Page 18 of Broken Dreams

“You're right. You don't get it at all.” His eyes flashed and she was taken aback by his anger.

“It's all about your ego, isn't it?” She jammed the dishes into the dishwasher with far more force than necessary. He was acting just like her brothers. “Heaven forbid you should give in to any weakness.”

She gasped when he spun her away from the dishwasher and hauled her against his hard frame. Her pulse quickened with anticipation.

“No, it's not about my ego.”

This close she was immersed by the way his gray-green eyes glittered with flecks of gold around his dilated pupils. She splayed her hands over his chest, the muscles taut beneath her fingertips. She wished she could wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him even though she knew what would be playing with fire.

“Those pills create a foggy haze in my mind I detest. At least the jagged edges of pain help remind me I'm alive.” His intense gaze dropped and lingered on her mouth. His voice dropped low. “It reminds me that being here like this, with you and your family, isn't a dream. That I won't wake up to find myself strapped in some strange hospital bed, reliving the nightmare of the plane crash.”

Shaken, she stared at him. What horrors he must have gone through. The unguarded emotion in his gaze called to her on a completely different level. Unable to resist, she rose on tiptoe and gently pressed her lips against his. At first he seemed startled by her kiss, then in an instant he pulled her close and delved deep, as if he were a dying man given his last sip of water.

Then, just as abruptly, he pushed her away, his chest heaving as if he'd run ten miles. Without his arms supporting her, she stumbled back against the edge of the sink, dazed and wondering what had just happened.

“This isn't smart. I have to go.” He limped away surprisingly fast and she couldn't do anything except listen as he said thanks and bade her parents good night before leaving.

She closed her eyes and rubbed a hand over her forehead. As much as she was sick and tired of this pull me, push me routine, one thing she could agree with.

Kissing him was not at all smart.

Amber worked two graveyard shifts, which was far from her favorite shift, then was more than happy to have a few days off. On her second day off, however, the shrill ringing of the phone woke her. She opened one bleary eye to see the hour was barely six in the morning. As much as she wanted to bury her head under the pillow, there was only one place that would be calling her so early.

With a muffled groan, she snagged her cell phone from the bedside table. “Hello?”

“Amber? This is the night supervisor at the hospital. We had a sick call this morning, would you mind coming in to help?”

Yeah, she minded, but bit back the automatic refusal. The extra money would come in handy when she moved to Florida. And she couldn't bear to think of their patients suffering while the nurses worked shorthanded. Repressing a sigh, she agreed. “Sure. But I might be a little late. You woke me up.”

“Thanks so much. You're a lifesaver.” The night supervisor disconnected from the call in a hurry, as if afraid she might change her mind.

A shower helped clear the sleepy fog from her brain. Thanks to Nick, sleep hadn't come easily. The irritating man had dominated her thoughts. In an effort to avoid dwelling on her irrational feelings for him, she'd visualized some of the happy times she'd spent with Shane. But for some reason she'd had trouble picturing Shane’s smiling face. At midnight she'd crawled from her bed to scroll through her cell phone photos to help build a clearer picture in her mind.

Even then, most of her memories were centered around times they'd hung out as a family. Like when they'd all played tackle football the day after Thanksgiving. She, Shane and Adam had been on the same team. When Shane had lobbed a pass toward her, she'd caught it for the winning touchdown. He'd run after her, nearly tackling her in the process of enveloping her in a big hug to celebrate.

Shane had been known entity, and Nick was anything but. She only knew the bits and pieces of his life he’d shared with her and her family. She pulled on a clean set of scrubs, grabbed her stethoscope and headed outside to walk the few blocks to work. It had been distressing to realize how few times she and Shane had actually been alone. Truthfully, even the kiss he'd given her before leaving for Beijing was difficult to recall. Nick’s searing, demanding kisses were so different, so clearly vivid in her mind, overshadowing her memories of Shane.

A fact she didn't like one bit. With a frown, she picked up her pace, knowing the later she was, the longer the night nurses waiting on her arrival would have to stay working overtime.

The rehab unit was hopping. Which was a good thing. Hard work had the great advantage of distracting her from thinking about Nick Tanner. She jumped in, taking a quick report on her patients then diving into work.

Just before lunch, one of the floors called to give report on a patient who had been accepted as a rehab transfer. Amber volunteered to take the new admission and asked one of the patient care assistants to get a room ready while she finished hanging an IV antibiotic.

The patient rolled in a half-hour later. The floor nurse had informed her the patient was Gerald Fisher, a 73-year-old man recovering from an ischemic stroke, the type caused by a blood clot. She entered his room with a bright smile. “Good morning, Mr. Fisher. How are you feeling?”

“Purple shoe. Shoe, purple shoe.”

What? His earnest, compelling gaze convinced her he wasn't trying to be funny. She stepped closer, noticing how the pupil in his right eye was slightly larger than his left.

“Mr. Fisher, squeeze my fingers with your hands.” She tried not to show her concern, but she was worried he'd extended his stroke. Or his stroke hadn't resolved in the first place. How on earth had he been accepted for a transfer?

He took her fingers in his hands and squeezed. His right side was markedly weaker than his left. As she continued her assessment, she discovered he couldn't move his right leg at all. She knew this man needed immediate stroke care. “Don’t move or try to get up, okay?”

She quickly used her hands free device around her neck to call for the Stroke Team. The team had been implemented a few years ago, and she was grateful for that, now. After putting that call through, she paged Dr. Roland, using the 911 preface that nurses used to alert the physician they needed a quick response.

Her hands-free phone rang a minute later. “This is Amber.”

“You paged? Again?” Roland asked in a snide tone.

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