A Surgeon for the Single Mom

She twisted her head to look at him, surprised that he remembered her. ‘Yes, actually. I brought one of the first casualties I ever attended with the air ambulance to your hospital. You were the neurology consultant. Left-sided temporal parietal hematoma.’

‘Douglas Jacobs.’

‘You remember his name? I’m impressed.’

‘I remember,’ Tak confirmed.

She couldn’t have said what it was about his tone, but in that instant he made her believe that he remembered all his patients. That they weren’t just bodies to him. They were people.

It took her aback. Worse. It made him all the more fascinating.

‘You’re the one who diagnosed the expressive aphasia?’ Tak asked.

It had been in the notes, but she knew he was testing her. Because it mattered to him. It was a heady thought.

‘I did.’ It was all she could to sound casual. As though her body wasn’t beginning to fizz deliriously at Tak’s interest.

‘He wasn’t talking much and his vitals were stable. You did well to spot it. It was very subtle on presentation.’

His compliment didn’t send a tingle rushing along her spine. Not at all.

‘It worsened over time?’ she asked.

‘Very quickly, I’m afraid.’ Tak nodded. ‘CT revealed a depressed skull fracture and an underlying subdural bleed, so we took him straight into an OR. When he awoke the aphasia was still present, but reduced.’

‘So he’s in rehab?’ She squeezed her eyes shut, remembering how sweet the guy had been, and how close he and his worried wife had seemed.

‘He is,’ Tak confirmed. ‘He’s doing well, and he has a good support network, so with any luck he should be fine.’

‘That’s good.’ She smiled, more to herself than at Tak.

It occurred to her that he’d been distracting her. Telling her a story—a work-related story—which he’d known would make her feel less tense, more at ease.

She should be angry that he’d played her, but instead she just felt grateful to him.

Allowing Tak to guide her to a large, chauffeur-driven limousine, she slid inside, trying not to marvel at the bespoke rich plaid wool and leather seats. And then he was climbing in gracefully beside her, closing the door, and the entire back seat seemed to shrink until she was aware of nothing but how very close his body was to hers.

Now it was just the two of them together, in such a confined space, it was impossible for her to keep up the pretence. To keep telling herself that his voice didn’t swirl inside her like a fog which refused to clear, that his eyes didn’t look right into her soul as though they could read every last dark secret i

n there, that his touch didn’t send electricity coursing through her veins only to conclude in a shower of sparks as breathtaking as the best fireworks display.

The realisation thrilled and terrorised her in equal measure.

‘You shouldn’t be embarrassed about where you live, you know.’

It took a moment for her to focus, and then another for shame and guilt to steal through her. ‘I’m not,’ she said, and lifted her chin a little higher.

‘Then why did you insist on meeting me in the lobby instead of letting me pick you up from your apartment?’

‘I just... It wasn’t about being embarrassed.’ Not entirely true, but close enough.

‘Then what was it about?’

There was no justification at all for her wanting to tell him the truth. Effie had spent her whole life shutting people out—as soon as she’d learned it was either that or be shut out. It shouldn’t be difficult to tell Tak to mind his own business.

Yet there was a quality about him which reminded her of the one woman who had cared for her, helped her so long ago. She couldn’t explain it, nor shake it. It was bizarre. This wasn’t even a proper date, and the fact that she kept finding that detail so difficult to remember was concerning in itself.

‘It wasn’t about where I live, although I know it’s no penthouse. It was more about keeping the two parts of my life separate. My private life and my professional one.’