One Night That Changed Everything
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Tina Beckett
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CHAPTER ONE
“MRS. BROOKSTONE went under hospice care last night.”
The words met Hannah Lassiter the second she pushed through the glass doors of the Alaska Valley Oncology Center. She glanced at her watch, her shoulders slumping. Only seven-thirty, but she had no doubt her boss was already here. Had already heard the news. “Oh, no. Where is he?”
She didn’t really need to ask. Dr. Gregory Mason would be holed up in his office until his first appointment. Dedicated to providing the best care possible, news like this—even when it was expected—had the power to bring Dr. Mason’s world crashing to a halt for an hour or two. At least until he rose from his chair, closed the door on this particular compartment in his head and got back to work. It was eerie, really, how he could seemingly wall off certain portions of his brain at will.
The receptionist answered her question with a jerk of her thumb.
Hannah sighed. “When’s his first patient due in?”
“Martha Brookstone was his first patient. We’ve cancelled the appointment.”
“Don’t put anyone else in her slot, okay? I’ll check on him.”
Easier said than done. Her employer, a brilliant doctor, insisted on doing much of the scheduling himself, which was a nightmare for his staff, who had to scramble to keep up with him.
Yet every single person in that office had benefitted from his indefatigable nature, including Hannah herself.
A year in remission and counting. She’d never even seen it coming. A routine checkup two years ago had uncovered enlarged lymph nodes.
Cancer.
She’d moved from her position at a tiny clinic in the Aleutian Islands to Anchorage for treatment. Dr. Mason had convinced her to stay on as one of his staff afterward.
Today, of all days, though, she was going to have a tough time keeping her mind on her job. She’d had her own doctor’s appointment yesterday. Her chance at a new beginning.
Rounding the U-shaped receptionist desk to check the printed schedule, she frowned. The list stretched well into the evening. Seven o’clock. And the word hospital was penciled in after the last appointment.
How did he do it?
While some doctors crammed in as many patients as possible, Dr. Mason worked long, hard hours but his patients were spread out, most covering an entire half-hour block, some up to an hour—especially the newly diagnosed. She ran a finger down the list. Three new cases. Blowing out a breath that fluffed her bangs off her forehead, she again wondered why she’d agreed to work for a doctor who represented every fear she’d ever held.
Except for today. Even with the sad news about Martha still floating in the air, this was one day she’d force herself to flatten the past and let the hope of a shining future take hold and grow into something wonderful. Just as she hoped that little blast of sperm she’d received yesterday would grow and multiply.
Too bad that blast had been from the end of a syringe. But it was the only kind of action she was likely to get. Especially with the schedule she’d been keeping lately. It was almost as bad as her boss’s.
And if the little swimmers hit their mark, she’d have to talk to Dr. Mason about cutting back and possibly finding a replacement as her time got near.
A lot depended on the damage the chemo had done to her eggs. Dr. Mason had put her on a lighter regimen in an effort to preserve her fertility, but even so, she’d banked some of her eggs beforehand, just in case. But she’d decided to start with the easiest option—artificial insemination—and work her way toward the hardest and most expensive procedures. If those all failed, adoption was always an option.
Going to the coffee carafe they kept in the far corner of the office, she poured two cups, one for herself and one for Dr. Mason, who’d probably already let his first cup go stone cold.
“Wish me luck,” she said to Stella, who was already busy fielding calls for the nurse who’d arrive soon. The receptionist gave her a thumbs-up sign and went back to writing on the neon green notepad in front of her. The only way she could keep track of things, she’d said.
Stella buzzed her in, and Hannah used her shoulder to push through the metal door that led to a short corridor of exam rooms, at the end of which lay Dr. Mason’s cramped office. She didn’t know why she bothered going back to see him. He would emerge when he was ready and not a second before.
His door was closed, but since when had she let something like that stop her? Um…never.
Using her elbow to push down the stainless-steel lever, she waited for the click that would allow her to ease it open. Lucky for her, the thing wasn’t locked. Kicking it repeatedly wouldn’t be the most dignified way of letting him know she was there.
He sat behind an ornately carved mahogany desk, forehead resting on steepled fingers, eyes closed. He didn’t bother looking up. “Don’t you ever knock?”
His low voice was gruff, and she had to strain to hear it. The sound pulled at her heartstrings, but she couldn’t let him know it. They’d played this little dance several times since he’d hired her. No, even before that. The day he’d declared her to be in remission she’d impulsively thrown her arms around his neck and hugged him tight, thanking him. He’d stiffened for a second or two before sliding warm hands across her back and returning the hug. Just as quickly he’d moved away, not quite meeting her eyes during the rest of the appointment.
None of the other staff dared come into his “lair”—as they called it—without an invitation. But Hannah had been raised in a house with five boys. Impulse control and subtlety were not on the menu. Neither were privacy and quiet. And the last thing Dr. Mason needed right now was to sit here alone and brood.
“My hands are full. Besides, would you have let me in?”
His head came up, twin indentations from his fingertips marring the broad surface of his forehead.
How long had he been sitting like that?
