The Good Mom (26 page)

He was a good liar, when he needed to take care of others.

Finally, the nurse left him. He was used to people lingering over him, and that was okay. Being famous served a purpose. It was the thought of not having a purpose that threw him into a tailspin.
Just get through today
.

He changed out of his jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt into the hospital gown.

A male aide entered his room. “Hey man! I love you guys!” he said. “You were the best pitcher on the team this September—they should put you at the top of the order!” Then the man wheeled Jon into what looked like a holding room for the O.R. His gut twisted into a million knots.

Do or die. Cut the friggin' thing out and test it. Am I done, or do I get to come back for another season?

But as someone pricked his arm—shit, his
pitching
arm—with a needle for an IV, he looked away, knowing that it wasn't the season that counted.

It was his family. And for them, he was flooded with the worst fear he had ever felt in his entire life. And that was saying something.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He felt more helpless and alone than he wanted to admit to himself.

More preoperative patients were wheeled into bays; the room became busy. As doctors, nurses and orderlies came inside, they all looked his way, to the farthest corner.

Word was out that he was here. Publicity-wise, Jon had it covered. A tweet was prepared to go out this evening, if necessary—
Routine elective surgery on a stiff finger, non-pitching hand. Looks good. Thanks to Wellness Hospital.
For now, though, he just needed to calm down, get the knots out of his stomach. He closed his eyes again.

“I'm Dr. Elizabeth LaValley. I'm your anesthesiologist this morning.”

He opened his eyes a slit. Saw a pretty doctor with chin-length, glossy hair. A cute pug nose. Slight but sure hands that gripped an iPad to her chest.

He opened his eyes all the way, because he needed to pay attention. It was his body that they'd be cutting into. But when he looked up at the doctor, it was what he saw in her eyes that made him sit up.

From the dampness in her lashes, and her puffy face, he could tell she'd been crying. And whatever the reason, she was trying to hide it. She kept her gaze drilled on her tablet computer instead of looking at him.

“And you are...” Blinking fast, she touched the screen. “Jon Farell.”

She pronounced it wrong, like “barrel,” which was his first clue.

“It's
Fair-ell,
” he said.

Her brow knit. He waited for her to recognize his name.

Nope, nothing.

“You're here for surgery on your finger...” She swiped another page. Tears were welling in her eyes, and she blinked fast.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Of course.” She seemed to shake herself. Tapped at the screen. “Do you have any concerns I should know about?” she said to the tablet's screen.

Other than the fact that he might have
cancer?
And that his pretty anesthesiologist had just been
crying?

“Are you sure you're okay?” he repeated.

“Yes.” She took a breath. “I need to double-check some questions. Are you...” She squinted at whatever his computer files were telling her. “Right-handed?”

A
very
good question. “I'm left-handed,” he said. “I pitch left-handed. This is my catching hand.” He held it up to her, as if that made a difference.

“I see.” She glanced at the chart. He noted that she wore no rings on her left hand. “And you...play sports?”

The one woman in Boston who appeared not to know who he was. He would have laughed if what he was facing wasn't so important.

“At a very high level,” he said. “They pay me lots of money to do so.” At least, he hoped they still did after today.

She nodded, still staring at the tablet. “You are worried that the surgeons might cut into your left hand by mistake. Duly noted.”

“You've never heard of the New England Captains?” he asked her.

“I...don't follow sports.”

Even more fascinating. “Do you know
anything
about baseball?”

“I...no.” She blinked. Again, those eyes were filling up. Eyes that were warm and brown. Like the root beer he'd liked as a kid.

“My nephew likes sports,” she whispered.

His antennae went up. He was absolutely certain she hadn't meant to divulge this fact, that she was nothing at all like the others—people who knew he was coming into surgery, knew he was good-natured by reputation, and had therefore used the opportunity to provide a gift or a story for their own children.

Not that he blamed them. It was just...refreshing...to meet somebody—especially a single woman his age with a solid career and goals in her own right—who didn't look at him as public property.

