Dr. Finch?”

“Call me Jared. Actually, I’m within walking distance of here. What about you guys?”

“The T,” Kasey and Vincent answered in unison, then locked pinky fingers. “Jinx, one, two, three, you owe me a beer,” they also said in unison.

Jared cocked his head, glancing at Kasey and Vincent. “I keep forgetting I’m not in California any more. We can’t live without our cars.” Ignoring the pinky locking, he pinned Kasey with an inquisitive look. “Do you feel safe riding the T at night?”

“As a woman, I’m never completely comfortable commuting after dark, but as long as I’m home before midnight, I’m okay with it. Anyway, after the T there’s a bus that takes me right to my street corner. It works out pretty well.”

Jared glanced across at Vincent. “You’re not seeing her home?”

“She’s my best friend, but also a big girl, and I’m a big boy in the big city. Besides, I live in Jamaica Plains at the other end of the Orange line, and she lives in Everette. We’re okay with that, aren’t we, Kase?”

“Yeah.” She nodded, just as the waitress delivered their next round of beers. “I’m fine with that. If you can’t handle the transportation, get out of the city, I always say.”

From across the booth Vincent reached for a high five and she joined him, grateful she wasn’t drinking on an empty stomach and wondering what the heck Dr. TD&G thought about their childish antics. Ah, what did she care? After next Tuesday he’d only have another eight to ten hours left to volunteer at the clinic and then she’d never see him again anyway.

By the end of the next beer even Jared had loosened up and the conversation had run the gamut from surviving while going to school to favorite pubs in the area to bad break-ups. And Kasey’s head had started to spin with all the details.

“This certain person, who shall rename mainless,” Vincent said, and giggled. “I mean shall remain nameless, took all my favorite CDs and DVDs before we broke up. Should’ve seen it coming, I guess.”

“No, no, no.” Jared said. “You have no idea what a real break-up is. California style. I’ve been a doctor for thirteen years and I’m living in a basement apartment with rented furniture, thanks to my ex.”

“So that’s why you’re going into plastic surgery,” Vincent said, with a poor-baby gaze in his eyes.

“Absolutely. Plus the fact I believe people should be able to look the way they want. If I can help make them happy with their appearance, I’ll be glad to do it.”

The man was definitely toeing the line on plastic surgery, and she was beginning to believe his sincerity.

Somewhere during the conversation Kasey had slipped into the shadows of her mind, leaving Vincent to stir up mischief and Jared willingly joining in. She’d heard the retold saga of Vincent’s childhood in Kansas and what had brought him to Boston. She’d also gathered some interesting information about Jared’s fifteen-year marriage to his college sweetheart, Patrice, and how over the years his ex had changed into a shopaholic, how it had ruined their marriage and caused their divorce two years ago. She also knew one-sided stories were never accurate, and wondered what the rest of that tale was. She suspected he was still hurting about the break-up of his family, and even thought about commenting on that, though didn’t get that far.

With all the open conversation, Kasey hadn’t managed to share a single thing about herself.

Kasey’s mind slipped back to the latest news, the worst news of her life. She’d managed to distract herself the last couple of hours with the male company and pale ale, yet now it tiptoed back into her thoughts and soured her stomach.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Vincent prodded.

“Yeah, what about you?” Jared said. “Don’t you have any dating war stories?”

She laughed and swiped at the air, her idea of feeling cavalier about life’s major curve balls. “You guys don’t have anything to complain about.”

Vincent’s cellphone rang. He checked who it was, his eyes going wide. “Speak of the devil.”

Kasey faked a grin for Jared, who returned a benign smile, while Vincent took the call. She tore her bar napkin into three soggy parts while mulling over her news. The waitress arrived, and Jared ordered for them, though Vincent shook his head. Jared glanced at Kasey again, one brow raised.

Sure. What the heck. I’m living life moment to moment now, right? She nodded, and Jared ordered for both of them.

Vincent finished his call. “It’s been great, but I’ve got to go.” He fished in his pocket for cash for his share of the bar bill.

“You’re leaving?” Kasey said, as in was he leaving her there alone with Dr. Finch?

“A certain someone has come to their senses.”

“Returning all the CDs and DVDs?” Jared said, surprising Kasey that he’d actually been following along.

Vincent looked startled. “Oh, good point. I’ll make sure of it.” He flashed his winning smile, kissed Kasey on the cheek, and left.

