Chapter 24
Regan
My palms slam against the steering wheel. “Damn it.” This is not how my first night shift was supposed to start. I turn the key in the ignition again, hoping for the rev of the engine, but all that follows is a clicking sound.
I glance at my watch. I don’t have time to waste. Raking my hands through my hair, I tug at the ends like that’ll pull a miracle out of thin air. I need to make a decision, and fast. I can’t be late. Not tonight.
With a frustrated breath, I shove the door open, grab my bag, and slam it shut behind me. The noise is too loud in the quiet street. My fingers fumble with my phone.
No nearby rides. Crap.
Of course, the one night I actually need the car, it decides to act up.
And of course, I completely forgot that rideshares take longer out here in the suburbs.
I try calling Dad first, but he doesn’t pick up, which means he’s probably in a meeting.
Then I text Scarlet, but she’s out with Dusty and won’t be back for at least forty minutes.
Too late. So here I am, watching the minutes go by, knowing I’m going to be late for my first shift.
And Brant is going to notice. I’ll have to figure something out later and call a mechanic during my break, or maybe beg my dad to lend me his car.
Even if he’s not on nights, maybe we could swing something.
Anything but showing up late and giving Brant a reason to think I’m unprofessional.
When the rideshare finally arrives, I all but throw myself into the backseat. The short car ride is quiet, and when he stops at the hospital entrance, I hand the driver a tip and a quick thank you.
I don’t look back; I’m too busy sprinting. The automatic doors slide open, and Dr. Gould is standing there like he was waiting to greet me.
“Hi,” I say, but keep walking.
“Hey, is everything okay?” He catches me with one hand on my arm to steady me. His warm smile only makes the guilt twist tighter in my gut.
“I’m so late,” I gasp, out of breath. “My car wouldn’t start.”
“You okay? Will you need a ride home?”
Something in the way he says it makes my stomach flutter, and not in a good way. It’s that tight, uncomfortable twist of maybe-too-kind attention. “No, but thanks for the offer.” I shift my bag higher on my shoulder, already inching away. “I really have to go.”
He smirks. “I could take the heat for you. Harrison’s bark’s worse than his bite.”
“I can handle it. Have a good night, Dr. Gould.”
“You too.” He waves as I disappear down the hall.
I head into the bathroom, practically tearing off my clothes in my rush to change. No time for the mirror. No time for anything. Once I’m in my scrubs, I rush out and head for Brant’s office.
Empty.
Crap.
He’s already started. Which means, he’s going to be even more irritated. I wince. I could page him, but it would be quicker to find him. I head to the ward instead.
There he is, in a dark gray suit, tall, broad, and immaculately put together, leaning over the nurses’ station like he owns the place. Which, technically, in Pediatrics, he does.
The ward's jungle theme reminds me of the banana incident in his office. I almost smile. Almost, but tonight isn’t funny.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I blurt out, chest heaving as I stop beside him. “My car wouldn’t start. I’ve been running since—”
He looks at me. Then at his watch. Then back at me. His jaw flexes, lips thinning into a line.
“Your top’s inside out,” he says, flatly.
I look down. And yep, the tag’s sticking out, seams out in the open. Heat blasts through my face.
“Oh, God.” I want the floor to swallow me whole, right now, please.
“Go fix it,” he says before I can even begin to apologize. “I’ll meet you back here. I’m not walking around with you looking like that.”
I nod, mortified, and make a beeline for the bathroom again. This time, I face the mirror. I fix my top, smooth down my hair, and take one last steadying breath.
Okay, time to reset.
When I return to the ward, Brant’s back at the desk, flipping through a chart like nothing happened.
I clear my throat. “It was my car. It wouldn’t start. I had to call a rideshare, and they took forever.”
He nods once. “Don’t let it happen again.” His tone is firm, but there’s no edge to it.
I nod, too, but inside my chest still burns not just with embarrassment, but something else. Something I can’t quite name when he looks at me like that.
Fine. I’ll prove him wrong.
“Where’s the car right now?”
“Back at home.” I shift my weight from foot to foot. “I’ll have to organize something on my break. Do you know a good mechanic around here? Someone trustworthy who works fast? Because I’m not on the same shifts as my dad, so it’s not like he can run me in and out every day.”
He looks up, but I can’t get a read on his expression.
“It’s fine,” he says quietly. “I’ll drop you off at home tomorrow morning.”
“Oh… no, that’s okay.” I wave it off instinctively, already shaking my head.
