Page 96 of One Reckless Night

37

JARED

Istood outside Amelia’s condo, the file still clutched in my hand, my heart pounding in my chest. Every fiber of my being was screaming at me to turn around, to go back inside, to tell her I messed up—that I was messed up. But I didn’t. I just stood there, frozen, staring at the closed door like an idiot.

I didn’t even ask how she was feeling. The woman was growing my child in her body, and I couldn’t even bring myself to ask her if she was okay. Shouldn’t I at least buy her something?

“Fuck.”

I was doing this all wrong. I couldn’t seem to take a right step. This was exactly why I didn’t think I was worthy of being a father. Or a boyfriend.

I turned around and debated what I could say to get her to invite me back in. We had a good five minutes. It was easy to be with her. And then I had to be me.

An idiot.

It was amazing how I could be so gifted with a scalpel and so clumsy with the woman I was falling for, the mother of my child.

The light in her living room window flicked off. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. She was going to bed. I wasn’t going to wake her up, not after everything. Maybe tomorrow, if I still felt this way after sleeping on it, I could find her and fix things. That’s what I told myself, anyway. But deep down, I knew it was just an excuse. I was scared. Scared of what she’d say, scared of what it would mean if she didn’t want me back.

Not that I ever had her. But if there was a chance to get her to want me again, I wanted to make sure I did it the right way.

What that looked like, I didn’t know.

I was a man lost.

I turned and walked to my car. I drove home in a daze, my mind all over the place. It was so strange to be in the same room with her after all this time.

By the time I got to my house, I was exhausted. I wasn’t someone that needed sleep, but shit, this was ridiculous. I needed a good eight hours. Or ten.

I went straight to bed, stripping down to my underwear and crawling into bed. Unfortunately, sleep didn’t come easily. I tossed and turned, replaying the conversation in my head, the way she’d looked at me, the way she’d pulled away when I held her. I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I couldn’t keep living like this.

Morning came too soon. I was jolted awake by the shrill ring of my phone. I fumbled for it, squinting at the screen with one eye closed. It felt like I had only been asleep for three minutes.

“Welch,” I croaked, my voice rough from exhaustion.

“Dr. Welch, it’s Dr. Carpenter. We’ve got a patient en route to Miami General—traumatic brain injury from a car accident. Severe intracranial pressure. They’re prepping the OR now, but they need you to lead. There’s a history with this patient. I’ve sent the file to your email. We need you on this. The guy is a VIP.”

I could hear the urgency in his tone. I was already swinging my legs out of bed, my brain shifting into surgeon mode.

“I’ll be there in an hour,” I said. “Hour and fifteen.”

I dressed while calling my pilot. My jet wasn’t just about vanity and luxury. I got emergency calls like this all the time.

I grabbed my go bag that was always packed and ready for these emergencies. I didn’t even stop to make coffee. I’d have some on the plane. I headed to the airport, my mind still half on Amelia, and boarded the jet.

I sank into the leather seat, the hum of the engines already filling the cabin as we prepared for takeoff. The attendant—Sophie, her name tag read—appeared almost instantly with a steaming cup of black coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs and toast. She set them down on the table in front of me with a practiced smile.

“Let me know if you need anything else, Dr. Welch,” she said before retreating to the galley.

I nodded absently, already flipping open my laptop. The file from Dr. Carpenter was waiting in my inbox, and I clicked it open without hesitation. The screen filled with scans and notes, and I leaned closer, my focus narrowing to the details.

The patient was a forty-six-year-old male who’d been in a high-speed collision on the interstate. The impact had caused a severe frontal lobe contusion, and there was significant swelling pressing against his brainstem. His vitals were unstable, but he was holding on—barely. What caught my attention was the note at the bottom of the file: patient is a prominent tech entrepreneur with a history of experimental treatments for chronic migraines.

I frowned, scrolling through his medical history. He’d undergone at least three experimental procedures in the last five years—none of them FDA-approved, all of them risky. That complicated things. His brain wasn’t just dealing with trauma; it was already a minefield of altered pathways and potential complications.

I sipped my coffee, barely tasting it as I studied the MRI scans again. The swelling was bad, but not irreversible. I could fix this. Not all of it, but the immediate threat.

I landed forty-five minutes later. A car was waiting to take me straight to the hospital. It was ninety minutes from the time I got the call to me scrubbing in for surgery. I was getting gowned up when I saw Gemma. Of all the people to be the attending in neuro, it had to be her.