Page 21 of Matteo

His eyes widen. “Why didn’t you say something? I could have given you something for the pain. The reason I gave you a shot over pills was due to how much quicker the shot is supposed to work. However, I should have thought there could still be lingering aftereffects. I apologize.”

Pushing up from the sofa, he towers over me. It sends me a step back, wary of his size and strength. Eyes down, he gives me a wide berth as he moves around me. “I can grab it now. It’s lidocaine. So it tastes like crap?—”

My hand goes out to his arm to stop him without thinking. I should have thought of it first because I’m not going to get used to that crazy sizzle running through every cell in my body. He does feel it. His big body goes tense at my touch. I would have thought it was a bad thing, yet his sigh is deep and of relief—almost like he was glad it happened.

Tearing my hand away, too much of a coward to try to figure out what it means. “I’m good. Please, it’s okay. I would have asked you for something if I needed it.”

An eyebrow goes up. “That’s a load of crap. You would have suffered in silence. For some reason, you think you deserve pain—to suffer—which is bullshit. You don’t deserve it, and if I can relieve it, then I will. I’ll be right back.”

His words sting more than a blow. How could he say that? How could he know that? I sink down on the couch, still warm from his big body.

Layla claps, happy and content in my arms. Running my hand over her soft, round head. I press a kiss to her temple. If she were hurting, I’d do whatever it took to relieve her pain. Yet, I wouldn’t even consider it for myself.

“Amy?” Matteo is back and offers me a small spray bottle. It’s labeled clearly as lidocaine, but there’s nothing to indicate it’s a prescription.

I take it. “Is it yours? Do you need it?”

His smile is soft, like his eyes. “I’ve had it by my bed because my throat dried out so badly with this weird weather it felt like I had a paper cut. I bought a humidifier and haven’t needed it since. Hold it in your throat as long as you can by gargling, then spit it out. It’s not awful if you swallow it, but it’s not great either.”

“Thank you.” I hand him Layla and take it into my room to use it. Oh, that is nasty. Once I spit it out, I brush my teeth.

When I come out of my room again, he’s got Layla on his lap, sitting on the chair beside the couch. “Thank you. It works—I can’t feel a thing. Is the weather in Dallas hugely different from Baltimore?”

He exhales what might be a laugh. “It’s fifty-six degrees here with light winds. There’s snow on the ground in Baltimore. It’s been there for a week, and it’s thirty-four degrees. East Coast weather took a lot of getting used to after growing up in Texas.”

“How long did you live there?” I’m curious about him.

“I spent twenty years on the East Coast. I wanted my specialty to be child cancer, and Johns Hopkins was the best med school for it. My hope was to do my undergrad and med school there. But I didn’t make it in for my undergrad. It didn’t matter I got into several top-notch Ivy League schools—I wanted Johns Hopkins.”

Again, I wonder how he could really think I would be a good choice for a fake girlfriend. He had his choice of Ivy League schools, and I went to a tiny community college. The mere idea of having to answer where I got my pathetic associate’s degree has me cringing deep inside.

“As disappointed as I was, I accepted at Columbia in New York. Then I worked my ass off to become good enough for when it came time to apply for med school. I applied again and got into Johns Hopkins. I made it clear to my professors that it was where I wanted to do my internship and practice. Thankfully, it all worked out.”

He’s so driven. It hits me. “Who made you want to be a child oncologist?”

Those golden eyes darken to brown as they fall from mine. He pulls out a worn leather wallet from his pocket. Opening it, he takes out a picture and offers it to me. It’s a faded school picture of a little girl with a mischievous smile. She’s black with her hair in braids with brightly colored beads at the end.

“She’s the reason, Susan Cartwright. I met her when I was eight and told her and anyone who would listen that I was going to marry her one day. Her leukemia appeared when she was eleven. She was dead before she turned fourteen.”

Oh my god. “I’m sorry.” I offer him the picture back.

He takes it and nods. “Me too. She was what kept me going during those years when I wondered if I could make it through medical school. When my first patient died...”

“And when your last one died? When you decided to quit and come back to Dallas.” I prompt him when he trails off, lost in a distant memory.

Shaking his head, he sighs. “When Lucy died—my patient. Not even Susan could keep me going. I did everything right, and she died. It shouldn’t have happened. I’ve lost so few patients over the years because I fit the treatment to the patient, not the treatment for the cancer. The way many of my colleagues did. Cancer treatment is…”

A large hand covers his mouth as though he doesn’t want to let the words out. “It’s not easy on the patient. You’re bringing them to the edge of death to kill the cancer. Sometimes, the treatment doesn’t just kill the cancer. After all these years, I had it down. Two plus two equals four. There are laws that?—”

“Three plus one also equals four. Albert Einstein said: As far as the laws of mathematics refer to reality, they are not certain; and as far as they are certain, they do not refer to reality.”

A bemused smile appears as an eyebrow lifts. “And you think I would be ashamed to have you as a girlfriend? No woman I’ve been with has ever quoted Einstein to me. By the way, my nephew has dyslexia. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in being dyslexic. He didn’t start university until he was twenty. He’s a lawyer now.”

I can’t hide my surprise. “I’m impressed. It was torture just to get an associate’s degree.”

He shakes his head. “Santos had the best in study aids, tutors, and professors who made allowances for his dyslexia. He still called me in the middle of the night, complaining about the same feeling of torture. You should be proud of your degree. No one in my family, or me, would ever see your dyslexia as a negative.”

I’m not sure why I’m close to tears. “Things were so hard for me. It became easier to memorize things. Danny laughed at me, studying at night. And rolled his eyes at how happy I was earning a B on a paper. When I finally graduated, he said they gave it to me because they were tired of seeing me at the school.”

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