3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Taylor
C onsciousness creeps in slowly, peeling back the warm, gray layers of oblivion. My mind emerges from the depths of inky blackness in a hazy, disorienting fog, struggling to make sense of the muted sounds and muffled sensations that bleed through the veil of semi-consciousness.
The first thing I see is him–the most breathtakingly handsome man I've ever laid eyes on. His tan skin is offset by wavy locks of sandy-blond hair that tumble carelessly across his brow. Hazel eyes, rich and smoldering, bore into me with an intensity that leaves me reeling. His chiseled jawline is dusted with the faintest hint of sexy stubble, making his eyes blaze with such brillliance they don’t look natural.
He's magnificent, like something plucked straight from the pages of a glossy magazine, and yet there's an undeniable realness to him, a raw masculinity that sends an unexpected jolt of desire coursing through my veins.
It's shocking, this sudden resurgence of want, of need, and for a fleeting moment, I find myself wondering what it might feel like to have those strong arms wrapped around me, to lose myself in the masculine beauty of his features.
Then he smiles, and everything else fades into insignificance.
Fine lines fan out from the corners of his eyes, crinkling with warmth that reaches straight into my soul and squeezes. I press a hand to the spot, half-expecting to find the source of the strange heat, but there's nothing there. Just the wild cadence of my pulse thrumming beneath my fingertips.
“Hi Taylor, how are you feeling?” His voice is rich and deep, like aged whiskey rolling over my senses.
I frown, confusion furrowing my brow as I struggle to piece together the fragments of memory. “How... how do you know my name?”
There's a fleeting moment of surprise in those hazel depths before understanding smoothes the creases from his forehead. “I'm Doctor Liam Miller. I had to check your purse for medications since you were unconscious and I needed to know how to treat you,” he explains, that brilliant smile returning to sweep the air from my chest. “You're in my clinic.”
His clinic? But that can't be right... The last thing I remember is the quaint little diner, the scent of burgers and fries overwhelming my senses until everything went black.
As my gaze drifts around the room, realization begins to set in. This is no diner–these are the sterile confines of a hospital room, the faint tang of antiseptic stinging my nostrils as I take in the crisp white sheets and the array of medical equipment surrounding me.
I try to sit up, to get my bearings, but the movement tugs at something in the crook of my elbow and I freeze. A tube. A tube filled with blood that flows from his arm into mine.
Panic claws at my throat as the implications begin to set in. What is this? What's happening? Who is this man, and why is he... Oh God, is he poisoning me?
The questions tumble through my mind in a dizzying spiral, each more frantic than the last, but before I can give voice to my fear, to my confusion, he's on his feet and leaning toward me with a fluid grace that belies his size.
He's tall–so much taller than I'd initially realized–with the kind of broad-shouldered build that could so easily overpower me. Yet, as he leans over the bed, taking my hand in his larger one, I feel anything but threatened.
“It's all right,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in a soothing caress. “I'm a doctor at Northwestern Memorial Hospital in downtown Chicago. I'm here visiting family, and when you collapsed, I had to act quickly.” His gaze holds mine, open and earnest, as if willing me to understand. “We're only in a small town, and this was the only way I could give you the transfusion you needed.”
A transfusion? But... why would I need...?
The questions continue to swirl, but there's a strange sense of calm that washes over me as I study his face. He's telling the truth–I can see it in those expressive eyes, in the worry that creases his brow.
“Now that you’re awake, I think you’ve received what you need.” Carefully, he removes the IV from the crook of his arm before doing the same for me, applying a bandage to each wound with a careful gentleness.
His touch ignites a trail of liquid fire over my skin, a warmth that blossoms outward from the point of contact until it's suffusing every inch of my being. It should be alarming, this strange reaction, and yet it feels... right. Natural. As if something deep within me recognizes him on a primal level.
As if he's someone I've been meant to find all along.
My subconscious kicks in with a warning. He shouldn’t have given me his blood directly. We could have different blood types, but I guess he’s a doctor. He wouldn’t have done anything to me that shouldn’t be done.
“You should be feeling better now,” he murmurs, those eyes studying me with an intensity that borders on reverence. “But you'll need to rest after being unconscious for so long.”
Unconscious? Panic spikes through me once more as the implications set in. “How long was I out?”
“About an hour.”
