Dr Greyson (Brothers Paradise #1)

One

Greyson

I stand at the nurses’ station in the emergency department at Paradise General Hospital, flipping through a chart. The end of my shift is in sight, but the morning’s been dragging its feet like molasses in winter. After work, I’m driving to Vancouver to catch a ferry to Victoria. It won’t be much longer, but for now, I’m here with a queasy teen clutching a bucket—likely a victim of last night’s expired takeout—and a screeching toddler. That’s an ear infection, no doubt.

My phone is full of unread messages in the family chat, and while I have a moment to breathe, I scan through them. They’re mostly my father and younger sister, Tarryn, arguing over the effects of last year’s nearby forest fire and the late frost last week. Tarryn says the pinot grapes might not survive. Dad insists they will.

I scroll through, noting the tension in Tarryn’s clipped responses. Elise Anderson, her best friend and our vintner’s daughter, wouldn’t let Tarryn make that statement lightly. Elise is preparing to take over when her father retires. The thought nags at me. If the grapes don’t bounce back, what does that mean for the vineyard? For our family’s legacy?

I shove the phone back into my pocket. I don’t have time to unpack all that now.

“Dr. Greyson,” calls Vivian Daniels, a nurse in the emergency room, snapping me from my thoughts with her velvety voice. “You’re looking sharp today.” She leans against the counter, one eyebrow cocked playfully. I glance over the rims of my glasses, catching the twinkle in her eye.

Vivian and I tangled in the sheets ages ago—a mistake wrapped in tequila and poor judgment—but that ship has long sailed. I don’t do encores, a rule that’s kept my life uncomplicated.

“Thanks, Vivian. I’m off to Victoria this afternoon for the MedTalks conference.”

She nods. “That’s right. You’re speaking there. Beckett said it was a big deal.”

Beckett, known as Dr. Beckett, is my younger brother and a cardiologist here in the hospital. There are too many doctors in our family for us to go by our last name at work. He’s always one of my biggest cheerleaders and was excited when I was asked to share my experiences in emergency medicine with clinicians from around the world.

I’m about to return to endless paperwork when the intercom crackles to life.

“Dr. Greyson, we’ve got a bus en route,” the nurse in charge announces. “Three patients, collision with farm equipment over at Black Bear Vineyard.”

I fight the urge to curse. The Dempsey family. The name is like a splinter under my skin. Memories of the last time our families stood toe to toe at a wine council meeting flash through my mind—Dad’s voice rising, me trying to mediate, and old man Dempsey walking out in a huff. I shove it aside.

There’s no room for grudges in the ED. These are lives in my hands, and no family feud will stop me from giving them everything I’ve got. Still, I can’t help my visceral reaction.

Vivian’s eyes meet mine, flirtation now replaced with professional resolve. “Looks like our break is over,” she says, her tone all business.

“Wouldn’t want it any other way,” I reply.

I slip into a paper gown, its crinkle a prelude to urgency. With Vivian beside me, the team converges around us, a swarm of focused energy ready to combat the chaos about to burst through our doors.

“Let’s go,” I murmur, and we fall into the rhythm of preparation. Gloves snap against wrists, and an electric current of anticipation runs through my veins. Moments later, I hear the wail of the approaching ambulance.

The bay doors fly open with a bang, and we push forward, ready to receive. “What’ve you got?” I call.

Warren Sweeny, EMT and familiar face in times of crisis, emerges from the back of the ambulance. A gurney rattles out. “Thirty-seven-year-old male,” he reports. “Hit by a dirt bike out in the vineyard. BP is ninety over sixty. Pulse one-ten.” Even as he speaks, my eyes sweep over the patient—the pallor of his skin, the crimson that stains the gurney sheets.

“Head trauma,” Warren continues, pointing to a swath of bandages attempting to hold back the bleeding. “Looks like a possible concussion.”

“Got it.” My response is automatic. “On it, Warren.” I motion to Will Stewart, one of our new doctors. “Take the head trauma,” I instruct, meeting his steady gaze. He nods and wheels the man to bay four for a CT, leaving blood droplets on the shining floor in his wake. He’ll assess for serious brain injuries like bleeding or skull fractures.

“Let’s keep moving, people,” I urge, scrubbing the sight from my mind. There’s more to be done. The dance of emergency medicine never stops; it only changes tempo.

The ambulance bay doors shudder open again, and Warren rolls in another gurney. This one holds a kid who looks barely into his teens, his body slack but face oddly animated. “Fourteen-year-old male,” Warren barks. “On the dirt bike. BP one-forty over ninety.”

