Midnight, Moonlight & Miracles. Teresa Southwick

put a clean paper on the tray. “Okay. We can discuss the weather. Sports. Movies. Books or—”

      “I want to know about the creep who hurt you.”

      “Why?” She looked over his injuries, then met his gaze and smiled. “Are you planning to beat him up for me?”

      “Give me a little time. Seriously, how can I defend myself against being your worst nightmare if you don’t talk to me?”

      “For a guy with recent head trauma you’re awfully stubborn, not to mention pushy.”

      “And those are my good qualities.” He studied her face, the shadows that chased away the sunshine.

      “You remind me of him,” she finally said.

      “Go ahead—kick me when I’m down.”

      “You insisted. Besides, I’m merely being objective—and truthful. He was a rule-breaker, too—probably still is, wherever he is. Good-looking—”

      “You think I’m good-looking?”

      “I didn’t say that.”

      “On the contrary, you said I remind you of him.”

      “I was talking attitude not appearance,” she retorted.

      “So you think I’d have to sneak up on a glass of water?”

      “I didn’t say that, either.” She positioned a nonstick square bandage on his left elbow. “Hold that.”

      He did as she asked. “So what are you saying? Am I good-looking or not?” And since when did he care whether or not a woman liked his looks?

      “The average woman would not run screaming from any room you entered. There. I’ve fed your ego. Are you satisfied now?”

      “So you would stick around if I came into a room?” He watched her cut strips of tape and place them over the bandage.

      “I’m a pretty average woman,” she answered with a shrug.

      The backhanded compliment pleased him. He’d thought nothing and no one would ever do that again. “You’re a long way from average, Megan. Which makes any guy who would walk out on you a first-class moron.”

      “Thanks.” She smiled. “I choose to believe that, even though you don’t know me from a rock.”

      “I know enough.” He knew she was carrying around a fair amount of animosity. That had to mean she’d invested a fair amount of time and energy into the relationship. “I’m sorry your husband—”

      “No way,” she said vehemently. “Not my husband. I was stupid in so many ways, but at least I was smart enough not to marry him.”

      “Where there’s fire, something’s feeding it. What did he do?”

      Her blue eyes darkened and her mouth thinned to a straight line before she answered. “When I needed him most, he walked out on me.”

      Her statement was simple and straightforward. But her expression told him there was a whole lot she wasn’t saying.

      Why had she needed the jerk? No one knew better than he did that bad stuff happened to good people. What bad stuff had turned Megan’s perfect world so upside down that the guy hadn’t stuck around? Whatever had happened was still no excuse. A man didn’t run out on the people who needed him.

      He’d made that mistake once and the rest of his life was punishment for it.

      “I’m sorry,” he said, knowing the words were inadequate. He’d heard that until he was ready to scream. Sorry—five letters forming a polite response that made people feel better to say it, but hadn’t ever done him a damn bit of good to hear.

      “Me, too. But one good thing came out of it. He gave me my daughter.”

      A child—a girl. Crushing pain seized his chest. It wasn’t physical, but felt as real as the injuries she’d just tended. From deep inside him, it rippled outward and settled around his heart. Marcus. His son. The best thing in his life. And he was gone.

      Simon held still while she secured a bandage on his forearm. She looked at her handiwork and nodded with satisfaction. “Now we wait for the doctor to do your stitches.”

      “What do you suppose is keeping him? If he doesn’t get back here soon—”

      “What? You’re going to dash out of here? You agreed to spend the night in the hospital and hire a home nurse,” she accused.

      “Technically, I never agreed to anything. But if you agree to be my nurse—”

      “Even if I wanted to, I’m blocked off the schedule until tomorrow afternoon. If you’re set on getting out of here first thing in the morning, that’s not going to work for you.”

      “Sleeping in to get your beauty rest?” If so, she didn’t need it.

      “Not a chance, hotshot. Bayleigh has a doctor’s appointment.”

      “Who?”

      “My daughter.”

      “Nothing serious, I hope.”

      She shook her head. “A checkup with her ophthalmologist.”

      “Can you reschedule?”

      “I could. But I won’t.”

      Before he could ask any more questions, the doctor returned.

      “How are you doing, Mr. Reynolds?”

      “Good as new, Doc.”

      “Glad to hear it.” He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses farther up on his nose then looked at Megan. “Pat is on the phone at the desk. She wants to talk to you.”

      “Okay. And unless there’s something else, it’s time for me to punch out.”

      The doctor shook his head. “I don’t need you for the stitches. Go home.”

      She nodded then walked to the foot of the gurney. “Good luck, Simon. Take care of yourself.”

      “Don’t worry about me.” She started to turn and he said, “Megan? Watch out for saturated fat.”

      She smiled, a beautiful wide smile, then she was gone. Instantly, he missed her—correction, he missed her sharp wit. For a while, it had taken the edge off his pain and emptiness. The two joined forces and closed in around him. The doctor talked as he injected a local anesthetic, but Simon didn’t feel the prick or hear the words. He needed to get out of here. Megan was wrong—he was a stupid man.

      A stupid man who would sign himself out AMA.

      It had been a long night. When the sun finally came up, Simon reluctantly admitted that he’d been more stupid than usual. His body was like an orchestra’s percussion section—throbbing, aching, stinging. And it repeated over and over. The slightest movement was agonizing, and he’d walked out without taking the prescription for pain medication the doctor had tried to give him. So he didn’t move more than necessary. But now even he could see he needed help. He needed a nurse.

      So he’d called the number on the card for Home Health that the ER doc had insisted he take with him. They’d sent someone right over. In five minutes he’d sized her up and realized she wouldn’t do. She wasn’t Megan. He’d called back and insisted they send Megan Brightwell—or no one at all. The consequences were theirs. Megan had told him she wasn’t available until afternoon. He glanced at the clock on the living room wall. It was afternoon, and he was still waiting.

      Leaning heavily on his crutches, Simon lowered himself onto his sofa. He clenched his jaw against the hammering pain as he carefully hoisted his Velcro-and-canvas-splinted leg up, then carefully swung it around and lowered it to the cushion. After letting out a long breath, he vowed never to take for granted the simple bodily function of going to the bathroom.