this earns me that coffee you mentioned…’
‘Good coffee, right? Freshly brewed, in a china cup.’
‘That’s the one… Could there be a kidney problem? He doesn’t seem to be putting out much urine.’
‘Newborns don’t.’ Dr Burchell’s mind was clearly still on the heart baby, whose blood gases were getting worse.
The tiny girl needed surgery, Tammy knew, but she really wasn’t strong enough. They’d wanted to get her weight up higher, but it was going in the opposite direction, and her little body was exhausting itself getting that tiny, damaged heart to work.
‘He’s five days old,’ Tammy persisted, even though she understood Dr Burchell’s tight face and the frustrated way he paged through the notes and looked at the heart baby. He wanted to focus on the more serious case. ‘He’s started feeding. And his temp’s over 38.’
OK, she had his attention now. Hopefully he wouldn’t ask how much over 38 degrees. His grey eyes—a deep, liquid grey—fixed themselves on her cap, narrowing with something that was probably annoyance, and she wondered if bits of her hair were making an unauthorised escape bid. They often did.
‘You’re thinking there’s a partial blockage, and he’s having urinary reflux?’ he asked. Grey eyes, but possibly with some chips of green in a different light, Tammy mentally revised.
‘Giving him an infection, yes, that’s what I’m wondering.’
He was already looking back down at the heart baby. ‘Look, we’ll do an ultrasound. Rule it out.’
Rule it out.
His faith in her diagnostic skills clearly wasn’t high. It didn’t look as if she was getting that coffee any time soon.
‘Thanks, um, Tammy,’ he added.
‘No worries,’ she told him cheerfully, and went back to her charges, prepared to think no more about it.
Eleanor had returned from her break and was gently urging Mrs Thornton to have a relaxing shower. Little Cameron’s next nappy would probably weigh twice as much as a dry one, and Tammy would feel like an idiot for her rash diagnosis.
Yeah, that would be good.
She had a nagging suspicion that the kilos on her butt, the zeros in her bank account and the five kids at home might not be quite enough to keep her safe from a man like Laird Burchell. Tall, broad-shouldered, lovely neck, not a hint of a receding hairline, intelligent and caring and capable…and then there were those deep, perceptive eyes.
He was—if you had time to take notice of such things—gorgeous. If he decided she was an idiot, therefore, so much the better.
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