Crash (Sinners and Saints #1)

by Kathy Lockheart

It took me a second to answer, on account of me mentally cataloging every embarrassing thing I could have possibly done while unconscious. The list was disturbingly long.

I love Tessa already.

Hospitals were big, and the chances of him being here, today, tending to this exact emergency room patient… Those had to be about as likely as me winning the lottery while being struck by lightning during a shark attack. Right?

Oh no.

My shoulders dropped in relief when she said, “Dr. Hansen.” Not Blake. Maybe the powers that be were finally calling off their vendetta against me.

Just as my muscles started to unclench, however, I heard it. His voice. That deep, rich baritone that had haunted my dreams for years. Outside my room, it rolled through the emergency room like a coming storm, my stomach performing a gymnastics routine worthy of an Olympic medal.

Uh oh.

There. A flash of dark hair that was unmistakably his. Short, professional, but a little longer on top, imperfectly perfect. Lucky for my dignity, he had his back to me, but even that view sent my pulse skyrocketing.

“I thought you were my doctor?” “I’m the resident. Protocol requires the attending physician to examine you as well.” “Is that really necessary?”

“He can examine you while we’re waiting for the CT.”

The thing about rock bottom though is that it looks deceptively solid until life decides to break out its jackhammer.

The door slid open, and there he stood. Dr. Blake Morrison, somehow looking even more devastating than my memory had allowed. His dark hair was still that perfect mess that made my fingers itch to run through it, and his white coat did nothing to hide the athletic build underneath. But it was his eyes that undid me. Deep brown with flecks of gold, holding mine with a mixture of surprise and something else I couldn’t quite read.

Every saved life had become a whispered promise to her: never again. Never again would I watch someone I love suffer while I stood by, helpless.

Ouch.

They don’t need lectures while they’re fighting for their lives. If you can’t manage basic human compassion, at least keep your judgments to yourself. Now get out.”

HELL YES.

Axel: Who said anything about dating? Take a page from my book. Never spend the night with the same woman twice. Me: A page from your book should include an STD warning label. Now excuse me. I’m WORKING.

I am CACKLING.

I nodded, already stepping through the controlled chaos of the emergency department, expecting to find another stranger whose life hung in the balance. But when I walked into room seven, a set of achingly familiar eyes made my feet stop dead. Tessa.

I am unwell.

Tessa Kincaid. My own personal torment since I was a teen, wrapped up in a five-foot-three package of sunshine and sass that had no business making my heart rate accelerate every time she walked into a room.

So what if I’d memorized her laugh like a favorite song, or noticed how her hair caught the sunlight just so, or the precise shade of pink her cheeks turned when she was embarrassed?

And that white-hot rage when guys tried their luck with her? Pure big-brother instinct. Had nothing to do with wanting to shatter jaws when they made her smile in ways I couldn’t. And if I happened to accidentally break the nose of the quarterback who tried to pressure her at homecoming? Well, he shouldn’t have been standing where my fist was going.

Oh couldn't be anything more.

When I found myself having to remind myself of that, after I’d almost crossed a line, I decided to put some space between us. Two years of silence hurt like hell, but it made it easier to sell myself the brother-sister story. But now, here she was in my ER, somehow more beautiful than my memories had preserved, making me realize that two years of distance hadn’t done a damn thing to stop these unwanted thoughts of her.

This was the same guy who’d once asked me, with genuine confusion, why women kept finding reasons to bring him coffee in the hospital cafeteria. As if his face alone wasn’t a walking invitation for cardiac episodes.

We love a man who is oblivious to how hot they truly are.

Which was when I knew the truth. You don’t spend years trying to forget someone who was just a crush. You don’t feel physical pain at the mention of their name. Unless they’ve become part of your DNA, coded into every cell like a genetic memory you can’t erase. Honestly. If humans could choose who to have feelings for, it would make life so much easier.

“I’m a thirty-three-year-old woman, Blake. My big brother isn’t my keeper.” “Dr. Morrison.” “What?” “I go by Dr. Morrison.”

“That’s such a flex.”

“You did it,”

“You’re a doctor.” “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you after medical school.”

The moment the door shut, he leaned against the wall, crossing those arms that strained against his white lab coat in a pose of pure authority. This wasn’t my brother’s best friend anymore; this was Dr. Morrison, the man who commanded one of the most prestigious ERs in the country.

“People faint all the time.” “Not you.”

“Ryker’s told me about every scraped knee and broken bone since you were ten. Never once mentioned fainting.”

“Blood pressure’s low.” “Always has been.” Please, just let me go. Don’t look at me like that. Like I’m a tantalizing puzzle you’re determined to solve, piece by maddening piece. “Could explain the lightheadedness.”

“And I need to do a better job of eating three meals a day.”

“Those circles under your eyes. How long have they been there?”

“Bad night’s sleep. That’s all.” “Insomnia?” He arched a skeptical brow. “Try running a start-up.”

“These tests aren’t telling me why you fainted. I want to see the results of the CT scan.”

“Am I showing signs of a concussion?” “No.”

“Tessa, you could have cracked your skull open. We’re finding out why this happened, end of story.” “Blake, I don’t need more tests. I need Gatorade and a nap.” “You hit your head.”

“This isn’t up for debate. We need to run tests to find out why this happened.”

“I’ve already had a CBC, comprehensive metabolic panel, thyroid function tests, iron studies, and cortisol levels checked. Everything’s normal. I’m fine.”

“Why would a doctor order extensive endocrine workups and stress hormone panels on an otherwise healthy thirty-three-year-old woman?”

Oh no.

“She’s just … very thorough. Likes to cover all her bases.”

“Tessa, you can trust me. If something’s wrong, if you’re sick or in trouble⁠—” “Nothing’s wrong,”

“With all due respect, Dr. Morrison, I appreciate your concern, but right now, you’re my physician, I’m your patient, and I’m formally requesting to be released. Immediately.”

“Fine.” The single word carried the weight of a thousand reluctant concessions. “One final test. Stand up and walk a few steps. Show me your balance isn’t compromised. Then, and only then, will I release you. Provided your CT doesn’t come back concerning.”

Light crept back in, and when I finally managed to pry my eyelids open, I caught the exact moment his relief transformed into something fierce and furious and protective.

“That’s it,”

“You just earned yourself a full workup and an overnight sta...

“With...

My stomach clenched. I remembered her as that lively, bubbly girl who’d chase away everyone’s shadows with that ridiculous laugh. Even now, sick as she might be, she was trying to mask it, probably not wanting me to worry. Always taking care of everyone else.

“Emotions compromise your clarity. Distance keeps you sharp.”

Don’t die, Tessa. Not you. I can handle almost anyone else, but not YOU.

Kathy you are RUDE.

“Blake?” Her voice was barely a whisper, scratchy and uncertain. “What happened?” I pressed my forehead to her bed for a moment before pulling it back up and fixing her with a stare. “Your heart stopped.” And mine nearly stopped with it.

A protective surge flooded my system, followed by something darker, something that felt dangerously like loss. When had I let myself drift so far from her life that I didn’t even know this basic fact?

Ouch.

“Sick?” I repeated. “She didn’t tell you?” “Tell me what?”