“Then why are you working there? Why not work at an emergency room around here?”
“I figure taking over Robert’s practice is the least I can do, all things considered.”
She scrunches her brows. “What do you mean?”
“Because it’s my fault his daughter’s gone.”
She straightens. “Why do you think that?”
“Because it’s the truth.”
“Didyouhit her car?”
“No, but?—”
“But nothing,” she interjects. “It’s not your fault.”
I shake my head, refusing to agree with her. I can’t. Not when I know I’m to blame.
“I should have insisted she get checked out after the accident. Hell, I didn’t even examine her damn pupils, the easiest fucking thing to do to check for any sign of brain trauma. Instead, I let her sit in that waiting room while Presley was in surgery. By the time anyone realized what was happening, it was too late.”
“It’s not like you knew.”
“Ishouldhave known.”
My voice seems to echo in the stillness of the house, the ache in my throat and chest nearly unbearable. Not just for Cora, but for my kids.
“I’m a doctor, for crying out loud. I should have seen the signs. And now, because of me, my kids are going to grow up without a mother. Jemmy will grow up without any memories of her. All because I failed her. Failed them.”
“Listen to me, Hayden.”
She clutches my cheeks, not allowing me to escape this. I inhale a sharp breath at the feel of her touch, hating it yet craving it at the same time.
“You can’t do this to yourself.” Her voice is fierce, full of passion and life and everything I haven’t allowed myself to experience for the past year. “You can’t keep beating yourself up over this. I may not be as old as you are, but I know I wouldn’t want to go through life with this much regret. This much guilt. You shouldn’t either. And you definitely shouldn’t let anyone else put that guilt or blame on you.
“Is what happened to your wife a tragedy? Of course. But your kids deserve better than a father who spends his days weighed down by guilt and regret.Youdeserve better than spending your days weighed down by guilt and regret. You deserve to be happy. To follow your dreams. To find those things that bring you joy. To?—”
Before I can fully wrap my head around what I’m doing, I surge forward and press my mouth to hers,cutting her off mid-sentence, the words dying between us as our lips collide.
For half a second, she’s still, her breath hitching softly against my mouth. In that fragile pause, every warning bell in my head goes berserk.
This is wrong. She’s my employee. My kids are upstairs. It’s the anniversary of my wife’s death. I should pull back. Apologize. Pretend it never happened.
But the instant a tiny whimper falls from her throat, I forget everything other than her lips, warm and impossibly soft. I feel her kiss everywhere — down my spine, through my chest, loosening something that’s been locked tight for so long I’d forgotten what it feels like to want.
I pull her closer, gripping her hips, like I’m afraid she’ll disappear if I let go.
Like I’m afraid I will.
Her fingers curl into the front of my shirt, and the contact sends a quiet, aching need through me. She tastes of chamomile and something sweet. It’s intoxicating in the most dangerous way.
For a few stolen seconds, the grief, the ache, the endless self-recrimination all go quiet. In their place is Rowan’s breath mingling with mine, her mouth moving gently against mine.
For the first time in over a year, I don’t feel like I’m just surviving.
I feel something warm. Real. Hopeful.
And that’s what scares me the most.
