"It's no trouble."

"Wh-what about your date?"

"I phoned Leanne. We put it off until tomorrow."

"Oh...sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

"Okay. Except that I feel responsible and you made such a point of arranging this date with her.... I know it's important to you."

Michael pressed his finger to her lips. "Stop."

"I didn't mean to give them your name," she mumbled against his finger. "I must've been talking to myself again."

He sent her an odd look. "Don't explain that."

The ride to her house was miserable and seemed to take forever. While he drove, Michael gave her a detailed medical report. Most of what he said went over her head. Basically, nothing was broken. She had several deep cuts. That much Macy knew, although she barely remembered being stitched up. The primary concern was the possibility of concussion, he explained. She needed someone to stay the night with her.

"I'll call a friend," she told Michael. Joy Williamson could probably come over. Or maybe Sherry Franklin...

"No, I can do it," he said.

"You?"

"I know what to look for. I'll be waking you every few hours and checking your eyes. To see if your pupils are dilated."

Once they got to the house, Michael helped her out of the car. Wearing an unusually worried expression, Harvey stood on her porch and held open the front door. Sammy immediately started to whine. Her cats didn't seem to care what the problem was; they didn't take kindly to having their dinner delayed. But that was cats for you.

"I'll get you into bed and then feed them," Michael promised.

Macy tried to assure the cats that food was forthcoming, but Snowball, Lovie and Peace weren't interested in excuses. When her cats were cranky, they let everyone in the vicinity know.

Michael discreetly helped her change into a nightgown--really an oversize T-shirt with pictures of kittens all over it. Once she was settled in bed, her head nestled in the pillows, Macy was almost comfortable. She could hear Michael and Harvey talking in the living room, but their voices were too low to distinguish the words.

"Talk louder," she called out and winced at the sound of her own voice. If she was the main topic of conversation, she figured she had a right to hear what was being said.

The two men were silent then or they'd moved out of earshot--it was difficult to tell from her bedroom. The oddest things were going through her mind and she must have fallen asleep because when she opened her eyes Michael was standing over her. The curtains had been drawn, and he'd turned on the bedside lamp.

She blinked, blinded by the light, and blurted out, "Mom was right. I should've worn new underwear."

"Why?"

"Because I was in an accident. My mother told me that putting on nice underwear's important in case I'm in an accident."

Michael seemed to find that amusing, although she didn't understand why.

Another time he helped her up and into the bathroom, then stood outside the door, giving her privacy. He was so gentle with her.

"Where are you sleeping?" she asked as he supported her with an arm about her waist. They slowly made their way back into the bedroom.

"On the sofa."

"Oh, dear. That's Lovie's bed."

"So I discovered."

Macy felt the need to explain.

"I tried to convince her to sleep elsewhere when I got the new sofa," Macy said. "But she made it clear that she'd slept on the old one and she was sleeping on this one, too, and she didn't care how much I paid for it."

Another smile.

Macy tilted her head to the side. "You're quite handsome when you smile. Did I tell you that before?" Reaching out she touched his cheek with the tips of her fingers. His face was bristly because he needed a shave. "You should smile more often."

"I'll take it under advisement."

The final time he woke her it was around four in the morning. His clothes were badly wrinkled and he looked as if he hadn't slept all night.

When Macy woke on her own, it was six. She sat up carefully and waited for the pain to assault her. The throbbing in her head was nearly gone. Although every muscle in her body cried out in protest, she moved her legs, first one and then the other, over the side of the bed. She sat there for several minutes until she'd regained her bearings.

When she felt brave enough, she stood, holding on to her nightstand with both hands. Once she was upright, she felt more confident. Taking baby steps she walked out of her bedroom and into the living room and saw Michael sprawled on her sofa. One arm was flung above his head and one leg draped over the edge, with his foot resting on the braided rug. Lovie and Peace were sleeping on his chest. Snowball lay on the back of the sofa, curled up in a fluffy white ball. Sammy was asleep, too, snoring softly next to the coffee table. The cats had apparently called a truce and permitted him to spend the night.

Lovie woke up first. On seeing Macy, she stood and stretched, arching her back and digging her nails into Michael's shirt. His eyes flew open and, when he saw Macy in her kitten shirt, he smiled.

"You shouldn't be up," he said.

"But I am."

He sat up awkwardly, displacing the two cats. "How do you feel?"

"Like I took a flying leap off my bicycle. How do I look?"

He grinned almost boyishly. "Like you took a flying leap off your bicycle."

Standing now, he ran his fingers through his already disheveled hair. "I could use some coffee."

"Me, too." It suddenly occurred to her that Michael had probably missed dinner on account of her. "When's the last time you ate?"

"I found something in your refrigerator."

Macy went still. "What did it taste like?"

"I don't know. I think it was leftover salmon casserole."

"It wasn't. That was cat food."

