One Night She Would Never Forget. Amy Andrews

away some of the exhaustion but knowing no matter how long he stayed it could never wash away the accumulated hours of lost sleep and worry over the last four-plus years.

      They went bone deep.

      He got out, dried off, ruffled his damp hair, pulled on some jeans, snagged a beer out of the fridge and headed for the desk, the flickering light from the television guiding the way. He switched on the desk lamp as he sat and opened his laptop then took a deep swallow of his beer and got to work.

      Two hours later he’d checked his emails, added some slides to his presentation and done some literature reviews for a new study he and three other anaesthetists were trying to get off the ground.

      It was ten-thirty and he was yawning. He dropped his head from side to side, stretching his neck and knowing that it was useless going to bed this early. Bitter experience had taught him that no matter how tired he was, he’d lie in bed and think and overthink until he was too wound up to drift off.

      Nope. Going to bed before midnight never worked out well for him.

      He stood and stretched some more. Maybe some of his colleagues would still be hanging around the bar. A bit of relaxed conversation … a couple of whiskies …

      Now, that was the recipe for sleep.

      Miranda gently swirled the red wine round and round her glass as she tracked her sexy neighbour’s progress across the bar. She’d spied him the instant he’d walked in and their gazes had locked within seconds. He’d smiled at her and she’d smiled back.

      And where her heart had been hammering at the sight of him it settled instantly as he started to walk towards her. There was a surrealness about it. But at the same time it felt natural.

      It felt a lot like fate.

      Which was a big thing for someone who didn’t do bar pick-ups. Who didn’t do anything rash or spontaneous.

      Not since she’d been seventeen, anyway.

      Yet strangely she didn’t seem to be able to stop watching him.

      He sat on the stool next to her. ‘Couldn’t sleep, Miranda Dean?’

      That teasing tone of his was so charming and flirty it stole her breath. ‘Someone was snoring next door, Patrick Costello,’ she murmured.

      ‘Ah … you’ve been looking me up. Should I be flattered?’

      Miranda shook her head. ‘Not by that mug shot of you—you look like a criminal.’

      He gave a chuckle and it was deep and rich and Miranda found herself wanting to move in even closer. His hair curled in wisps around his ears and at his nape. He was wearing jeans and a casual long-sleeved T-shirt.

      ‘I think that was taken after a particularly heinous nine-hour op,’ he said as he motioned to the bartender for a Scotch on the rocks. ‘Plus I’m not very photogenic.’

      Miranda found that exceedingly difficult to believe. He had that laid-back sex appeal that cameras adored.

      ‘So, Miranda, are you from around here?’

      It was Miranda’s turn to laugh. ‘I’m from Brisbane, yes, but I should let you know right from the start that I am a responsible single mother of one and do not let guys in bars pick me up. I don’t even go to bars.’

      Patrick smiled. So she was single. ‘Would you believe me if I told you I don’t either?’

      Miranda shook her head. ‘No.’ He looked exactly like he hung out in bars. And never went home alone. Drinks with colleagues after work. Flirting with the nurses. Smiling that sinful smile at the waitresses.

      He gave her a faux wounded sigh. ‘Sad but true.’

      And somehow she found she believed him. ‘So how come you’re here now?’

      ‘Can’t sleep.’ His drink arrived and he held his glass up. ‘To insomnia.’

      Miranda clinked her glass against his. ‘I’ll drink to that,’ she said, taking a sip of her Shiraz, watching him over the rim as a slug of amber liquid slid down his throat.

      Patrick felt the burn all the way down to his stomach. He placed his glass on the bar and turned to face her. Up this close her smoky green eyes and heart-shaped face, free of lines or any kind of adornment, were even more appealing.

      He was attracted to her. But more than that, he wanted to talk to her.

      There was no harm in that, right?

      ‘So where’s your daughter tonight? Lola, right?’

      He watched her fiddle with the stem of her wine glass.

      ‘Her first sleepover. It’s why I’ve got Pinky. Lola didn’t want to take her favourite toy because she’s apparently a big girl now. But she didn’t want Pinky to be home all alone so … I have her.’ Her mouth kicked up around the rim of her wine glass as she took a sip. ‘Four-year-old logic is hard to explain.’

      Patrick knew that intimately. He pulled up his sleeve a little to reveal the dyed macaroni bracelet Ruby had made him a month ago. ‘It’s okay. I speak four-year-old too.’

      Miranda blinked at the lurid colours and before she knew it she was reaching out to touch the made-with-love creation. ‘Oh … that’s just gorgeous,’ she murmured.

      It looked so sexy against the dark hairs of his wrist and she was reminded of how she’d admired his broad palm when he had held Lola’s miniature pink teddy bear.

      Patrick cleared his throat as her light touch had an alarming effect on the artery that pulsed nearby. ‘The matching necklace had an unfortunate run in with the shower. Luckily Ruby understood.’

      Miranda laughed, looking up from his wrist. His eyes were browny-gold, like autumn leaves amidst his olive complexion and they were staring right at her. She realised she was still touching him and quickly withdrew her hand, her cheeks growing warm.

      ‘Sorry …’

      Patrick shook his head, liking how easily she blushed. ‘Don’t be.’

      Miranda felt the breath in her throat grow thick as their gazes locked. ‘It’s very sweet of you to wear it.’

      Patrick shrugged. ‘I’m a sweet guy.’

      Miranda blinked, breaking the spell. Sweet was not how she would describe him. Sexy, charismatic, masculine. Sweet was too … passive for him.

      She took a sip of her wine. ‘So … Ruby … that’s your daughter?’

      Patrick nodded, grateful to Miranda for pulling them back from the edge. He barely knew her yet there was something very hypnotic about her. She was sitting in a bar at close to midnight in jeans, sneakers and a navy V-neck sweater—like Cinderella after the ball. She wasn’t loud or effusive like the table full of women over near the window. She wasn’t flashing a lot of skin or leaning in close and flirting.

      If anything, there was a reserve about her that was intriguing. On the one hand she blushed like a girl but on the other she sat with quiet dignity of a woman well beyond her years.

      ‘Yes.’ He smiled when he realised she was waiting for an answer. ‘She’s five in January.’

      ‘Oh. Lola’s five then too.’

      Patrick raised his glass to her. ‘A good year for babies, obviously.’

      He pulled out his wallet and showed Miranda a picture he’d snapped a couple of weeks ago as Ruby had been running around the yard, trying to catch bubbles.

      Miranda smiled at the laughing, rosy-cheeked redhead. ‘Cute. I can see why you called her Ruby. Does she take after her mother?’

      Patrick nodded, caught up for a moment in those first few seconds his daughter had come into the world. ‘She has Katie’s hair.’

      ‘Katie’s