Because the thought of being alone in a car with him after everything that’s happened between us, it feels too risky.
I’ll either sit in excruciating silence or finally say all the things I’ve been holding back, and I’m not sure which one scares me more.
“I’ll ask my dad to pick me up. It’s fine. ”
He holds my gaze. “I said I’ll drop you.”
My stomach does a weird little flutter at the way he says it, like it’s not even a question. I swallow around the lump forming in my throat.
“Well.” He flips the chart shut with a soft snap. “Now that’s out of the way, let’s concentrate on getting started.”
I nod quickly, eager to move on, but I swear his lips twitch. Almost like he’s trying not to smile. I think, maybe he’s not as pissed as he could’ve been. Maybe my being late isn’t that bad after all.
We move through the ward, side by side at first, then splitting off in opposite directions.
But even as I walk away, I’m hyperaware of him, like the sound of his footsteps, the tap on the tablet as he reads each file, and the occasional heat on my face that, when I glance over, I catch him staring before he looks away.
With some cases, I walk over to discuss the chart with him. Like this last one.
“I’d recommend adjusting her insulin dosage,” I say, pointing to a glucose chart. “Her levels have been spiking post-lunch, even with regular boluses.”
“And why do you think that is?” he asks.
“Could be stress-related hyperglycemia,” I offer. “But I’d like to run a hemoglobin A1C test to see her longer-term average. If she’s still in the sevens, we might need to reassess her meal planning and education.”
He nods. Like I passed some invisible test, and then his pager goes off. He glances down at the screen. My heart races.
“Emergency.” He looks back up at me. “Let’s go.”
We head to the critical care area, the air immediately thicker with urgency. I fall into step beside him as a nurse rushes past, calling out details.
“Peds case, six months old. Cyanotic episodes, low oxygen sats… mid-70s. Fatigue. Parents report poor feeding, but no weight gain since two-month checkup.”
My heart thuds as we approach the bed where the baby lies in the crib. The parents stand on the side, mom’s hand on the baby, dad’s hand on her shoulder. I start thinking… respiratory distress, or even sepsis.
I glance at Brant just in time to see the way his jaw clenches, his body going rigid as he starts asking the parents questions. “When did the symptoms start? Any history of murmurs? Did the pediatrician mention anything unusual before this?”
He’s flipping through the chart while I check the baby’s respiratory effort, which is shallow and fast. I see the bluish tint around the lips and fingers. Oxygen’s already running, but the baby’s still struggling. This is bad. But I’m calm when I adjust the oxygen mask.
“Failure to thrive,” I whisper, almost to myself. “Could be an AV canal defect.”
He looks up sharply. “Yes. Order an echocardiogram. Get a pediatric cardiologist paged now.”
I nod, and the parents step aside while I call it in, hands already moving, brain spinning. I rattle off the orders to the nurse, who nods and moves quickly. Going back to monitor the baby, I count the respiratory rate. Hang in there little one.
“Pulmonary overcirculation,” Brant mutters. “Crackles in the lungs. He’s already going into early heart failure.”
My heart breaks for the parents who are watching us. Both look like they’re struggling to hold themselves together.
The on-call cardiologist, Dr. Sullivan, arrives within five minutes, and we step back to give him room. Brant stays close, and I watch from behind him. Both of us stare at the screen as the images flicker, and that’s when we see it.
The cardiologist gives the official results. The baby has an atrioventricular canal defect. A large one. Surgery is the only option, and it's needed soon.
Brant is visibly shaking. He clutches the papers with white knuckles, and his eyes scan them like he’s trying to change the outcome.
I want to ask if he’s okay, but something holds me back. His shoulders are hunched, his jaw tight. Whatever he’s seeing in those results, it’s affecting him more than it should. I can tell now isn’t the time.
The mother sobs now, and the father’s tears silently drip down his face. Brant doesn’t rush them. He waits, lets them process, then explains the next steps.
“We’re going to do everything we can,” Brant says gently. “Your baby is in good hands.”
The mother nods, unable to speak. The father shakes Brant’s hand.
I glance at Brant. His focus hasn’t wavered once, and for the first time since this shift started, I realize: I’m not just observing anymore. I’m part of it.
We step out of the room to the nurses’ desk as Brant makes some calls.
Dr. Sullivan, the cardiothoracic surgeon, arrives with his team.
Brant turns to me. “I want you in the OR. This will be a good case to follow.”
“What? Don’t you need someone to cover the ward?”