His expression was priceless. His eyes widened and he made jerky movements with his tongue against his lips, as though attempting to banish the taste from his mouth.

If it hadn't hurt so much to move, Macy would've laughed. Instead, she held up her hand. "I often make my own, so don't worry. You weren't eating processed cat food. Didn't you find it a bit blah?"

"Not really. It was good, but no wonder the cats were all over me."

When she moved toward the coffeemaker, Michael stopped her. "I'll make it."

"Thank you."

"Once it's finished brewing, I need to get home. After I have a cup, of course."

Macy nodded. "I don't know how to thank you."

He seemed eager to be on his way. The coffeepot was only half full when he grabbed mugs for each of them. He gulped his down, then started for the door.

He hesitated. "Promise you'll call me if you need anything," he said.

"Sure." She didn't want him to leave and yet she could hardly believe he'd been here at all.

"Harvey said he'd check on you later this morning."

Macy sat in a kitchen chair, cradling the mug between her hands. The cats were at her feet. Sammy, too. "Thank you," she whispered. "I'm so...sorry to have been such a bother."

Michael cupped one side of her face. He looked down at her and for the briefest moment she thought he might kiss her again. That was what she wanted him to do. He didn't. "You were no bother, Macy. None whatsoever. I'm just grateful you weren't badly injured."

Then he walked through the living room to the front door, skirting paintings and piles of books and the laundry basket that now sat on the floor.

Fastidious Dr. Everett maneuvering through the chaos of her home. That one image epitomized the differences between them.

Macy's heart sank.

Chapter Twenty-Six

W hen I left Macy, I was convinced she'd be perfectly fine without me. She revealed no signs of having suffered a concussion, and she should recover fully in the next week, with a few scars to show for the experience. I insisted she take a couple of days off and not worry about completing the mural until she felt up to it.

I needed to get away--because I'd been tempted to kiss her...again. I couldn't understand it, and yet I was drawn to her. Several times during the night I'd stood and watched her sleep. Once I pressed my lips to her forehead in a chaste goodnight kiss, then quickly, guiltily, hurried away from her room.

From Macy's I went to a drive-through latte stand and ordered a double espresso. I sat in the car in a nearby parking lot, sipping my coffee. I needed the additional caffeine to kick me into gear. Sleeping on a sofa with two cats on my chest and one just above my head, not to mention a dog on the carpet beside me, wasn't the ideal condition for peaceful slumber. Besides, the dog snored.

A second sip of the espresso started to revive me. I closed my eyes and remembered how I'd reacted when I got the call that Macy had been injured. The hospital hadn't given me any details. I was well aware that the administration's policy was not to relay a patient's medical condition over the phone, yet I'd demanded to know the extent of her injuries. It didn't matter; they wouldn't tell me.

Except for a few occasions in Hannah's last months, I can't remember getting to the hospital faster in my ten years as a physician. My heart felt like it might explode by the time I made it to the E.R. In the beginning I was afraid Macy had been seriously hurt and then, when I learned the true extent of her injuries, I was so angry with her I could barely speak. Thankfully she'd been unable to ascertain my mood. I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her for riding her bike in the crazy Seattle traffic, especially during rush hour. She should know better!

Shock, fear, anger, relief and finally acceptance. I felt each one of those emotions more powerfully than I'd felt anything since Hannah's death. These stages were classic reactions to the news of trauma, whether accident or illness. I'd often seen families shift from one stage to the next while dealing with some health crisis. I'd gone through it myself when Hannah was first diagnosed. I was unprepared and frankly unwilling to feel these same gutwrenching emotions for Macy...and yet I had.

I'd set my cell phone to wake me every two hours so I could check her for signs of concussion. Thank God there hadn't been any. Thank God her injuries weren't worse.

Interesting that I'd turned to God in gratitude on this particular night.

I don't have a good relationship with Him. Hannah was big on faith. Not religion, but faith. She believed, and while I'd been raised by religious parents who dragged me to church, I'd abandoned even the vestiges of belief when Hannah got sick.

I was still angry with God. Angry with the world. Just plain angry at Hannah's death. She was the most decent human being I'd ever known. Surely there was someone else, some low-life He could easily have substituted. Oh, no, He had to take Hannah. Forgiveness for this plan of His wasn't coming anytime soon. Now here I was, thanking Him for sparing Macy.

What upset me was that I didn't actually know what I felt for Macy. For reasons I had yet to understand, I did feel some sort of...attachment to her. I wasn't happy about it. But the feelings were there and they were gaining intensity.

I sipped the coffee, which had cooled considerably, making me wonder how long I'd been sitting in the parking lot analyzing what had taken place during the night. Trying to figure out how my emotions had undergone such a transformation. How I'd moved from resistance to...acceptance of this woman in my life. From annoyance to--what? Fascination.