“Please sit down,” he said to her. “I'd like to ask you some questions, if that's all right.” There was a chair next to his gurney.

She continued to stand. “Certainly. In five minutes, your surgeon will be stopping by, and after that I'll put a relaxant in your IV drip. Do you have any allergies?”

He'd been through all of this at his last appointment, but he just smiled at her. “No allergies. Tell me what's upsetting you?”

She wouldn't meet his gaze. “I'm fine, Mr. Farell.”

“Fair-ell,”
he said. “And it's Jon.”

She licked her lips and stared hard at her tablet. “Have you ever been under general anesthesia? Do you have any concerns about it?”

Dr. Elizabeth LaValley, the name stitched across her white lab jacket said. Her scrubs beneath it were bright turquoise. She was medium height, and she was attractive in a fresh-faced, studious way. Obviously she was smart, or she wouldn't be a doctor.

“Mr. Farell?” She said the name correctly this time.

He smiled.
Look at me,
he willed her.

She glanced at him, then blinked, startled, and went back to staring at her screen. “I'm sorry,” she said in a low voice, “you're obviously someone famous, and I'm making you uncomfortable....” Blood seemed to drain from her face.

Usually, he would interject, reassure her and make
her
comfortable, but...he was genuinely interested in hearing what she had to say. And he got the feeling she didn't speak her mind too often to people, preferring to keep things to herself.

“I've...had a bad morning,” she continued, still not looking at him. “I just got some...difficult news. If you'd like, I'll have another anesthesiologist called in to assist with your surgery. But I assure you, I'm very capable at what I do, and once I'm with the rest of the team, I will be fine—”

“I want you,” he blurted.

She blinked at him. Her eyes lingered on his, then traveled the length of him very quickly, up and down. She swallowed. “Why?” she asked.

He liked the sound of her voice—soft and calming. And it was completely inappropriate for the situation, but his body was giving a sexual response....

He crossed his arms over his lap. Smiled nonchalantly at her and gave her an uncharacteristic, honest answer. “Because I'm scared as hell at what's going to happen to me, and I don't want anybody else but you to know. Okay?”

“Me?” She put her hand on her heart.

“Uh, I figure you've already seen me at my worst. I don't want to have to explain it to anybody else again.”

She nodded slowly. “That's logical.”

“It is.”

Their gazes held for just a split second too long. There was...something there. An attraction, and on her part, too. And no, it wasn't as meaningless to him as overcoming a challenge—getting a woman who wasn't impressed with his celebrity to come to his side. It was...deeper than that.

And it was crazy to think so based on a two-minute meeting. Maybe he was just so scared witless about the cancer talk, it was making him think crazy things.

Carefully, Elizabeth LaValley put down her computer tablet. He got the impression that this action in itself was significant for her.

“Mr. Farell,” she said slowly, “your surgeon is very good. He's our best, in fact, and I can vouch for him.”

“Not all cancer can be cured,” he murmured. “People die. I've seen...people die.”

Again, that pale face. “I know.” Her voice caught, and her hand went to her mouth.

“Tell me, Lizzy,” he said softly. “Uh, is it okay if I call you that?”

“I...yes. I'm fine, really. It's fine.” She waved her hand, looking flustered. “It's just...we had a cancer scare in our family five years ago. My three-year-old nephew had leukemia. Today is the day he gets tested, to see if he's really cured.”

“And you're worried?”

“My sister thinks he's sick again.” She shook her head. “No—we're supposed to be talking about you. This is
your
surgery.
Your
anesthesia. In a minute, your surgeon—the head of the team—will be coming to see you.”

She picked up the tablet again and very carefully sat to read his case notes. There was fresh concentration in her gaze. Her blinking had stopped. Her hands weren't shaking.

“Lizzy, I'm sorry about your nephew.”