Wait! I need to talk to you!

What the heck was she supposed to do now?

Jared didn’t move to the opposite side of the table, which made a little knot form in her stomach. The waitress brought the drinks and he paid, not giving Kasey a chance to chip in. The tummy knot got tighter. When the server left, he raised his glass to her and took a drink. She joined him.

This socializing business could get long and painful, trying to be polite and having absolutely nothing to talk about. Or he’d finish his drink and get up and leave, and could she blame him Someone had to start a conversation, so it may as well be her.

“What are your kids’ names?”

“Chloe and Patrick.” His face immediately lit up. “She’s ten and he’s twelve. Great kids.” He got out his smartphone and found their pictures. She admired the bright smiles and happy eyes. Both children had their father’s eyes.

“You have kids?” he asked.

“No. I’m not married.” Well, that hadn’t stopped her mother.

He sat for a few moments, pondering her answer. “So tell me,” he said, “what was it like, growing up in Boston?”

Yeah, they really didn’t have a thing to talk about.

“Actually, I’m a south shore girl. I grew up in Kingston, which is close to Plymouth. My mom and I lived with my grandmother.” She left out the part about her mom cleaning houses for the rich ladies of Duxbury, and how she could never afford to move the two of them out on their own. “I guess it’s like growing up any other place.”

“What does ‘south shore’ mean?”

“That I grew up south of Boston. Now, I guess, since I had the opportunity to open the community clinic and move to Everett, you could call me a ‘north shore’ girl.”

He gave her a blank stare. She was failing miserably as a pub buddy.

“In my heart I’ll always be a south shore girl, I guess.” She wanted to squirm, his lack of interest was so noticeable. What was the first rule of socialization? People loved to talk about themselves. Ask him a question.

“What part of California are you from?”

“L.A.”

“Are you the only doctor in your family?”

“Yes. Mom was a teacher and Dad ran a small business in Echo Park. My brother’s a fireman.”

So he hadn’t come from money, like she’d assumed. See, asking questions always helped break the ice.

They chatted about his upbringing, having to yell back and forth in order to be heard over the ever-increasing Friday-night crowd at the pub as they finished their drinks.

“You feel like some coffee?” he said. “The noise is getting to me.”

Surprised by his invitation, she nodded. “Sounds good.” She wasn’t ready to be alone with her morbid thoughts, which had subsided while engaged in small talk with Jared.

Jared watched Kasey as she exited the pub. She’d worn straight-legged jeans rolled up at the ankles, candy-apple red flats, a matching blouse with ruffles down the front, which accentuated her bust, and an oatmeal-colored extra-long sweater with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. The street lights made all the loose hair around her head look like a halo. He liked the shape of her face, didn’t even mind the batch of earrings on both ears or the Boston accent. It was cute and not whiny, like some of the women he’d heard since moving east. Maybe it had to do with the south-shore versus north-shore girl bit, but what did he know?

She was different from most women he’d been around lately, too. After giving it some thought, he decided it was because of a decided lack of pretentiousness. She seemed grounded, wanted to work with the folks who needed her the most, and she wasn’t seduced by the almighty dollar like so many people in his life. Hell, like him.

Two doors down he found the local coffee bar, and held the door open for her. She seemed a little unstable on her feet—maybe he shouldn’t have bought her that last beer—so he guided her by the elbow to an empty table. “What do you drink?”

She rattled off her latte order, tagging on fat-free milk. He made the order and waited for the drinks while she went to the bathroom. When they met up back at the table, he could tell she’d brushed her hair and put on more lipstick, and wondered if she’d done it for him. The thought, whether true or not, pleased him.

They shared a few sips of coffee in silence. She seemed tense, and he figured it was because she felt stuck with him. He didn’t feel the same. In fact, he was glad to have someone to talk to and wished he could make her relax. Truth was, if she couldn’t settle down after a couple of beers, there was no helping her.

“I got some pumpkin bread,” he said. “Want to share?”

She smiled and took half. “Thanks.” She was generous with her smiles, and he liked that.

“Can I get your opinion about something?” he said, just before popping a pinch of bread into his mouth.

She blew over her cup and nodded. “Sure.”

“Do you think little girls should be allowed to dress like small adults?”

