.

could still remember her gripping his neck, the softly whispered “Thank you” against his skin when her last set of test results had come back. And, like a fool, he’d returned her embrace … had—

      Damn it. Why couldn’t he get her out of his head today?

      Maybe because she’d rarely given in once she’d made her mind up about something. Like not leaving his office this morning, until she’d watched him take a few sips of his coffee. He’d learned the hard way not to go head to head with her.

      Her determination to make the most out of life had struck him even when he’d been her oncologist. It was still there now that he was her boss.

      She hadn’t been able to make the transition from patient to employee as well as some of his other staff had.

      And yet that “Greg” had seemed to slip between her lips effortlessly, as if she’d said it to herself hundreds of times before.

      That thought made not only his collar tighten but other, more dangerous parts.

      As her mouth had formed the word his thoughts had strayed, along with his eyes.

      The pink color rushing to her face had told him she’d realized the exact second his gaze had touched her lips. Paused there.

      He shook his head. What was wrong with him? He still had work to do and wanted to run by the hospital before it was too late to check on his patients.

      Mrs. Brookstone’s case had weighed on his heart like a rock all day. The last time he’d seen her, three of her grandchildren had crowded around her hospital bed, looking up at him with such hope. She’d had a pair of knitting needles balanced in her hands, in the process of making yet another hat for one of his patients.

      But the news he’d brought had been anything but good.

      Life was fragile. As he’d learned from experience. When Hannah had stood there in his office, all he’d wanted to do was pull her into his arms and relive the warmth of her breath washing across his cheek, the steady beat of her heart.

      He’d resisted the impulse. Thank God.

      Tucking a few files into his attaché case, he slung the strap over his shoulder and headed out, locking his office behind him. When he got to the closed door of the reception area, a strange blend of scents hit his nostrils. Garlic. Tomato sauce. It smelled like … lasagna.

       What the …?

      Someone must have brought pasta from home and heated it in the microwave at lunchtime.

      His stomach gurgled in sad protest, and he realized he hadn’t eaten anything other than the ham sandwich that had been mysteriously deposited on his desk at lunchtime.

      Maybe he’d swing by the hospital cafeteria after making his rounds. He had nothing at home, other than the bacon and eggs he’d bought a couple of days ago. And neither of those sounded very appetizing right now. Especially with his nose still twitching in anticipation.

      Pushing through the door, he blinked at the quartet of aluminum containers lining the reception desk. And the lights were still on.

      “I was just about to come and get you.” The voice came from his left. He didn’t have to look to know who it belonged to. Hannah.

      He turned. Sure enough, there she was, her printed work smock gone and in its place a soft green blouse, cinched at the waist with a belt. The deep V-neckline drew his eyes down. He forced his gaze to stay above her collarbone, which was not quite as prominent as it had been during her treatments a year ago. That was a good sign. She was putting on some of the weight she’d lost. There were now curves that …

      Clearing his throat, he met her gaze, noting the pink tinge from earlier was back in her cheeks. The color contrasted with her hair, the deep mahogany locks still fairly short, even after a year’s regrowth. He liked the choppy style she’d adopted. It matched her personality. “I thought you’d left a while ago.” He motioned toward the desk. “What’s all this?”

      “I figured you wouldn’t stop to eat before going to the hospital, so I ordered takeout. Manicotti.”

      Huh. So his nose hadn’t been too far off the mark. “I don’t pay you to babysit me.”

      Her teeth came down on her lip, making him regret the words almost as soon as they’d left his mouth.

      “I was trying to help. You work too hard.”

      One shoulder went up in irritation. “I think we’ve already covered this territory. I’m not married. No kids. So I don’t think it’s anyone’s business how many hours I put in.”

      “Your patients count on you.” Her voice was soft. Hesitant. And he had no idea what she meant. His patients were what motivated him to work so hard. Along with his sister’s faith in him.

      “I’m trying to make sure they have reason to.”

      She took a step closer. “No, I don’t mean they need you to work harder. They count on you staying healthy enough to make good decisions.”

      Good decisions. A thread of anger unfurled inside his chest. He didn’t need this today. Especially after Mrs. Brookstone. “I didn’t hear you complaining when I treated you.”

      “No. But I didn’t know what your office hours looked like back then.” Her gaze went to the desk, and she picked her handbag up from a nearby chair and hitched it on her shoulder. “I didn’t stay to argue with you. I just wanted to make sure you had a decent meal for once. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

      “Wait.” He put a hand on her arm, the shirt just as soft and silky as it appeared. He let go once she looked up at him. She’d said she was trying to help, and all he’d done was gripe and complain. “At least stay and eat with me. It’ll be good to have a conversation that doesn’t revolve around malignancies and treatment options.”

      She shook her head. “I don’t think … There’s only one plate.”

      “Then we’ll improvise.” Why was he insisting? Because her thoughtfulness had touched him? Because the perks of not having anyone waiting for him at home came with a hefty—and lonely—price tag?

      He had no idea, but he knew he wanted some company. He didn’t want to sit here by himself and dwell on his patients. What he’d said was true. There were times he craved conversation that had nothing to do with his job or his struggles—something his sister had intuitively known. But she wasn’t here to make him smile anymore.

      “Okay. Wait here.”

      The ease at which she’d given in surprised him almost as much as it had earlier. He smiled. He noticed she hadn’t once said his name again, though.

      She would before the meal was through. He’d see to it.

      Punching the buzzer that unlocked the back area, she dragged a chair over to the door and propped it open, then disappeared for a few minutes. When she came back, she was holding a pink emesis basin.

      “You’re kidding.”

      She shrugged. “It’s clean. I’ve eaten chili out one of these more than once.”

      Greg’s lip curled half in disgust, half in amusement. “Have you ever thought of bringing in a package of paper plates and stashing them somewhere?”

      “Yep, but I never got around to it. You said to improvise.” Her head tilted, a quick smile forming. “This is me, improvising.”

      Okay, she had him there.

      “And silverware? Are we supposed to share?” The thought made something heat in his chest.

      She pulled a clear plastic package out from behind the desk. “Nope, the girls always keep their leftover plastic ware in case of an emergency.”

      What kind of emergency, other than eating, required sets of plastic knives and forks? He didn’t think he