An hour. The longest stretch of oblivion this cursed disease has stolen from me. Disappointment weighs heavy in my chest as I think of the hiking trails I'd planned to conquer, the breathtaking vistas I'd hoped to etch into my memory before... before the end.
It seems I'll have to cut this adventure short, turn my wheels back toward home and the bleak, inevitable future that awaits me there. A future without passion or purpose, without anything to look forward to except the cold inevitability of leaving this world far sooner than I'd ever imagined.
A lump forms in my throat as I think of the life I'd dreamed of living, the love I'd hoped to find one day. That's not meant for me, not anymore. Not when my days are numbered.
I shouldn’t even be finding anyone attractive. Now that I do, I certainly wouldn’t act on it. It wouldn't be fair to start something I can never finish, to lead someone on only to leave them shattered in my wake. I force the morbid thoughts aside, shoving them back into the darkest recesses of my mind.
Liam's smile dims ever so slightly, and I can't help but question if he senses the melancholy that's crept into my thoughts. But that's impossible... isn't it?
The sudden commotion at the door pulls me from my reverie, and I turn to find two uniformed men entering the room–one wearing a sheriff's badge, the other clearly his deputy. Confusion furrows my brow as I take in their stern expressions, their assessing gazes.
“I take it Sally's already told the whole town,” Liam remarks dryly, a hint of exasperation coloring his tone.
The sheriff's gaze lands on me, and I feel pinned beneath the weight of his scrutiny even when his mouth lifts in a smile clearly meant to set me at ease. “You know how Sally works.”
I don't, not really. In fact, I'm quite certain there's a whole lot of subtext I'm missing out on here. Why would the town need to know about my fainting spell? And why would that warrant a visit from the sheriff?
“Mitch Stokes.” The sheriff introduces himself with a nod before gesturing to his companion. “This is my deputy, Zane Matthews. How are you feeling, Miss...?”
“Taylor,” I supply, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment at being the apparent center of such attention. “Taylor Lewis. And I'm... well, I'm mortified that the whole town knows about my fainting spell.”
I push upright and straighten my shoulders in a vain attempt to regain some semblance of dignity. “I'm feeling stronger now, actually. Strong enough to get going, I think.”
I can't stay here, can't allow myself to get swept up in whatever strangeness this town has to offer.
Liam's gaze snaps to mine. There's a weight to his stare, a gravitational pull that roots me to the spot, and I can't shake the feeling that he doesn't want me to go.
“You've had a close call,” he murmurs, his tone low and edged with a strange sort of intensity. “I don't recommend you drive anywhere, not after what happened. In fact, I think it would be dangerous for you and others if you were to get back on the road, especially if you were to lose consciousness again.”
He pauses, holding my gaze as if willing me to understand the gravity of his words. “Give it a few days, at least. To regain your strength.”
I deflate, the fight draining from me as quickly as it arose. A few days? The request seems so simple, so innocuous, and yet it carries the weight of the world on its shoulders.
“You're asking a lot,” I murmur, unable to keep the tremor from my voice as the cold truth slips past my lips. “I have aplastic anemia. I…don't know how much time I have left.”
The admission leaves a hollow ache in its wake, and as I meet Liam's gaze once more I can't help but wonder why the thought of never seeing him again causes my heart to lurch.
He'll forget me by tomorrow, I'm sure. Just another patient, another nameless face blurred in the recesses of his memory. However, his expressive eyes have seared themselves onto my consciousness in a way I can't begin to make sense of.
Liam studies me for a long moment, weighing something in his mind. Then finally, “I'm a hematologist at Northwestern Memorial Hospital in Chicago. There was something in your bloodwork that makes me think I can help you. If you’ll let me, of course.”
The words hang there, heavy with promise and fragile, tremulous hope. I want so badly to believe them, to cling to the life raft he's extended with both hands.
But I know better.
Forcing a tight smile, I shake my head. “A lot of doctors have tried to help me. I appreciate you thinking you can but…” The telltale prick of tears stings my eyes. “I'm one of those cases no one can help.”
The first traitorous droplet escapes and I hate myself for this moment of weakness, for allowing my walls to crumble.
Then, faster than I can process, Liam is there, gathering me into his arms and settling me onto his lap with a tenderness that leaves me stunned. I stiffen, every self-preservation instinct screaming at me to pull away, to put distance between us.
Because this is very much not how a doctor treats a patient.