The Doctor Returns. Stella MacLean

easily.

      Stop thinking that way. You’re not a teenager. Neill is not your boyfriend.

      “Was there something else?”

      His eyes met hers, and a tentative smile softened the lines around his mouth. “No.” He shook his head. “I’m looking forward to working on the plan for the new clinic.”

      * * *

      THE ORGANIZATIONAL MEETING went without a hitch, and a week later they were holding their first evening diabetic clinic. Sherri was delighted to be able to get this up and running before she moved to Portsmouth. Twelve people registered for it and all twelve showed up, which meant a busy evening.

      Sherri was putting a final nursing note on Alice Higgins’s chart when Neill came around the corner of the nurses’ station with two cups of coffee in his hands. “Here, drink this. You look like you could use a little caffeine.”

      She did feel tired, even irritable at times. She had for weeks. “Not coffee at this hour.” She checked her watch. “It’s almost ten o’clock.”

      “I thought you were a night owl.” He glanced at the pile of paperwork next to her. “You still have charting to complete. You need a little caffeine—it’s the best defense against falling asleep on the job. Take it from someone who knows,” he teased, putting the cup on the desk and sitting down in the chair beside her. “I put cream in it, just the way you like it.”

      “Thanks,” she said, pleasure spiking through her at the concern he showed for her, the camaraderie that had grown between them in the past hectic weeks.

      Sitting so near him, the heat of his body mingling with hers, she wanted to close her eyes and imagine what it would be like if they’d moved back together to work as a team. The number of shifts they would have worked together, the hours they would have spent in his office where she would have worked as his nurse.

      Firmly shifting her thoughts back to reality, she forced a smile to her dry lips. “Yeah, I’m a night owl who needs food. I’m starving. Come to think of it, I’m always starving.”

      “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but other than a few stale crackers and a bottle of orange juice, the kitchenette is empty. I’m going to talk to Melanie about restocking the cupboards with food appropriate to the diabetic diet. What do you think?”

      “That’s a great idea.” She looked directly into his eyes and knew that his interest in the success of the clinic and the well-being of its patients was real. “Maybe we should consider holding meal-planning and cooking classes, as well.”

      “I like that idea,” he said, his voice warm, his smile pulling her into his space in that same old way of his.

      “I’ve always believed we’d do a better job with our patients if we could show them how to prepare healthy meals,” she said, her eyes seeking his, despite her determination not to give in to his appeal.

      “Has anyone told you lately how much you’re appreciated around here?” he asked, his familiar quirky smile lighting his face.

      Sighing, she put her pen down and leaned back in her chair, tiredness claiming her limbs. “Not recently.”

      He put his hand over hers, where they rested in her lap. “You are so important to this clinic, your patients—” He hesitated. “You’re a fantastic nurse. I...we are so lucky to have you here.”

      Lost in the moment, his words flowed around her, easing her loneliness. He was so sweet, so much like the Neill Brandon she remembered.

      For a fleeting interval, she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like if they could erase their past and step back into the life they’d known as teenagers.

      The gentle squeeze of his fingers on hers suspended her thoughts, slowed her pulse. She desperately wanted to lean her head on his shoulders and feel his arms around her. It had to be the tiredness that had plagued her all evening that made her feel this way. Suddenly her head swam and her stomach rolled as nausea swept over her. She pulled her fingers from his, and the sick feeling grew worse. “I need something to eat. I feel really faint.”

      “Do you need to lie down?” he asked, his tone worried.

      “No. I...don’t think so.” She clutched the edge of the counter for support.

      “Your color’s not good. Put your head down between your knees,” he ordered, his voice gentle but firm.

      She lowered her head, but she still felt awful.

      “Have you been nauseated like this before?” he asked, his hand on her back as he leaned closer, his other hand reaching to check her pulse.

      “No,” she said over another wave of nausea that made her gag.

      He took her hand and pulled her to her feet, wrapping his arm around her as he ushered her toward an exam room. “Okay, it’s time we checked you out.”

      “I’m fine,” she protested.

      “No, you’re not.” His firm grip allowed no argument as he led her to one of the clinic exam rooms.

      She climbed up on the stretcher and laid down, the cool pillow beneath her head a welcome comfort.

      “I’m going to check your blood pressure, and then we’ll get a stat blood test done on you.”

      “Please don’t do that. I just need to eat something.”

      “Maybe so, but better safe than sorry.” His eyebrows twitched in concentration, his attention focused on taking her blood pressure. He unfurled the cuff and the air slid out.

      “Your blood pressure’s low, your color’s not good and your pulse is way too fast.” He touched her forehead, his hand cool against her skin, his glance analytical and professional.

      She had to get out of there. The last thing she needed in her life was for Neill to be involved in her medical care. Facing him at work was one thing; having him near her in an intimate way as her family physician was out of the question. She had to leave before he offered to drive her home. She couldn’t have him come home with her, a poignant reminder of what might have been. Determined to escape, she swung her legs down and sat up. “I feel much better. I’m going to go home and get something to eat. I’ll be fine,” she said emphatically.

      “You’re not going anywhere,” he said, his gaze searching her face. “I want to check your throat.” His tone was serious as he reached for the light on the wall and a tongue depressor.

      “All I need is something to eat. I’m hungry,” she protested after he checked her throat.

      “You’re feeling fatigued, right?”

      “Yes, for a while now, but I’ve been so busy with the clinic.”

      “Have you lost weight recently?”

      “Maybe a little.”

      “Let’s see.” He took her hands and eased her to her feet. “Hop on the scale.”

      Not with him watching. “What’s my weight got to do with it?”

      “If you’ve lost weight, it might help me determine what’s going on with you.”

      “I don’t see how,” she said grumpily.

      “Humor me.” He led her to the scale in the corner of the exam room. “Here, get on. I won’t look. Just tell me if you’ve lost weight.”

      Grudgingly, she climbed on the scale and adjusted the weights. Down three pounds. “Yeah, I’ve lost a little more.”

      “More? How much more?”

      She held up three fingers.

      “How much in total?”

      “Nine over the past two months, but I’ve been trying to lose weight,” she said defensively.

      “Are