ever became
a doctor. But then again, some folks lived in their own little worlds,
oblivious to what went on around them outside the scope of their job. Still,
all you had to do was take one look at her—the hair, the eyes, the fair
skin—and suspect there was at least some Irish blood in her veins. The last
name pretty much sewed it up with a nice little bow.
She pointed at
her head then her badge with her fork before shoveling a bite of the stew into
her mouth. And wouldn’t you know it was incredible—rich, tender, and perfectly
seasoned. Maybe even better than her grandfather Reilly used to make, and that
was saying a lot considering his recipes had been handed down through
generations of Irish cooks.
As soon as she
finished eating she pulled on a sweater and stepped outside with her phone. She
still had the card from the flowers with Ryan’s number on it.
It rang several
times before it dawned on her how dumb it was to call him at this hour. He was
probably busy and didn’t even have his—
“Am I wearing
you down?” he asked, humor lacing his voice. There was a lot of noise in the
background at first, but then she heard a door close and it faded away to
nothing.
“I’m not
admitting to anything just yet. Except that you’ve mastered your trade and you’re
making a lot of overworked people’s stomachs very happy at the moment.”
“I can keep
going, Tate. Or you could give in and agree to see me outside of the hospital.
Drinks, dinner, a boxing match. You pick.”
“A
boxing match?”
“I bet you’d
love to take a few swings at me.”
Tate succumbed
to a real laugh for the first time since she’d laid eyes on him again, and
answered honestly. “I would.”
“Then let’s go
five rounds. I’ll even let you tie one of my arms behind my back.”
That should not
sound as dirty as it did. “Boxing’s not really my thing,” she said, hoping her
voice didn’t sound husky with arousal over the thought of tying him to the bed
and having her wicked way with him. It had been way too long since she’d gotten
herself properly laid. Maybe even since Ryan left. That thought alone was like being
dunked in an ice water bath.
“No, it’s
baseball.”
“Used to be,”
Tate said.
Another pastime
they’d enjoyed together, lazy Sunday afternoons watching the Braves play.
Overpriced beers, cold hot dogs, and more fun than two people ought to be
allowed to have together outside of a bed. Ryan would practically drag her out
of her apartment, insisting she needed the fresh air and a break from studying.
He’d been right, and they would have a blast. She hadn’t been able to bring
herself to attend another after he left, even when she’d had the time and the
offers.
“Tate? You still there?”
“I’m here.”
“You don’t like
baseball anymore?”
Tate decided to continue
being forthright. Maybe if she told him the truth, he’d feel compelled to reciprocate.
“It’s not the same now, Ryan. It lost its appeal once you left.”
“Jesus, Tate.”
Even through the phone, she heard the regret in his voice, and it was starting
to weaken her armor more than she cared to admit. “You can’t possibly know how
sorry I am. If you’ll give me the chance, I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
“I need to get back to work,” she said. “I
just called to say thank you for the flowers and the food. They were both … really
sweet gestures, and incredibly generous.”
He sighed
heavily into the receiver. “I’m not giving up.”
She stood in the
middle of the sidewalk, watching as late afternoon faded into evening, her
heart a big sticky lump in her throat. “I know that, too.”
“Then will you
see me?” A pause, then, “Please.”
Tears stung the
back of her eyes. “I’ll think about it.”
“Okay, fair
enough. Have a good night then.”
“You,
too.”
Tate hung up and
dropped her phone into her pocket, feeling almost as lost as the day Ryan
disappeared. She shivered from a