Summer of Love Marie Ferrarella (easy books to read in english TXT) 📖

“Excuse me,” said the nurse, quickly moving toward the pair. She threw over her shoulder, “Chelsea’s doctor is in his office. He’s expecting you. Just go on in.” Her attention shifted toward the agitated patient. “Mr. Ballenger, what’s wrong?”

Not wanting to stand there like a gawker, Jessi stiffened her shoulders and headed in the direction Maria had indicated.

First door on the left.

All she wanted to do was skip the requisite chit-chat and go straight to Chelsea’s room. But that was evidently not going to happen. Not until she met with the newest member of Chelsea’s treatment team.

Feeling helpless and out of control was rapidly becoming the norm for Jessi. And she didn’t like it. At all.

She stopped in front of the door and glared at the nameplate. Dr. Cordoba’s credentials were still prominently displayed in the cheap gold-colored frame. The new guy really was new.

Damn, and she’d forgotten to ask the nurse his name. It didn’t really matter. He’d introduce himself. So would she, and then he’d ask her how she was. That’s what they always did.

Tell the truth? Or nod and say, “Fine,” just like she did every other time someone asked her?

She lifted her hand and rapped on the solid wood door.

“Come in.” The masculine drawl coming from within was low and gruff.

The back of her neck prickled, the sensation sweeping across her shoulders and down her arms, lifting every fine hair in its path. If she had to pick a description to pair that voice with, she’d say impatient. Or sexy. Two words you didn’t want associated with an army psychiatrist. Or any psychiatrist, for that matter. And certainly not one charged with her daughter’s care.

He’s probably fat and bald, Jess.

Comforted by that thought, she pushed the lever down and opened the door.

He wasn’t fat. Or bald.

His head was turned to the side, obscuring most of his face, but the man seated behind the gray, military-issue desk had a full head of jet-black hair, the sides short in typical army fashion, while the longer top fell casually across his forehead. Jessi spied a few strands of gray woven through the hair at his temple.

He appeared to be intently studying his computer screen. Something about his profile tugged at her, just like his voice had. She shook off the sensation, rubbing her upper arms as she continued to stand there.

He had to be pushing forty, judging from the lines beside his eyes as well as the long crease down the side of his left cheek. The result of a dimple utilized far too many times?

Something in her mind swirled back to life as if some hazy image was trying to imprint itself on her consciousness.

“Feel free to sit,” he said. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

She swallowed, all thoughts of new doctors and balding men fading as worry nibbled at the pit of her stomach. Was something wrong with Chelsea? She tried to open her mouth to ask, but the words were suddenly stuck in her throat. Maybe that’s why Maria wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. Had Chelsea made another suicide attempt? Surely the nurse would have said something had that been the case.

Pulling one of the two chairs back a few inches, she eased into it, her gaze shuffling around the room, trying to find anything that would calm her nerves.

What it landed on was the nameplate on the doctor’s desk. Not Dr. Cordoba’s. Instead …

Jessi froze. She blinked rapidly to clear her vision and focused on the letters again, sliding across each one individually and hoping that an a would somehow morph into an e.

Her gaze flicked back to the portion of his face she could see. Recognition roared to life this time.

She should have realized that prickling sensation hadn’t been a fluke when she’d heard his voice. But she would never have dreamed …

Images of heated kisses and stolen moments in the grass beside the creek near her high school flashed through her head.

God. Clinton Marks. A ghost from her past … a rite of passage.

That’s all it had been. A moment in time. And yet here he was, sitting across from her in living color.

Worse, he was evidently her daughter’s new doctor. How was that possible?

Maybe he wouldn’t recognize her.

When his gray eyes finally swung her way, that hope dropped like a boulder from a cliff. A momentary burst of shock crossed his face, jaw squaring, lips tightening. Then the familiar mocking smile from school appeared, and his gaze dropped to her empty ring finger.

“I should have recognized his last name,” he said. “Me and Larry. Neck and neck …”

His murmured words turned their shared past into a silly nursery rhyme. His next words shattered that illusion, however. “Still married to him?”

She swallowed. “Widowed.”

Larry had died in a car accident a few months after their wedding. Right after he’d discovered from a mutual friend that she’d been seen returning to the auditorium with Clint the night of graduation. He’d asked her a question she’d refused to answer, and then he’d roared off into the night, never to come home.

“I’m sorry.”

Was he? She couldn’t tell by looking at him. The Clinton Marks of twenty-two years ago had worn this exact same mask during high school, not letting any kind of real emotion seep through. The earring was gone, and his tattoo was evidently hidden beneath the long sleeves of his shirt, but he still projected an attitude of blasé amusement. She’d seen that mask crack one time. And that memory now kept her glued to her chair instead of storming out and demanding that the “punk” who’d slept with her and then left without a word be removed from her daughter’s case immediately and replaced with someone who actually cared.

Someone who had at least a modicum of empathy.

He did.

She’d seen it.

Experienced it.

Had felt gentle fingers tunnel through her hair, palms cupping her face and blotting her tears.

She sucked down a deep breath, realizing he was