Amy Andrews - One Night She Would Never Forget

‘I’m not joking,’ Miranda said as his deep laugh drew her closer and closer. ‘I have Kevin from the Pet Connection on speed dial.’

By tacit agreement neither of them strayed into personal territory about their circumstances but she did gather that Ruby was with him full time and his ex-wife didn’t seem to be around. Also that he had permanent live-in help, which sounded like bliss to Miranda. Her grandmother was wonderful but she was getting on and Miranda had been so gung-ho proving she could raise her child by herself that she hadn’t leaned on anyone more than had been absolutely necessary.

But for all their chatter, Miranda had the strangest feeling that she and Patrick were just marking time. There’d been a sense of inevitability to the night since he’d walked into the bar and it tugged more insistently as the minutes ticked by. But she liked it that he wasn’t rushing her back to his room. It felt kind of old-fashioned—in a modern way—and gave him another layer of sexy.

But her yawn at somewhere past midnight spoiled the build-up. ‘Sorry,’ she apologised, covering her mouth. ‘I’m normally passed out cold by nine o’clock.’

He groaned. ‘I envy you. I feel like I haven’t had a decent sleep since Ruby came along.’

Patrick had enjoyed talking with her. He liked her entertaining stories and easy laugh. He liked how relaxed he felt. He liked how she hadn’t outwardly flirted but he still knew she was into him. He also liked it that any other woman would have jumped in and said ‘I can help you with your sleep situation’ but Miranda had just smiled at him.

‘Shall we go?’ he asked, his voice surprisingly husky.

Miranda nodded. ‘Yes.’

They didn’t talk as they walked through the bar and across the lobby. They didn’t exchange a word as they waited for the lift. Or even inside the lift. Although Patrick leaned on the opposite wall and didn’t take his eyes off her for a second. Miranda’s belly went into freefall but she held his gaze, anticipation pumping her heart rate higher.

The lift doors opened and he said, ‘Yours or mine?’ as he ushered her out.

‘Mine,’ she replied.

She knew zip about one-night stands but she’d heard enough staffroom chatter from other nurses to know she really did not want to be the one doing the walk of shame in the morning.

Patrick stopped outside the door and turned to her. ‘Key?’

Miranda reached into her back pocket, slid the piece of plastic out and handed it over. He went to take it but, suddenly nervous, Miranda didn’t let go for a moment. He raised an eyebrow. ‘You okay?’

The question was low and slid into all the places that were suddenly reminding her how good it felt to be touched. ‘I don’t … usually do this,’ she murmured.

Patrick smiled. ‘I figured.’ He watched her looking at the door, obviously torn. ‘Would it help to know that I don’t either?’

Miranda smiled. ‘Yes.’

‘We don’t have to do this, Miranda.’

She blinked at him, searching his face for signs of disingenuousness. Relief flooded through her when she found none. Patrick looked like he was perfectly willing to say goodnight and leave things as they were.

And he’d be gone tomorrow and she’d never see him again.

But she’d always wonder .

She smiled at him, dropping her hand from the key. ‘I want to.’

Patrick kept his arm in place, the key still extended in her direction. ‘Are you sure, Miranda? Really, really sure?’

She grinned at him. She’d never been surer of anything. ‘Open the damn door, Patrick.’

He grinned back then turned towards the door, swiping the card through and hearing the click as the lights turned green. He pushed the door open and said, ‘Ladies first.’

Patrick’s gut clenched as she brushed past him on the way in, his pulse picking up in anticipation. The door closed behind him and then it was just him and her in the darkened alcove and she was standing there looking at him with possession in her eyes. His groin throbbed in response.

He walked two paces until their bodies were almost touching. She smelled like soap and Shiraz and the combination was intoxicating. He dipped his head to capture her mouth, to savour her taste and to slowly explore her mouth, her neck.

But a little whimper from somewhere at the back of her throat was his undoing and he was deepening the kiss, and her arms were twining around his neck and pulling them together, and before he knew it he’d pushed her up against the wall and they were both breathing hard.

Her hands found the hem of his shirt and it was suddenly gone. Her shirt followed. As did her bra. And as her nipples ruched beneath the pads of his thumbs, his zip was tugged down and her hand was finding its way inside.

He tore his mouth from hers and bit down on a groan. ‘Bed,’ he said, swinging her up in his arms, kissing her ravaged mouth again as he strode in the general direction, stopped at the mini-bar and panted, ‘condoms,’ satisfied when she snagged the pack of three that sat propped next to the salted nuts, barely breaking contact.

In four more strides he’d reached the bed and Patrick threw her on the mattress grateful that she’d thought to leave on one of the subdued down lights so he could see her breasts jiggle enticingly.

She was bare to her waist and breathing hard, her hair was spread out in a wild tangle on the white sheets around her.

Three condoms were never going to be enough.

February

THE LOCKER ROOM was unusually empty for this time of the morning as Miranda climbed into her scrubs. The novelty of scoring a job in the operating theatres at St Benedict’s had still not worn off and she inhaled the fresh, clean smell of the shirt as she pulled it down over her head like it was the latest from Versace.

The last few months had been a steep learning curve and she was excited today to be starting her anaesthetics rotation. This was where she was hoping to specialise eventually. Scrubbing in on operations and being a surgeon’s right hand was all well and good but she missed the patient contact. At least anaesthetics gave her an opportunity to talk to the people undergoing surgery, even if they were worried and anxious.

Miranda shoved her socked feet into the theatre clogs she’d been issued and grabbed a paper cap from the stash in her locker. She tied it at the back of her head, pleased that she’d decided to cut her hair short rather than have to manage long hair in a theatre cap all day.

The door burst open and two of the more experienced scrub nurses entered, filling the silence. ‘I tell you he’s hot,’ Lilly Martin said. ‘The man wears pink scrubs, pink , for crying out loud and still manages to look like a sex god.’

‘Isn’t he married?’ Denise Grady queried, nodding at Miranda as she went past.

‘Ah, but there’s married, then there’s married , isn’t that right, Miranda?’

Miranda was a little intimidated by Lilly’s brashness. She’d learned a lot about being a scrub nurse under Lilly’s tutelage but she was uncomfortable around the other woman’s forceful personality. Lilly was only a couple of years older than her but Miranda felt like a gauche seventeen-year-old again in comparison.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ she murmured, not wanting to get into a debate with Lilly, who could be very opinionated. Married was married as far as she was concerned. No qualifiers . It certainly made people off limits in her books.

Not that she spent all her spare time on the prowl, as Lilly seemed to do. Or even had any spare time. Between shift work and a five-year-old, her hours were well and truly occupied.