Obviously, this wasn’t the turn she’d expected the conversation to take. She pulled in her chin and thought for a second or two. “No. As a matter of fact, I resent little kids looking better in the latest styles than I do.”

“Yeah, well, I’m glad my kids’ private school has a dress code, because sometimes I think Chloe’s taste in clothes is far beyond her years.”

“Sounds like a sore spot.”

“Yeah. I don’t like to argue with her about it. As long as she dresses within reason, I’m okay, but sometimes she looks like a tiny adult.” He grinned. “That’s when I pull out the phone and take her picture, text it to my ex and let her weigh in on the outfit. If she approves, I keep my trap shut, but sometimes, well, let’s just say I miss my girl in her overalls and flowered T-shirts, you know?”

He wasn’t trying to impress Kasey or anything, but he caught a look of longing in her eyes, as if she really dug guys who worried about their daughters. “It wasn’t my idea,” he said, noticing a touch of confusion in her expressive eyes. “The divorce.”

“So you didn’t divorce purely on shopaholic grounds?” Her knowing gaze told him he hadn’t fooled her for a minute back at the bar.

He offered a humble smile. “Maybe the fact I was never around, always working on developing my private practice, had something to do with her turning to shopping. I guess it filled a void but, damn, practically every penny I made she spent.”

“Did you guys seek counseling?”

He nodded. “Too little, too late. I wish my ex well and all, I’d just like to have more say in my kids’ lives.”

“You should have input since you’re their dad.”

He gave her an earnest smile before he took another drink. She seemed surprised by it, with a quick yet subtle double-take before returning his smile.

“Thanks for being honest,” she said, popping another bite of pumpkin bread into her mouth. “We’ve all got problems. Sometimes we need to get them off our chest. Not that I’m asking you to unload all your gripes about your ex on me or anything.”

He laughed. “No-o-o, I wouldn’t do that. I’m sure she’s got her share of gripes, too.”

“Again, thanks.” She took a dainty sip and he really liked watching her, making him wonder what was up with that.

“You seem pretty well set up. No husband. No kids. You get to run a busy clinic. Make a differ—” Her lasersharp stare stopped him in mid-word. “What?”

“I just found out I have a fifty-fifty chance of developing Huntington’s,” she said, with a defiant, subtly quivering smile.

Why she had let her dark secret slip out to Jared, she had no clue. Maybe it was because he’d opened up about his family and his frustrations as a father. Or because he tried to make her life sound all rosy-toes. From her perspective at least his problems were fixable. Maybe it was because she needed to get the burden of truth off her chest, and Vincent wasn’t around, and tonight was the night she’d planned to tell him. Whatever the reason, she’d said it, quite out of the blue, and from the sinking in her stomach, wished she could take it back, or at least stop her eyes from welling up. Darn it. The last thing she wanted to do was go all emotional on him. Not here. Not in public.

His gaze went stone cold, his body rigid. Dead silence ensued. Kasey could have sworn the coffee-bar music, which was quiet compared to the bar, got turned down ten more notches.

She knew the second the words had slipped out of her mouth she’d made a huge mistake. This wasn’t how she’d planned to tell someone. She’d wanted to tell Vincent, cry on his shoulder, let him soothe her, not tell a man she’d only just met. She’d never had any intention of telling Dr. Finch!

It was too late to take back the words and, oh, God, the look on his face, his startled gaze, was more than she could bear. She didn’t want his sympathy. The truth of the matter was she’d needed to tell someone before she exploded and now that she’d said it she couldn’t take it back.

Jared leaned in and looked at her with sad and serious eyes. “Wouldn’t you have already known if one of your parents had the disease?”

“Just got word my father died from it. I never knew him. Listen, I didn’t mean to say that. I certainly didn’t mean to hijack the conversation, but …”

Jared clamped his hand on her forearm. “This is tough news. You should’ve told me to shut the hell up with all my trivial griping. Have you taken the blood test yet?”

She shook her head.

“You need to have that test. You’ll go crazy with worry until you know for sure.”

“Tell me about it,” she said. “I found out three days ago, and I can barely function.”

“I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long! Listen, we’ve got a great genetic research department, I’ll arrange for you to have the test ASAP.”

“I can get it done …”

“Let me help you,” Jared said. “Now is no time to flaunt your big-girl panties. I get it that you’re an independent, big-city woman raised by a single parent, and you can handle everything by yourself, but just this once why not let someone else help you out?”

