be an asset to our medical students.”
“I wonder if I worked with him?” Reagan said, taking another sip of the bitter coffee. The caffeine was doing its job. There had been many other Hermosian physicians out in the field whom she’d worked alongside, but none had been like Kainan.
No one will ever be like Kainan.
She couldn’t think about him now.
“I don’t know, but the Canadian government was very adamant that he should be given asylum here, and after chatting with him over email I’m very excited to have him on board.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting him,” said Reagan. “To become a surgical consultant when you can’t speak—that’s impressive.”
She couldn’t recall any nonverbal surgeons out in the field on Isla Hermosa. Of course it had been a war zone. Everything was a bit blurry about her experience. Except...
“Well, he could speak before. He was injured at the front and a badly placed endotracheal tube damaged his vocal cords. I’m told he can speak a bit—but not much, and not for long periods of time. He will be getting corrective surgery here before the New Year, but for now you’ll help him.”
“Of course,” she agreed. She would be happy to. “Does he know about my son and my need for flexibility?”
“No,” Michael said. “I told him you needed a flexible schedule, but I thought it best if you tell him about Peter if you want to.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks.”
It was exhausting, constantly explaining Peter’s condition to people. It drained her. The new surgeon didn’t need to know about Peter, he just needed to know she needed flexibility—which Michael had taken care of.
Reagan fell into step beside Michael as they walked toward his office, where she would meet this Hermosian doctor and they could get to work.
“So, my job consists of interpreting American Sign Language to the students so he doesn’t overtax his voice?”
Michael nodded. “You can use my office to draw up your plans. The first medical students will be coming at one—after the lunch rotation.”
Reagan nodded. “Sounds good, Chief.”
Michael smiled, and then said softly, “You know we’re all here for you, Reagan. If there’s anything more we can do...”
Reagan gave Michael a quick nod. She appreciated it, but she didn’t want pity or help. Too many people pitied her, and she was tired of it. She was still a surgeon. She was still Reagan Cote, even if it sometimes didn’t feel that way.
“I’m good.”
“Are you sure?” Michael asked, and there again was that expression of pity that she loathed, directed toward her.
She couldn’t push Michael away like she did so many. He had been her mentor when she was resident. He’d taught her compassion and patient care. Things she hadn’t been able to learn from her parents. When she’d started her bedside manner had been atrocious, but Michael had guided her, and he had been the one who welcomed her back with open arms when she’d finished her tour of duty.
“I appreciate it so much, Michael. You know that, but I’m fine. Let me work—it keeps me busy.”
Michael gave her a quick kiss on the top of her head and whispered, “He’ll pull through.”
She nodded, blinking back the tears that always threatened to fall when someone started talking about Peter and his condition. Tears that she had learned to swallow because she had to be strong for Peter.
And for herself.
She had to be tough. There was no time for weeping or sorrow. If she gave in to the grief that she was actually feeling she would collapse and be useless.
This new assignment had come at the perfect time. Even though it would take her off her precious surgical rotation, it would keep her at the hospital.
It would keep her busy and close to Peter.
And that was the most important thing.
“You okay?” Michael asked.
“Perfectly.”
Reagan plastered on the fake smile she was used to wearing. The one she’d perfected when she was a small girl, because her father had liked her just a bit better when she’d smiled, and had been nicer to her mother when Reagan had smiled and behaved.
Michael nodded and then opened the door.
Reagan stepped in, seeing the Hermosian doctor had his back to her. Something tugged at the corner of her mind, but she couldn’t sift through the fog—or maybe she was having a hard time seeing. Maybe she was so sleep-deprived that this was just a dream.
She began to tremble.
“Dr. Kainan Laskaris—I would like to introduce you to Dr. Reagan Cote, who will be working with you here at the hospital.”
The ghost turned around, those dark, expressive eyes of his hollow and wide with shock. The beautifully chiseled face was marred with scars, and on his throat she could see where they had put the botched endotracheal tube. It was almost as if his throat had been slit, the scar was so bad. The dark brown curls were tamed, and streaked with silver. He’d aged. The war had aged him. But he was still devastatingly handsome.
He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but then snapped it shut. And his lips pressed together firmly, as if he was angry.
Her coffee shook in the cup she was gripping so tightly. Her world was spinning and her tight rein on those emotions she’d become so darn good at locking away had gone slack.
She was losing control.
“Never lose control, Reagan. Don’t show your weakness to anyone or they’ll take advantage of you.”
Her mother’s voice was screaming in her head.
“Kainan?” her voice finally squeaked out in disbelief.
“You two know each other?” Michael asked.
She waited for that deep, rich voice to answer, Si. That affirmation had always made her go a bit weak in the knees.
But of course it couldn’t.
His voice had been taken from him.
Instead he just nodded quickly and looked away. As if he was annoyed she was there.
“We worked together on Isla Hermosa during my last tour of duty,” Reagan answered, steadying her hand so Michael wouldn’t see her tremble. “And we worked well together.”
Michael looked visibly relieved. “I’m glad to hear it! Well, I’ll leave you two to it. I’m sure you have a lot of catching up to do.”
Reagan didn’t even see Michael leave. She just heard the door