“What do you think?” Deep brown eyes met hers. Eyes that had been filled with compassion when he’d treated her Hodgkin’s disease were now glittering with annoyance.
“I brought a peace offering.” She set both the cups of coffee on his desk, spying a matching paper cup off to the side. It was still full, but when she touched the side of it…
Yep. Icy cold, just as she’d suspected.
Carrying it into the tiny restroom attached to his office, she dumped the contents into the sink, rinsed out the dregs, then threw the cup into the wastebasket.
She joined him again, taking her own cup and sliding into one of the twin chairs on the other side of his desk.
Dr. Mason groaned. Out loud, which made her smile.
“I’ll drink it, I promise.”
“You’re right. You will.” She crossed her legs and took a sip of her own coffee. Waiting.
“Damn it, Hannah. You’re not my mother.”
No, she wasn’t. But she was grateful for everything he’d done for her, and this was the only way she could think of to return the favor. It was all he’d allow. And, grudgingly or not, he usually let her have her way.
Right on cue, he picked up the cup and took a sip.
“Stella told me about Mrs. Brookstone. I’m sorry.”
He nodded.
Hannah knew the recommendation not to continue chemotherapy had been an agonizing one for Dr. Mason. He never made those kinds of decisions lightly, which was why he was in here, probably going over each step of his patient’s treatment with a fine-toothed comb, wondering if he could have done something differently.
“She’s seventy-five, and the cancer had already spread to her lungs by the time her general practitioner diagnosed her.”
His eyes closed for a second before sending her a glare. “I’ve read the chart.”
Many times, if she knew him.
“Yes, you read it. But did you accept it?”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “I’ll never accept no hope as a diagnosis.”
Her heart squeezed at the tightness behind the words. She wasn’t saying he should just write the most serious cases off. “That’s what makes you the perfect man for this job.”
“I sometimes wonder.”
She set her coffee on the edge of the desk and leaned forward. “You need to cut back on your schedule. Take some time off just for yourself. You’re already on the road to burnout as it is.”
His brows went up. “I’ve been doing this job for ten years. I think I know my own limitations.”
“When was the last time you took a vacation?” She held up a hand before he could answer. “A real one. One that doesn’t involve a medical conference or giving some type of lecture.”
“You mean like the one you’re giving me right now?”
Her face heated. Okay, so he had her there. “Sorry.”
He picked up a pen and twirled it, giving her a chance to study him. Dark hair, conservatively cropped, lay thick against his head. Not a hint of grey yet. His broad shoulders were strong and imposing, despite the slight stoop from spending hours bent over operating tables and examining patients. She knew those shoulders led to narrow hips, which were now safely hidden on the other side of the desk.
The fingers that gripped the pen were long and delicate, nimble enough to separate healthy tissue from diseased. She gulped, remembering the gentle way they’d touched the bare skin of her midriff as he’d drawn a permanent marker across the vulnerable surface in preparation for taking a biopsy of one of her thoracic nodes. The way her abdominal muscles had rippled at the contact. Even through the thin latex gloves, his hands had been warm and reassuring.
This isn’t what you came back here to do, Hannah.
She stood, taking another sip of her coffee. “Lecture’s almost over, then. Drink your coffee, Dr. Mason.”
“Greg.” His head tilted to the side. “How many times do I have to ask?”
A hundred? A million?
That crazy hug all those months ago had changed something between them. Had left her with a frightening awareness of his scent, of the solid feel of his body against hers. She was only too eager to keep those memories locked up tight.
Calling him by his first name might just undo all that hard work, despite the fact that everyone else in the office called him Greg. Most of them would also admit to having a bit of a crush on their handsome employer. Or at least a good dose of hero-worship.
Some of his patients claimed he was a miracle worker.
In reality, Dr. Mason was just a man. He even had a pretty big flaw: despite his best efforts, he couldn’t remain completely objective about his patients. And it ate him up from the inside out.
Mrs. Brookstone was a prime example of that.
He grieved. Deeply. For each one he lost. Even though he didn’t let others see his pain, she suspected he kept a private scorecard inside his head that recorded those he’d been able to snatch from death’s door…and those he hadn’t.
“Dr. Mason—”
His brows went up.
Okay, she was weak. Stupid. Would probably come to regret doing this very, very soon. But he was hurting right now.
“Greg,” she corrected, her voice soft. “You can’t save them all.”
He dropped the pen onto the top of his desk, the sharp ping as it struck the wooden surface as loud as a guillotine strike. Off with her head!
Why had she said something he was already well aware of?
“Thank you.”
His answer didn’t track with what she’d just said. Unless he was being sarcastic.
But there was nothing in his face to indicate he was. In fact, his eyes met hers for a second or two before moving lower. Her lips tingled, sending an answering heat washing across her face.
He was not looking where she thought he was.
To cover up her embarrassment, she said, “What are you thanking me for?”
He picked up his prescription pad in one hand and his coffee cup in the other then stood. “For bringing me coffee.” His lips curved up at the corners, sending more heat sloshing around her tummy. “And for saying my name.”
