For those who don’t care as much for erotic romance, here’s one from my romantic suspense, For the Love of Jazz.

In less than twenty minutes, sporting a bright pink Band-Aid on her uninjured hand, and a wide smile, Mariah inspected her “owie” in the fun house-style mirror that hung on the far end of the wall. Behind her, the dad was finally doing the paperwork and Anne-Marie and Jackie cleaned up the bloodied gauze and the remnants of the sutures. The clipboard landed with a clatter on the counter behind her and Anne-Marie hissed out a breath.

She reached for the clipboard and gave it a cursory glance. “Mariah, I need to speak with your father a moment. Jackie can show you where we keep the suckers and stickers. I think we’ve got some unicorn stickers somewhere.”

Mariah squealed. “Oh, stickers!” She went skipping out the door and as she disappeared from view, Anne-Marie leaned back against the exam table. Slowly, she removed her gloves and folded one into the other. She tossed them into the trashcan and then looked at the man still glaring at her.

One black brow lifted arrogantly. “Is this going to take long? We’ve had a rough day.”

Her temper jerked at its chain and to give herself a minute, she pushed off the table and went to the cabinet hanging over the sink. There was an info sheet on head injuries and she pulled one for him. “You need to keep an eye on her for the next few hours. Any sign of confusion, she goes to sleep and is hard to wake up, you need to call right away.”

He took the sheet. “I’ve had a few hits in the head. I know the drill. Does she have a concussion?”

“A mild one, probably. Give her some ibuprofen when you get her home. She’s probably going to have a headache. Now… Generally, we make allowances for distraught parents. When your child is injured, it’s natural to be upset. However, I will not tolerate rudeness to my nurses.”

His brows arched up. “Was I rude? Sorry, but when a doctor’s office doesn’t have the needed supplies to take care of a hurt kid, it’s my place to question it.”

Anne-Marie narrowed her eyes and let some of the irritation she felt edge its way into her voice. “This is the end of a very long day for us and we generally restock on Mondays before the office opens. It’s a Friday night, well after hours and it took Jackie all of two minutes to grab some gauze. I will not tolerate somebody insinuating that I do not feel like doing my job or that my nurses are inept. Furthermore, I can’t provide medical care without knowing some basic information. Such things are vital in providing safe care.”

“You really needed to know if she takes her vitamins every damned day before you can look at a cut?” he snapped, jamming his hands in his pockets.

“No. But it is useful to know, oh, say if she has any latex allergies. A latex allergy can be fatal and allergies to latex are not at all uncommon. If she had one, and I unknowingly used the gloves we normally use, it could have caused you and your daughter some severe problems. Or an allergy to lidocaine, since I had to use that to numb her up before we did the stitches.”

She tucked the clipboard under her arm. “We can bill you for today’s services. The receptionist has already left. I’ll want to see her back in a week, check and see if she is healing well. Remember to call if any problems arise, blurred vision, severe headaches, nausea, vomiting, anything at all unusual, or any concerns.” On her way out the door, she gave him a card that had the answering service phone number on it.

“Dr. Hart?”

“Dr. Hart is my partner. He’s not in the office this week. I’m Anne-Marie Kincade,” she responded. They kept forgetting to update the sign out front. In a town as small as Briarwood, most everybody knew Anne-Marie had accepted Jake’s offer to join the practice so they weren’t in a big hurry. She headed to the door and glanced at the paperwork without really seeing it.

A drink. Just a nice glass of white wine and something to eat, she thought. And my chair, she wished longingly. I want my chair. And chocolate…I really need chocolate.

“Annie.” The word was a whisper, a question almost too faint for her to hear.

Her eyes fell on the patient’s name. Mariah Delia McNeil. The mother’s name seemed to leap of the paper. Sheri McNeil-Deceased.

And the father’s name.

Jasper Wayne McNeil Jr.

Jazz.

Oh, dear Lord, she prayed, as her heart started to pound in a slow, deep rhythm.

Dazed, she turned around and met the black eyes she had dreamed about for a good part of her young life. The years since he had left fell away and she could see the boy she knew. His lean, lanky body had bulked up a little and filled out. Broad shoulders strained at the seams of his worn button-down and the denim jeans clung to legs that looked long and powerful.

Staring into those black eyes, Anne-Marie suddenly understood her body’s weird reaction when she’d seen him standing at the check-in window. Her body had recognized him, even if she hadn’t. He looked so different—harder, harsher—and tired. Very tired.

Jazz McNeil, back in town. “Jazz, I didn’t recognize you,” she said, congratulating herself on her smooth, level tone.

“Me, neither.” His eyes roamed from her head to her feet and back again. Every inch between seemed to burn. “You’ve grown up.”

Her eyes filled with tears, remembered grief making her throat constrict. The awful night her father had woken her up and they had cried in each other’s arms.

“Jazz, they say it’s your fault he’s gone. Is it true?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

A steel gray coffin lowered into the ground, next to the mother she had lost to cancer at the age of eight.

The night she learned Jazz wouldn’t be prosecuted, there had been tears of relief. Then tears of grief came three days later when Jazz left town for good. Angry and as bitter as Desmond was, Jazz’s leaving had done the surviving Kincades more harm than good. Desmond lost two sons with that accident, and Anne-Marie had lost her hero.

Now, standing there, looking at him, she wondered how badly his armor had tarnished.

“It’s been a long time,” Anne-Marie said quietly, tucking her hands into the deep pockets of her lab coat. “I hadn’t heard you were back in Briarwood.”

“Just got here a few days ago. Annie, I’m sorry about the…”

“Attitude? Why, because we know each other?” she asked, inclining her head. “If you’re going to be sorry, be sorry for treating me and my nurse like shit, Jazz. But…you are forgiven, whatever the reason for the apology.”

“It’s no excuse, but the past few days have been rough. I just can’t stand to see her hurting.” His eyes were still the color of melted chocolate, and just as addicting. Over the years, his voice had deepened to a whiskey-smooth southern drawl that warmed Anne-Marie clear down to her toes. Shifting from one foot to the other, he looked uncomfortable, the way a boy would look when summoned to the principal’s office.

“No parent enjoys seeing a child suffer. We try to keep that in mind here.” An uncomfortable silence spread out as they stared at each other. She finally turned away, busying herself with the chart.

Quietly, Jazz asked, “Do you hate me, Annie?”

Taking a deep breath, she took in the familiar scents of candy, alcohol and disinfectant. Opening her eyes, she stared at the framed caricature of dancing mice on the pale blue wall in front of her. She closed her hands around the chart to still their trembling.

Hate you? Anne-Marie thought silently. How could she tell him hating him would be like hating herself? He was a part of her, every bit as much as Alex and her father.

Cautious, Anne-Marie turned and looked at him, studying that face, looking for remnants of the boy she remembered. With a sad smile, she answered, “No. No, Jazz. I don’t hate you. I never did. I miss Alex, and I always will. But, Alex is gone because that is how it was meant to be. Some lights burn so brightly, they can only burn for a short time. And Alex was as bright as they come.”

His eyes, so dark and unreadable, met hers. “I’ve never had another friend like him. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of him.” The simple cotton button-down shirt stretched tight across his shoulders as he jammed his hands in his pockets. “Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I could undo that night.”

Tears burning her eyes, she turned her head. A lump in her throat made speech nearly impossible. “Jazz, I don’t have anything that I can say to you that will change things. I can’t offer you absolution. But I don’t hate you, and I’ve never wished you ill.”

Without another word, she left.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

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