Page 15 of Obsessed Mr. O’Brian

Artur’s grim tone can’t hide the horror and pain he felt as he stood helplessly by and watched his daughter fight a battle with no foe.

“Those are rough for everyone involved,” I state simply, sensing his terror and need for assurance but aware he’d reject my help if I showed even an ounce of pity. “Did they give you emergency medication?” I ask.

He turns to the diaper bag on the table, unzips the side pocket, and pulls out two blister packets with a nasal spray in each.

Despite his eerie stillness, panic and aggression pour off him.

“Good. One on the table in reach, please. What were her previous warning signs?” I ask.

He drops the other blister pack back into the diaper bag and runs a hand through his silky hair with such force I worry he’ll rip it all out at the strands.

I push aside my yearning to run my own hands through his hair and instead focus on Lola’s condition and his answer.

“I don’t know. Sometimes she just drops out of nowhere, and other times she’s inconsolable for a few hours beforehand,” he growls.

His self-reproach for not having all the answers etches lines in his brow.

“It’s okay to not know, Mr. O’Brian. Communication is tricky with toddlers. They want to be independent but can’t tell you when they feel off. Would you mind sitting, please?”

The request escapes my mouth before I can think better of it. Every time he leans closer, Lola stiffens and burrows harder against me.

He studies me as though I grew an extra head. I fill my lungs with Lola’s sweet scent—and Artur’s subtle cologne—and speak in the clear, measured, honest voice I’ve learned is most effective during high-stress situations.

“What’s most important right now is a calm, supportive atmosphere. If you’ll sit and rub her back, I’ll tell you about my suspicions,” I promise.

It’s a dirty bargain. I shouldn’t manipulate him using his daughter, but I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure Lola has whatever she needs. I half expect him to snarl, snatch up his little girl, and stomp away because I’m withholding information about her from him, so surprise and relief flow through me when he sits on the couch beside me.

But he hesitates.

“The doctor said to lay her on her side on the floor and not touch her when she’s having a seizure,” he says.

“She’s not having a seizure, but she may be in the aural phase. Rub her back and let her know everything is okay,” I coax.

With a slight awkwardness, he reaches across himself and rests a hand on Lola’s back.

“Should we try to keep her awake?” he asks.

Our shoulders brush as I take his wrist and guide his massive hand up and down Lola’s back in gentle sweeps. Lola whines and buries deeper into my cleavage but arches her back into her father’s caress. I release his wrist and carefully remove her pigtails.

“Only if we suspect she has a concussion. Has she hit her head recently?” I ask.

As I run gentle fingers over Lola’s scalp, his weight pulls me across the couch cushion until our hips press together. Instead of leaning away, Artur slips his other hand between us and adjusts Lola’s leg so her foot isn’t smushed between our bodies before dropping his free hand back to his thigh.

“No,” he growls.

With our shoulders brushing, hips touching, and thighs rubbing, awareness of his size ripples through me.

My heart cries out for all that will never be. I want the girl in my arms and the man beside me to be mine, but they belong to someone else.

Artur is too close. Too big. Too real.

Too stiff and worried.

“Deep breaths, Mr. O’Brian,” I instruct.

“Artur. Call me Artur when we’re with Lola.”

His gravelly rumble seeps into my side and fills my soul with longing. I swallow and inhale long and slow, not only for me but also to maintain a steady rhythm for my patient and her quietly panicking guardian.