Page 81 of One Moment Please
When treating sick children, you learn how to emotionally detach for your own survival. It’s called “professional detachment” where you completely suppress your natural reaction to feel badly for a patient who’s in pain and inherently blame the disease or treatment instead. It’s easier to blame something than someone.
The problem is, sometimes you slip. Sometimes you feel too much or you let down that wall. Sometimes your patient is your best friend’s son who came to you because he trusted you could save him. And you’re certain you have the answers, but because of the personal nature of that relationship, you let your guard down and put yourself at risk for missing things.
Lynsey offers me a weak smile. “Lennon’s doing great now, but as you know, this is an illness she’ll live with her whole life. And she really struggles with that. There was a good chunk of time after she got better when she totally isolated herself, refused to join any school activities, and didn’t want to talk to her parents. I was the only one she confided in, and the anguish she felt over not being able to feel like a normal kid was brutal.”
I nod and stare back at Lynsey while so many things click into place. “Is Lennon the reason you went back to school to specialize in pediatric psychology?”
Lynsey nods, a tear slipping down her cheek as she stares down at her niece. “My experience with her and her illness was what my thesis focused on. There was only so much I could do for her when she was going through all the emotions of being a sick kid. She needed more than just another grown-up who talked at her. She needed to be around other kids who were dealing with stuff, grown-up stuff like you said, happening in a child’s body, so she’d feel less alone, you know?”
An ache in my sternum spreads as I stare at the woman who continues to amaze me with her unflinching willingness to just…live. She’s brave and strong and vulnerable in ways I don’t know if I could ever truly be. It’s hard to look away from.
I lift my hand to touch Lynsey’s cheek, dragging the pad of my thumb along the damp trail left by her tears. “Lennon’s why you want to open your own clinic, isn’t she?”
She nods and offers me a wobbly smile. “It was such a scary time for her and for all of us. I just think creating a clinic like I want could help so many other kids and families.”
I stare into her brown eyes for a long moment, amazed that out of all of the women I could be having a child with, it’s this one. “You’re one of a kind, you know that, Jones?”
She exhales through her nose and tries to laugh off my comment. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“It’s good.” I pin her with a serious look. “Because your fears don’t shut you down. They propel you forward.”
All humor on her face disappears as her eyes lock on mine. I lean across the two sleeping girls and pull her close to press my lips to hers. I need this touch. I need this moment. I need to feel everything that Lynsey is right now—goodness, optimism, light. She is hope personified. A sign that there are people in this world with open souls and open minds, risking their hearts every day, and living to tell the tale. Lynsey Jones is everything I wish I could be.
I’m breathless when Josh breaks our kiss and rises from the couch with Lennon in his arms. He instructs me to stay where I am, and his expression leaves no room for argument. I sit patiently while he takes her down the hall to my bedroom, still reeling over the fact that he opened up about his life in Baltimore.
Something tells me he’s still not sharing a lot, but the fact that he didn’t shut down on me gives me hope that maybe he’s starting to let his guard down. Perhaps he considers me more than just his responsibility and the woman carrying his child.
He returns and lifts Claire from my arms, and I get up to follow him down the hall into my bedroom. He tucks Claire in next to Lennon like he’s done this a million times before. I can’t help but stare, slack-jawed.
Josh is normally so composed and stoic, almost like a statue version of himself. Even tonight when he helped me babysit, he never really tried to connect with the girls. He just remained his normal, reserved self. The kind of man who rarely shows any loving emotion.
But when he brushes a strand of hair out of Claire’s face with all the tenderness of a loving father, hope blooms inside me. It’s possible that his heart is in there, after all. And the sexy dad vibes he’s putting off are making my hormones scream for attention.
He backs away from the bed and grabs my hand, pulling me behind him and out of the room as he closes the door. Before I can tell him how hot that scene was, I’m pressed against the wall, and his mouth is on mine in a desperate, hungry kiss.
I whimper my surprise as he silently commands my lips to part. His tongue plunges in, tasting, consuming, and devouring me. I know this man’s body by now. I know what drives him wild, what turns him on.
But this kiss.
Thiskiss is something I don’t know.
It’s intense and frantic. So much so that I can barely catch my breath.
My core throbs for the release he’s stirring inside me with his lips while my mind races with confusion from this obvious change in him. A change I don’t want to stop.
His dark eyes rove hungrily over my face. “I need you, Lynsey. I need to be inside you.”
His tone is guttural and full of so much longing that it sends shivers over my breasts. I yank him down and kiss him again. Our tongues swirl into each other as we fumble our way down the hall.
It’s always like this with him. Instant lightning bolts of desire that strike out of nowhere, catching us completely off guard. Since I’ve now experienced this kind of passion, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to live without it. Especially this. This mix of lust and devotion is something I could easily get used to.
“We have to be quiet,” I croak, my voice thick with desire as he pulls me into his bedroom. The place where we have sex and sleep next to each other afterward, but never cuddle. I’ve told myself all these weeks that Josh just isn’t an affectionate kind of guy and the fact he wasn’t kicking me out of his bed after we made love was a good sign.
But do we actually make love?
Not really.
We screw.
