Yours: A Standalone Contemporary Romance by Jasinda Wilder Read Free Book Online Page A

fluttering. Breath slowing.  
    We keep working.  
    You don’t ever stop, not even when you know it’s hopeless.
    Delaney watches the monitor as it flatlines. She shouts for the paddles, calls out the charge setting. Clear! We all back away. Pop! Nothing. Pop! Nothing. A few more times, but we all know he’s gone.  
    Finally, Delaney has to back away, panting from the exertion. It’s over.
    Delaney wipes the sweat off her forehead with the back of her wrist. Checks her watch, the face of which is on the underside of her wrist. “Time of death—eleven twenty-three a.m.”  
    I’ve only cried at work two other times. Once when it was a girl I knew, a good friend from nursing school. Suicide. Slit her wrists. Nobody had any clue she was struggling. The other time was when there was a fifteen-car pileup on the 210. Dozens of injuries, six fatalities, two of which were little babies.  
    Whom I treated.  
    And lost.  
    Something about losing Malcolm…I can’t handle it.
    Delaney sees it. “Take ten, Niall.” I hesitate, and she makes the face that says don ’ t argue, bitch . “Go. Now. Ten minutes.”
    “All right, all right. Ten minutes.” I’m just repeating it, because I’m dizzy and it’s what you do, repeat orders. Make sure you’ve got it right.
    I’m almost outside when an orderly grabs me. “Ummm…Niall?” I pause, try to focus on her. Blink back tears. A young woman, green scrubs, Asian, gesturing at my hands. “Maybe give me those, huh? I’ll take care of them.”  
    I don’t know what she’s talking about. I glance down and see that I’m still wearing the bloody latex gloves, the hemostats in a death grip. I turn around and see that I’ve dripped a trail of blood all the way here. I let her take the hemostats, duck into a bathroom and strip off the gloves, wrap them in a brown paper towel and discard them. I wash my shaking, trembling hands.
    I always get the shakes after surgery or an emergency. Never during.  
    Finally outside, I wander aimlessly. Looking for somewhere quiet. I want to be alone. Away from the ambulances arriving at the ER entrance. Away from the patients and visitors at the main entrance. Finally, I just collapse on the curb underneath a towering palm tree. I bury my face in my hands and try to keep from actually sobbing. I try to banish the vision of Malcolm fading, confused, afraid.    
    I become aware of the sound of soles scuffing on the concrete, and I blink through my salt haze to see a big pair of tan combat boots, and the faded, torn cuffs of blue jeans. The guy sits down beside me. I clear my throat. Blink away tears, rub at them quickly.
    “Here.” Smooth, attractive male voice. Not deep, but smooth.  
    I glance, and see a large masculine hand, hair and scars on the knuckles, proffering a cigarette.  
    “I don’t smoke.”
    “Neither do I.” He reaches over, bold as you please, and places the filter between my lips. Sparks plume, and it’s lit. “But you need it at times like this.”  
    I take it between my index and middle fingers, like I’ve seen Delaney do on countless occasions, and pull it away from my mouth. Finally I take a look at my companion.
    Oh. Whoa. Okay. He looks like McDreamy from Grey ’ s Anatomy . Early thirties, thick black hair swept back, streaks of silver at his temples. Ten-day scruff, not quite a beard, also salted with silver. Brown eyes, the corners wrinkled from smiles and the sun.  
    “Puff.” He commands it. Soft, but insistent. “Trust me.”  
    I take a puff.
    “Now inhale. You’ll cough, but it’ll be worth it.”  
    I inhale. Taste mint…menthol. Then I cough like I’ve got emphysema, but the subsequent rush is…worth it. Just like he said. I extend the cigarette to him, but he shakes his head.
    “I only smoke after an operation, and then only after the really gnarly ones.” He rubs at the corner of his mouth with a big thumb. “That’s the trick to not getting addicted. You only have one