Page 49 of The Specialist

“No!” I shouted.

“Egan?” A quiet voice said my name. “Wake up.”

My eyes flew open, and I sat up, my breathing harsh. Sofia sat up beside me, rubbing my arm. “Egan,” she murmured in comfort. “It was a dream. Just a dream.”

I turned to her, pulling her into my arms. Feeling her warmth, I relaxed and lay back, taking her with me. I wiped at my eyes, shocked at the dampness I felt on my fingers.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sofia asked. “Was it a nightmare?”

“Not a nightmare. I was back in Romania. By the house I grew up in. My grandmother was there. Shelling peas,” I added with a small smile. She’d always stayed busy. If she didn’t have a task to do, she made one. Knitting and sewing were her two favorite things to do.

“That sounds nice. But you cried out.”

I couldn’t tell her what had happened. I didn’t understand it. “She left too soon. I wanted her to stay,” I said by way of explanation.

“I’m sorry.”

I pressed a kiss to her head. “Go back to sleep, my love. I am fine.”

It didn’t take her long to drift off. She had slipped away from the event and went to work, and as soon as the dinner was over, I dropped by the ER, using the back stairway and getting her attention quietly. She joined me in the stairwell, her makeup gone, her hair up, still the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

“What are you doing?”

“I had to see you.” I pulled her into my arms and kissed her. I held her close, breathing in her scent.

“Will you go away with me, Sofia?”

She pulled back with a frown. “Go away?”

“A weekend—a few days. Just us,” I added. “Do you have time?”

She smiled. “I have so much vacation, yes, I have time. Where will we go?”

“I don’t know, but I want to be alone with you. Perhaps a cottage up north. Or somewhere else. Somewhere we don’t have to hide.”

“Yes.” She smiled and kissed me. “Yes, I will.”

“I will plan it.”

“Perfect.”

I kissed her again. “Go back to work. I will be waiting in the morning.”

“With my reward?”

I chuckled. “With whatever you want, iubirea mea.”

When she got home, what she wanted—or, more importantly, needed—was some sleep. I had fed her and brought her to bed, thinking I would lie with her for a while. I had fallen asleep and dreamed of my grandmother.

I mulled over her words. The meaning.

Was she talking about Sofia?

Something else?

My grandmother was right—I didn’t believe in the power of dreams or voices from the past. Yet that was twice in a short time period that I had heard her voice.

And it had been so real. Her voice had been clear. She had been clear. And her words struck a chord deep within me.