She shook her head again. “He'll be fine, Mr. Farell. Today, we'll be removing a tumor from your right ring finger—a growth on the bone—but from your tests, there are no solid indications it's cancer. Of course, the tumor will be tested as soon as it's removed, but that is standard procedure.”

He'd lost her. But she needed to prepare for her job performance in the minutes ahead—of anyone, he could understand and appreciate that. “How long will it take to get back the results?”

“Typically, a few days for the lab work,” she said. “But, once the doctor opens up the finger and sees the tumor, he can usually rule out cancer by sight.”

Jon drew in a breath. She was gazing at him, her forehead creased. He got a feeling she didn't look at too many of her patients like this. Really look at them, really let herself see them as people instead of as medical problems to be solved.

“Thank you, Lizzy,” he said quietly.

She blushed. “It's Elizabeth.”

“Call me Jon.”

Her teeth bit down on her lower lip.

And because things were looking so much better now, he pushed his luck. “I have another request that I was wondering if you could help me with.”

* * *

T
ALKING
INAPPROPRIATELY
to a patient? This was so unlike her; it was surreal.

The only thing that explained Elizabeth's uncharacteristic unprofessionalism with Jon—with this
patient
—was that, silly as it sounded, her grandmother had called her Lizzy.

And her grandmother had died when Elizabeth was eight, the same age her nephew Brandon was now.

Fresh tears sprang to her eyelids. She bit down on her lip again.
Control. Stay in control
.

She was just so vulnerable now, ever since Ashley had told her about Brandon. She pressed her hand to her mouth, trying to stop the trembling.

The surgeon approached Mr. Farell. A professional athlete getting the most experienced doctor on staff...no surprise there. Elizabeth stepped aside, relieved to be able to step into the shadows.

Talking to the patients presurgery was the least favorite part of her job. She would as soon die as admit this to anyone, but she'd chosen anesthesia as a medical specialty because the bulk of her duties involved dealing with patients while they were unable to move or speak and therefore couldn't interact or cause conflict with her. All that was required, interfacing-wise, was typically a five-or ten-minute consultation before the procedure. Right up Elizabeth's alley.

But this man...Jon Farell...had just blown all her experience out of the water. Even now, as the surgeon talked on and on, regaling Jon, asking him questions, adding to his “cocktail banter stories” by interacting with a Captains pitcher, Jon kept glancing at
her
. Meaningfully, as if the two of them shared a secret.

She rarely stared at men. Her life was too private for that, Albert not considered. But this man...

She'd been fighting an urge to lean closer and smell him. Very strange, but she did understand the scientific principal behind it. Sex pheromones, it was called. The theory stated that Nature, in her infinite wisdom, ensured that people with complementary genetic traits were attracted to one another. Someone with a family tendency for diabetes, say, was attracted to someone else with specific immunity against it. A way for survival of the species, so to speak.

Scientifically, then,
she
wasn't physically attracted to Jon Farell, but her DNA was.

Intuitively, it made sense. Jon was the physical opposite to her. He was athletic and strong, with ice-blue eyes. His face bore the fine, delicate features of Nordic ancestry, but mixed with something else—a blending of another culture that gave him bronzed, sun-kissed skin and long brown hair, mysteriously streaked on the left side with white. His hair wasn't
dyed
white, but was naturally white, as in, the absence of color. Somewhere along the line, probably through blunt trauma, a small section on his scalp, about a quarter inch wide, had been injured such that he no longer had any pigment in the hair follicles.

Overall, it made Jon Farell look...beautiful. And with his warm, musically pitched voice, it gave him the mysterious aura of some past, mystical culture.

He set her workaday French and Scottish genes on fire. Which had probably contributed to her opening her mouth and admitting things to him that she would never in a million years tell anybody else.

It made him uniquely dangerous to her.

The aides prepared to wheel Jon's gurney into the operating room, and she stepped forward, doing her job. As the rest of the team moved into position, she put relaxants into Jon's IV line. Waited until those ice-blue eyes flickered closed.