Was that what he’d taken away from their conversation tonight? That she was hard-headed and fiercely independent? Right now she felt anything but. Or maybe he saw her as impossibly stubborn. Either way, she was shutting him out with her response.

Hadn’t she recently given herself a lecture about needing more than two friends? The man had just offered to help her out. She should take it and be grateful.

“Okay.” She glanced at Jared and forced a smile. “Thanks. Let me know when to have the blood drawn and where to go.”

“I’ll get right on it first thing Monday.” He removed his hand from her arm and she immediately missed the warmth. He withdrew his cellphone and entered a note. “Maybe Vincent can go with you for moral support.”

She nodded her thanks. “That’s a thought.” She really didn’t want to go through this alone, and having Vincent’s support would mean the world to her, that was when she finally had a chance to tell him. Who would have thought she’d first blurt out her news to a near stranger?

“Oh, and another thing,” Jared said, putting his phone away.

She looked into his steady, concerned gaze.

“You’re not riding the T home by yourself tonight. I’m coming with you.”

After a brisk walk a couple of blocks to the station, they entered to the T. She didn’t even have to open her wallet to use her magnetic card to open the gate. Being from California, the whole public transportation thing still amused Jared. Seeing him fiddle in his pockets, searching for his Charlie card, she handed him her wallet.

“Here, you can use mine. I’ve got a bundle on it.”

“Thanks.” He took it and placed it over the card reader, waiting for the blip and the gate to pop open. Once inside, they rushed towards the red line, heading for Ashmont. She knew what she was doing, had probably ridden this line a thousand times. He followed along, making mental notes to do the reverse when it was time to go home.

She strode along, looking the picture of health and confidence, yet she’d been delivered a blow that would have brought most people to their knees. Huntington’s. Man, oh, man.

Granted there was a fifty percent chance she wouldn’t have the marker and develop the symptoms, and he hoped that would be the case, but it was still a raw deal. She seemed in her prime and deserved all that life could give her. It simply wasn’t fair.

She glanced back as if to make sure he was keeping up, and her soft smile and friendly eyes tugged at his heart. She’d gone from mere business associate to a woman who needed protecting in one evening, and though it was the last thing he wanted to get involved in—he had enough going on already—he felt compelled to be there for her.

Crazy. Absolutely crazy. He hardly knew her. It wasn’t his style. He had enough people depending on him already. Surely she had other friends and family around. At least there was Vincent. Yeah, Vincent would be there for her.

She’d never known her father, and didn’t seem to be close to her mother. At least that was what he’d gathered from their conversation tonight. She needed a friend, that’s all. Was that so much to ask? Yes, as a matter of fact, it was. Relationships of any kind were definitely out for him at this stage as he was still smarting from the divorce. He glanced at her again and felt a firm yank on his heart. Aw, hell, maybe he should make the effort to be a friend before he forgot how it felt. Could he even do “friend” any more?

Did he really want to be a friend? Being a friend meant having a friend. So far, other than medical professionals, he didn’t have a single friend in Boston, and it had suited him just fine. Except for when he wanted to go to a Sox game and didn’t have anyone to go with, or when he didn’t feel like eating alone. Again.

Train fumes invaded his nostrils, a street musician played classical guitar in the corner. A thick crowd of people pushed toward the automatic doors on the train as they opened. He strode in front of her and helped her on board, guiding her at the small of her back. He thought he saw a flicker of surprise in her glance as she boarded. Her eyes were soft and green, and, as hard as he tried not to, he liked them.

Once the doors closed, and they’d both grabbed a pole to hang onto, she looked at him. “What a coincidence, seeing you at the pub tonight.”

Should he tell her he couldn’t stand the thought of going home to his empty apartment to eat alone on a Friday night? “I heard they had great pastrami sandwiches and I wanted to watch the Sox game because they played the Los Angeles Angels.”

She nodded. Maybe she believed him, maybe not. “I love their deli food, too. Do you go there often?”

“Once in a while.” Hey, she’d been brutally honest with him, the least he could do was be honest back. With a look of chagrin, he started. “Truth is I hit that pub every other Friday night, same routine. Pastrami. Beer. Ball game. The other weekends I have visitation rights with my kids. Then I head out to the school and stay overnight at a motel so I’ll be there bright and early to take my kids for breakfast on Saturday morning.”

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