Chapter 1 #2
I swallowed, realizing I was gaping. He was tall, standing at least six, with a physique that was obviously not built in the gym.
I’m certain he'd been an athlete once and hadn't entirely let it go.
His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, revealing tanned skin and a very nice watch—a very expensive one.
My stomach lurched.
I was kneeling next to a man who might be dying, and some ancient, unhelpful part of my brain had chosen this moment to notice that this stranger was devastatingly attractive.
Focus, Lyra.
"Suspected MI," I answered, steadying myself.
"He has a history of cardiac stent and experiencing a substernal chest pain radiating to left arm.
Diaphoretic, tachycardic, irregular rhythm.
Pain could be between eight to nine out of ten.
Ruled out allergic reaction and food-related causes. About to administer aspirin."
He nodded once and dropped beside me. His knee brushed mine as he positioned himself.
"I'm a cardiothoracic surgeon. Let's get him stable," he informed, glancing at Robert’s wife then to me.
A doctor. Cardiothoracic surgeon. Thank God.
"Three hundred twenty-five milligrams." I pressed the aspirin into his hand. "Confirmed no allergy."
He raised an eyebrow slightly, but did not comment. He just turned his attention back to Robert.
"Robert, I need you to chew this. Don't swallow."
Robert complied weakly. The surgeon checked his pupils, his neck for jugular distension, and his pulse.
"Oxygen," he said.
I pulled the mask from the kit, attached it to the portable tank, and adjusted the flow rate before handing it over.
He took it without looking, fitting it over Robert's face. The plane shuddered again. But neither of us flinched this time.
"Blood pressure cuff."
I handed it over. He wrapped it around Robert's arm, pumped, and watched the gauge.
"Ninety over sixty. Hypotensive. Elevate his legs."
I grabbed a blanket from the overhead bin, rolled it, tucked it under Robert's calves to boost blood flow back to his core. The surgeon watched my every movement with those sharp green eyes. But that did not intimidate me.
I knew I’m good at what I was doing.
"The aspirin will help prevent any clot from growing," he told me quietly. "If we keep him stable until landing, he's got a good chance."
We worked in silence after that. He would reach for things and I had them prepared. When Robert's blood pressure dipped further, we elevated his legs more. When his breathing grew labored, the surgeon adjusted the oxygen flow.
Slowly, minute by minute, Robert's color improved. His breathing steadied.
"He's stabilizing," I muttered in relief.
"He is." The surgeon ran a hand through his hair. "He'll need a cath lab when we land. Possibly another stent. But he should make it."
The wife burst into grateful tears. She grabbed and squeezed my hand, then to the surgeon, before directing her focus back to Robert.
I pushed to my feet, legs shaky from kneeling so long. My adrenaline was fading, leaving that familiar hollow feeling, and my hands were trembling as I closed the kit.
The surgeon stood beside me that I caught a whiff of his scent—a hint of coffee and vanilla and something woody.
"You anticipated everything I needed," he said. "Even before I asked."
I shrugged, trying to act like my pulse wasn't misbehaving. "That's the job."
"Most people freeze in situations like this. Even medical professionals."
"I don't like feeling helpless, sir,” I replied formally. He was older, accomplished, and clearly someone who commanded respect. "I'd rather do something wrong than nothing at all."
The corner of his mouth curled ever so slightly. "Interesting philosophy."
"It's gotten me this far."
He studied me closely, those green eyes taking in details I didn't want someone as attractive as him to notice. I must have looked like a mess—my hair messy, face bare, clothes crumpled. Heat crept up my neck, but I fought the urge to fidget under his gaze.
"Are you a nurse?" he asked as we started cleaning up the supplies we used.
I shrugged, faking nonchalance. "Just graduated, actually. I passed the licensure last month. This trip is my celebration before real life starts."
He stroked his jaw, the gesture drawing my attention to the shadow of stubble along his chin.
"Congratulations. That's quite an accomplishment."
