One Night, One Unexpected Miracle. Caroline AndersonЧитать онлайн книгу.
Not about a patient. About—us.’
His right eyebrow climbed into his hair. ‘Us?’
She held his eyes silently and with a huge effort, and he shrugged.
‘Sure. How about this evening over dinner? I know a nice little Italian restaurant. They do great pasta.’
Pasta. Hunger and nausea warred, and hunger won. ‘That sounds good. What time? Do we need to book?’
‘No. Seven?’
She nodded. ‘I’ll meet you there.’
‘No. I’ll pick you up.’
‘You don’t know where I live.’
‘Yes, I do. I run past your house some mornings, and I’ve seen you coming out in your gym kit on your way to the hospital.’
He ran past her house? Why had she never seen him? Or had she, maybe, once or twice, and not realised who he was? There were plenty of runners in the morning. She often saw them. He must be one of them.
‘So—shall I come for you at ten to seven? The restaurant’s not far from you, it’ll only take a few minutes to get there on foot.’
‘Ten to seven is fine. Now I need to go and make some calls and write a couple of letters. I’ll see you later.’
* * *
He didn’t see much of her for the rest of the day, which was just as well because he didn’t know what to think and she’d only distract him. She always distracted him, unless he was operating. Then he was focused, but otherwise...
They should never have done what they did at the gala. Not that he regretted it, not a bit, and things between them had been easier since, in a way. She’d been less on his case about everything, but he wanted more than they’d had that night, much more, and he knew she didn’t. She’d made that perfectly clear, and he had to respect that, but the memories were playing hell with his sleep and he kept imagining her with him, sharing his bed, sharing his house—sharing his life? Never going to happen, he’d told himself, and now this.
This wanting to talk to him about ‘us’. What ‘us’? Was there going to be an ‘us’?
It drove him crazy for the rest of the day, so it was a good job he was busy checking on his post-op patients, ending with Amil Khan in PICU, and he spent a long time talking to the boy’s parents about his condition going forward. One of Theo Hawkwood’s pro bono cases, the boy had Crohn’s disease, and so far he hadn’t been in remission. Maybe they could turn it round for him at last, and this op to remove a section of badly damaged bowel had at least given him a chance of recovery. And he hadn’t needed a stoma, so he wouldn’t need a bag, which was good news.
It was after six before he left them, and he ran home, showered rapidly and got to her house a minute late. She opened her door and for once didn’t comment on his timekeeping. And she looked—nervous? Why? If she was going to suggest they had an affair, he was more than willing. And they were working better together, so it wasn’t that...
‘Ready?’
She nodded, and he stepped back and held open the little gate at the end of her path, then fell into step beside her as they walked into the centre and turned down a narrow, cobbled street, and as they walked he told her a little about the restaurant.
‘This place is a gem. I found it when I first moved here seventeen years ago, and it’s still run by the same family, but the son’s taken over and he’s every bit as good as his father. I eat here often because the food’s healthy and it’s delicious and it reminds me of home.’
‘I’m surprised we didn’t have to book if it’s that good.’
‘They were expecting me tonight anyway. Here we are.’
He opened the door and held it for her, and as she walked in she hesitated and he nearly bumped into her.
‘Are you OK?’
She nodded, her pale hair bobbing brightly in the atmospheric lighting. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’
No, she wasn’t, but he couldn’t work out why and then he didn’t have time because the old man was walking towards him with a beaming smile, addressing him by name as he always did, showing them to their table, taking her coat, telling them about the specials.
‘Alice?’
‘I just want something simple,’ she said quickly. ‘Something fairly plain and light.’
‘My son cooks a wonderful fish linguine,’ Renzo said. ‘That’s light and delicate with a touch of fresh chilli.’
‘Just a touch?’
‘I can ask him to put less.’
She nodded. ‘Thank you. And could I have some iced water, please?’
‘I’ll have the same. It’s a great dish. And a glass of house white, Renzo. Grazie mille.’
He watched Renzo walk away, then propped his elbows on the table and searched her eyes, his patience finally at an end. ‘So—this “us” you wanted to talk about...’
* * *
She wasn’t sure she did. Not now, not here where he had friends. And she wasn’t sure the restaurant was a great idea for another reason, either. One she hadn’t even thought of, stupidly.
‘Alice?’
She’d looked down, knotting her hands on the edge of the table, unsure how she felt, but now she made herself look up and meet his searching brown eyes. ‘It’s about what—happened.’
‘The gala.’
She nodded and swallowed. ‘I—um—it seems it’s had...’
‘Had...?’
She dropped her eyes again, unable to hold that searching gaze while she groped for the word. ‘Consequences,’ she said at last, and held her breath.
He said nothing. Not for at least thirty seconds, maybe even a minute. Then he reached out slowly, tipped up her face with gentle fingers and gave her a slightly bemused smile.
‘You’re pregnant?’ he mouthed.
She nodded. ‘Yes. Apparently I am.’
He leant forward, his voice low. ‘But—how? I was careful.’
‘I know. I’m not sure. I might have broken a nail when I—when I ripped your shirt. Maybe that...’
‘Your nail? But...’
She could see him scrolling through what they’d done in those few frantic minutes, and saw the moment the light dawned.
He swore softly in Italian, then took her hands in his and held them firmly. ‘I am so sorry. I never meant that to happen, but of course it changes everything.’
‘Everything?’
‘Sì. Because we’re definitely an “us” now. I can’t walk away from this.’
‘But it may not even—’
They were interrupted by the arrival of the steaming, fragrant linguine. Renzo set a plate down in front of Alice, and as he turned away she felt her colour drain.
She pushed back her chair and stumbled to her feet. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t—I’m really sorry—’
Then she grabbed her bag and ran, not even waiting for her coat because if she didn’t get out it was going to be hideously embarrassing.
She headed home, half running, half stumbling on the cobbles, and as she reached her house and let herself in, the nausea swamped her and she fled for the bathroom.
* * *
He