Chapter 10
Lydia
The blonde woman walks into the waiting area and straight to a stunningly gorgeous dark-haired man who’s obviously not her blood relation like all the people back in the firefighter’s room.
“Josh,” the young woman says as she flings herself into his muscled arms.
I slip into a chair in a corner and stare at them, incapable of looking away.
As the woman cries in the gorgeous man’s arms, he kisses her hair. Rubs her back. Oh, God, his tenderness toward her is breathtaking... and enviable.
I want that.
Not the young woman’s grief, of course. Lord knows, I’ve had my share of grief to last me three lifetimes. But their intimacy. That’s what I crave. That’s what I miss. That’s what I want.
Three years ago, I wouldn’t have thought it possible for me to desire the touch of a man who isn’t Darren. But I guess it’s only natural I’ve come to feel this primal ache. To desire fingertips on my flesh again. I’m only thirty-two, after all. And as I’ve recently come to realize, no woman—not even one as loyal and devoted as I am to Darren—can survive forever on dildos alone.
I continue staring at the couple, my stomach knotted with deep yearning.
The woman pulls away from her lover to pull him down to sitting and says, “I’ve been holding it together pretty well for my mom, but seeing your face made me lose—” She clamps her hand over her mouth like she’s about to hurl, turning the color of Shrek.
“Kat?” the hot dude says, looking perplexed.
The blonde takes a few deep breaths and groans like she’s about to puke... and, in a flash, I think I recognize the nature of the nausea I’m seeing on this woman’s face: morning sickness. Maybe I’m crazy. Indeed, I’m probably just projecting. But the blonde’s face looks exactly the way I’ve felt infinite times during all three of my pregnancies. Of course, she might just have food poisoning... some bad chicken, perhaps? But the way it came on so suddenly like that... my gut tells me I’m right.
“Are you okay?” the dark-haired guy asks, looking utterly confused.
Hmm. Interesting. If I’m right about the bun in the oven, then his confusion is throwing me for a loop. Unless, of course, he doesn’t know. I glance at their hands. No wedding rings.
“I’m okay,” the blonde mumbles. But, clearly, she’s not.
“How’s Colby?” the man asks.
I sit forward in my chair, my heart pounding.
“The tests came back and it was pretty much all good news, relatively speaking,” the woman says, and I exhale with relief. She continues, “Broken leg, ribs, and collarbone.”
And his brain?
“Ruptured spleen,” the blonde says. “Smoke inhalation—but not too bad, thank God.”
My heart leaps. Smoke inhalation! Of course! That must be the reason for the breathing machine—not brain damage!
The blonde continues, “He suffered some burns to his left side where the beam was crushing him, but his turnout gear protected him pretty well. Could have been a whole lot worse.”
And what about his brain?
The blonde lets out a huge sigh of relief. “No head trauma at all, thank God.”
A little gasp of relief lurches out of me and I cover my mouth, worried I’ll be discovered.
“It’s gonna be a long road to recovery,” the blonde says. “Lots of physical therapy, but he’s going to pull through.”
My heart skips a beat. Lots of physical therapy? Without meaning to do it, I’m instantly concocting my speech to my boss about why the firefighter should be assigned to me.
“But the baby Colby went in to save?” the blonde continues. “She just died in her mother’s arms in the pediatric unit.”
I clutch my heart, tears welling in my eyes.
The woman says softly, “Her parents came to Colby’s room to thank him for what he did to try to save her. He wasn’t conscious so they thanked my parents.” Tears fall down the blonde’s cheeks, mimicking mine. “They said they were grateful to my brother for giving them the chance to hold their little angel one last time and say goodbye.”
I wipe my eyes.
She adds, “Oh my God, it ripped everyone’s heart out, Josh. All of us were crying, even Ryan, and he never cries.” Out of nowhere, the blonde clamps her hand to her mouth again, the same way she did earlier. With an expletive on her lips, she leaps out of her chair and sprints to the bathroom across the hall, her body jerking and heaving as she runs out.
“Kat?” the dark-haired hottie calls after her, his features awash in concern and confusion.
And suddenly, three thoughts simultaneously harden into certainty inside my brain. One, that blonde beauty is pregnant. Probably still in the early days of her pregnancy, judging by her flat belly and queasy stomach. Two, the blonde’s hunky boyfriend doesn’t have a clue about his girlfriend’s bun in the oven. And three, if the firefighter’s going to need “lots of physical therapy,” as that woman just reported, then I sure as hell want to be the one to give it to him.