“Jesus, that’s high,” I mutter, inspecting the boy as we snip away his protective pads. The unmistakable flush of adrenaline—or something more illicit—paints his cheeks a vivid rouge, and his eyes are dilated. “Matthew Dempsey, right?” I lean in, trying to pierce the haze of his intoxication with my gaze.

He flails an arm, nearly clipping my jaw. “Nah, man, I ain’t done nothing.”

“Sure.” My voice is flat, unconvinced. “Bloods, tox screen, and keep Narcan on hand.” As I rattle off orders, he snickers, lost in whatever chemical joyride he’s on.

Dr. Regina Prince strides over to manage the gurney, her short frame buzzing with energy. But no one here is deceived by her size. She’s the kind of doctor who commands respect from the moment she opens her mouth. “Saline, now,” she barks, her tone sharp but calming, a paradox I’ve never been able to figure out.

The kid flinches, his bravado cracking. Good . Regina will handle him, no matter what he’s on.

“His parents?” I ask, already pivoting to the next crisis.

“Right behind us,” someone assures me.

I leave Matthew in Regina’s capable hands and turn to find Warren gesturing helplessly toward a young woman cradling her midsection. I recognize her as Josie Dempsey, her features twisted in pain. “She’s hypotensive, same as the first guy,” Warren says. “Dazed and confused after the collision.”

“Josie, talk to me,” I say, easing her onto a gurney. “Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere,” she breathes, her voice trembling as her hands hover protectively over her abdomen. “It was just—so fast. Enrico’s mower came out of nowhere, and then Matthew on the dirt bike…” She trails off, wincing as pain overtakes her words. Her hands clench the gurney rails. “I didn’t even see Matthew.”

The frustration in her voice is tinged with fear, and I quickly order Demerol to take the edge off, knowing we’re only just beginning. Inspecting her, dread coils in my stomach. The way her abdomen distends isn’t right. I lean down. “Josie? Are you pregnant?”

“God, no.” She moans. “Unless it’s immaculate conception.”

I smile at her reply, but I can see she’s scared and hurting.

She chokes back a sob as we cut through her T-shirt. “This was my favorite concert.”

“Coldplay will be around again,” I assure her, attempting a smile. I know distraction is feeble comfort when fear has its claws sunk deep.

The needle I’m handed feels like lead in my grip, but I wield it deftly, pulling fluid from her belly. It’s blood—too much of it. Josie’s eyes roll back, her body surrendering to unconsciousness.

“Ana!” My shout pierces the clamor, summoning the surgeon on call. Dr. Ana Williams appears, calm and unflinching despite the blood already streaking her scrubs.

As she whisks Josie away to surgery, I take a moment to regroup. The scent of antiseptic and blood fills the air, and the adrenaline in my veins feels both familiar and suffocating.

The name Dempsey rings in my ears. I can’t help but wonder if this surgery will save Josie or become another in our families’ long history of shared tragedies. “Dammit,” I whisper to no one. But there’s no time to dwell.

“Dr. Greyson, when are you off?” asks my nurse, Linda, her eyes scanning for the next crisis even as she speaks to me.

I flick my wrist, the watch face glinting under harsh fluorescent lights. “Two hours ago,” I admit with a rueful chuckle .

“Go,” she urges, looking past me to the next task at hand. “Before we get another wave of patients.”

“Will do,” I promise. “And hey, I’ll grab you those chocolates from Victoria if I have a chance.” Her grin is brief but genuine. We’ve worked together for years now, and I know those are her favorite treat.

“Thanks. Have fun at the conference,” she says, her attention already turning back to the fray. “Knock ’em dead with your talk.”

A nod and a wave are all I manage as I pivot on my heel, striding to the locker room. The hot spray of the hospital’s staff shower does little to wash away the day, and by the time I’m slipping into fresh clothes, the volume of what I’m leaving behind has begun to weigh on me—Josie’s pale face, the young teenager’s bloodshot eyes, Dad’s terse messages. It’s all there, a quiet storm in the background of my thoughts. But I take a deep breath.

My ten-year-old Range Rover waits patiently in the parking lot like an old friend. The drive to Victoria will be a welcome escape this afternoon—five hours without interruption or emergencies.

Still, as the hospital fades in my rearview mirror, I feel a twinge of guilt. Is it that I should stay and help or that I feel badly about how much I want to leave everything behind for a few days in Victoria? Either way, it’s fleeting, gone with the first rush of open air through the window. No need to worry about that now , I tell myself. Right now, I’ll focus on getting through this drive and finding a place where nothing feels like it’s waiting on me.