Page 112 of Flirting with 40

I haven’t seen Ivy in weeks. Not without her head wrapped, bruises marring her olive complexion, or without machines attached and monitoring her vital signs.

Her eyes meet mine. They’re a jarring blue, the color of sapphires, and I realize I didn’t remember that. Possibly because the subconjunctival hemorrhages in both eyes made it impossible for me to see her eye color.

But now they’re blue and they’re staring right at me as if she’s memorizing every single thing about me.

I stare, too, because she’s tiny. The hospital bed that dwarfs her little body, the sheets tucked under her arms, and the two braids her sandy blonde hair has been put in for manageability rest over her shoulders.

Her smile is timid, tentative, as it should be for a little girl who is waking up to an all new world for herself.

“Hi,” I say softly as I look back at Felice, who’s stepped into the room behind me, before taking a few cautious steps toward the side of the bed opposite Ivy’s casted arm. “I’m Dr. Henderson.”

“You’re him. Your voice. You’re the one from that night.”

My chest constricts as I fight back the emotion that those simple words evoke in me. “I am.” I nod. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to meet you, Ivy.”

“Sorry. I forgot my manners. I’m Ivy.”

“I know.” I chuckle and marvel at her all at the same time. “I heard you wanted to see me.”

She nods, her eyes flickering over to Felice before coming back to mine. “Is it okay—can you just sit and hold my hand for a little bit like you did that night?”

I blink back my tears, the ones I’m not supposed to show as a doctor, but fuck, I’m human. How can I not be overwhelmed in the moment by this incredible little girl?

“Of course.” I pull the chair toward the side of the bed and take a seat as I slide her tiny little hand into mine. Someone painted her fingernails pink while she’d been unconscious. I’m not sure why that gets to me, but it does. Such a tiny gesture that says she is loved by someone. “I can sit here all night if you want me to,” I murmur.

She smiles again, but I can see the exhaustion in the smudges beneath her eyes and in the way her eyelids are so slow to lift back up when she blinks. “Thank you.” Another heavy-lidded blink. “Just thank you.”

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Blakely

“I’m sorry for tonight.” Slade’s voice is a deep rumble that I’m not actually certain I want to hear. “I can explain.”

“Don’t bother.” The woman’s laugh echoes in my ear. The bottle-plus-some-more of wine I drank doesn’t help to dampen the stubborn hurt that has festered inside of me with every ticking minute of the night that had passed. “It doesn’t matter.” I try to sound nonchalant but the bite to my tone says I’m hurt.

“Blakely—”

“No. Really. I get it. You had more important things to do—”

“That isn’t what happ—”

“Do you know how much I wanted to see you? Do you even understand—”

“Iv—”

“I have to go.”

“Iv—”

I end the call with his last word unfinished and clutch the damn phone in my hand as I try to fight back the ridiculous amount of hurt radiating in my chest. Hurt? Maybe it’s more like dying hope.

I told myself I’d never let a man treat me how Paul did, and I’m sticking to it.

My cell rings again and I push the call to voicemail.

This is for the better. It’s too soon to get involved with a man. I need to just be me for a while. I need to settle in these new shoes. What was I thinking when I thought Slade was into me?

This is for the better.