"Thank you, sir." I offered my automatic bright smile. "Though I'm starting to think I should've just gone to Cancun like a normal person."
His mouth twitched. "Italy's better."
"You've been?"
"I have a place in Como."
"That must be beautiful," I said politely.
His expression shifted. It was brief but I caught his gaze narrow and the slight downturn of his mouth.
"It is." He paused. "Are you traveling alone?"
"Yes, sir. Just me."
His gaze lingered on my face. I watched his jaw work, like he was weighing words.
"That's brave. Traveling alone to a foreign country."
"Or stupid. Jury's still out."
This time, he broke into an amused grin. "I don't think you're stupid. Traveling let's you experience many things. Safe travels, Lyra."
In a heartbeat, his professional mask slipped back on—the smile and amusement gone.
But the way he uttered my name made my stomach twist and turn. His voice was thick, and inviting, and I must be losing my mind for feeling this way. I didn't remember introducing myself. He must have heard me earlier, talking to Robert.
"You too." I extended my hand. "Thank you for letting me assist, Dr...?"
"Graves." He shook my hand, his palms warm and his grip strong. “August Graves."
August. It suited him.
His thumb brushed across my knuckles, so brief I might have imagined it. "You were exceptional."
He released me, nodded once, and walked toward first class without looking back.
I returned to my seat. Barbara had rescued her romance novel and was watching me with curious eyes.
"How did it go?"
"Good. He's stable." I sank into my seat. "There was another medical professional on the plane. A surgeon. He took over, but I got to assist."
She beamed proudly, like she had known me her whole life. "Well, look at you! Saving lives before you've even landed!"
I spent the rest of the flight staring out the window. And by the time the plane landed, the passengers have calmed down, and my excitement returned.
Milan was everything I'd imagined and nothing I was prepared for.
The airport alone made me giddy—signs in Italian, the musical rhythm of announcements I couldn't understand, well-dressed Europeans moving with confidence.
I took about forty photos before I even made it through customs, taking in the architecture, the light, a particularly stylish woman in sunglasses who probably thought I was insane.
I rode a train to Como. It was packed with tourists, but I didn't care.
I pressed my face to the window like a child, watching the Italian countryside roll past. Green hills and terracotta rooftops.
Cypress trees lining distant roads. And that impossible European blue sky that looked like a fantasy.
I texted my BFFs, Amy and Penny, every three minutes through our group chat, sending photos I have taken.
Lyra
I'm HERE. I'm actually HERE. Look at this view.
Penny responded with seventeen heart emojis, while Amy hyped me up.
Amy
Stop texting and LIVE. But also don't stop because I'm living vicariously through you.
I got in a taxi when I arrived at the station. By the time we wound through narrow streets and pulled up to my hotel, I was practically bouncing on my feet. The building was old and gorgeous, built with warm stone and climbing bougainvillea.
My room was small but perfect. A wrought-iron bed with crisp white linens sat at the center. Tall windows that opened onto a tiny balcony, offering the view of the lake spread out below—deep blue and impossibly still, mountains rising on the far shore like something from a painting.
I stood on that balcony for ten full minutes, just breathing in Italian air.
I did it! I made it here. Mireya's gift—my first real adventure.
The exhaustion hit all at once after that. I needed sleep and a shower to collapse face-first into that beautiful bed.
But first, I needed a drink.
I freshened up quickly, changed into a sundress, and made my way down to the lobby. Then I headed to the hotel bar without thinking too much. It was intimate and warmly lit, with soft jazz playing in the background.
I was halfway across the room, already imagining how a glass of wine would taste, when I saw a familiar figure.
August Graves.
He sat alone at a corner table with a bottle of whiskey in front of him, spacing out. The composed authority from the plane was gone. His shoulders were slumped, his tie loosened, and his jacket discarded. His fingers absently traced the rim of his glass.
And he looked like a man who had come to Italy to outrun something.
Sensing my stare, he looked up at my direction, meeting my gaze and making my heart stutter.
Damn those green eyes.
Continue Reading Book 3: His to Save