Anything for You (Blue Heron #5)(100)

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AT THE HOSPITAL, they were shown into a room and told to wait. And of course, Jeremy Lyon wasn’t on duty; he was away at a conference, so there was no friend present at just the right time, the way there had been for Colleen when she popped out her baby. No, for Davey, there was sit and wait.

Her poor little boy. If his hair didn’t grow back...if he had a scar... Yeah, at least he was okay, but this was huge. What if he had night terrors again, the way he had after Chico the Original was put to sleep, after Mom died? Was the house okay for them to sleep in?

This was why she’d never wanted kids. This heart-stopping terror.

Prudence, Levi and her father were all in the waiting room. She wanted to be alone with Davey; he’d been getting more and more upset, concerned that he’d be in trouble for the fire. She’d assured him this wasn’t his fault, then stroked his hair. Some of the burned strands broke under her hand like dust, and the smell was dreadful. After a few minutes, he dozed off, exhausted from the shock and fear.

He wasn’t the one who should be worried about getting into trouble.

She stepped in the hall to make some phone calls and figure out how the hell this had happened.

Her screen showed three missed messages from Connor. Four texts. Oh, she’d be talking to him soon enough, that was for sure.

First on her shit list, however, was Petra, the manager of the candle factory. Jess told her what happened and chewed her out in a whisper. Petra was supposed to notify Jess if Davey left the candle shop early, and it didn’t matter if Davey had lied and said she was home, she was supposed to check, and who cared if he’d never done anything like this before? This was policy for damn good reason!

“I’m so, so sorry,” Petra said, and it sounded like she might be crying. “Davey said you and he were going to make dinner together.”

“Well, he lied.” First time, too. Connor had taught him more than cooking.

According to Davey, he and Connor had been meeting secretly for weeks. Weeks! Connor had been teaching him to cook so he could get a girlfriend. How to talk to girls, how not to mention their boobs, how to tell them they smelled good, but mostly, how to cook.

Davey had also said that Connor told him never to use the stove when he was alone.

Connor had never mentioned the oven.

And that was the problem. People didn’t understand how Davey thought. The letter A was not necessarily followed by the letter B. She knew that. Connor did not. He had some nerve, going over her head. She, who’d taken care of Davey her entire life.

How dare he?

She had never been so angry in her life. Her entire body shook with fury from the bone marrow out. Connor had no business deciding that Davey—her Davey—was capable of being around flame and heat and sharp objects. He had no idea.

Davey had been trying to make an omelet for her and Keith. This from the kid who couldn’t make his own toast. And since Connor hadn’t mentioned not using the oven, he’d used the oven. Put it on broil, stuck the big frying pan right inside. When it started to smoke, he opened it up, flapped a dish towel inside the oven to clear it. The dish towel hit the heating coil, caught fire, and Davey tossed it in the sink, where the curtains caught.

He pulled down the curtains and turned on the water, effectively ending the fire, but burning his sweet face. And hair. And hands. He looked like a sooty chick, and those burns had to throb.

Where the hell was the doctor? The self-important nurse had come in briefly, told Davey in a saccharine voice that he was a brave boy and told him to make himself comfy.

He has second-degree burns on his hands and face, bitch, Jess wanted to say. You get comfy with that.

But Davey did doze right off. Probably the shock.

Her poor honey-boy.

Jess was an EMT. She knew the signs of a third-degree burn. Charred skin, no sensation because of nerve damage, difficulty breathing. Davey had none of that, thank God. But it was bad enough that there were two blisters on his right hand, one on his left, and both hands were a little swollen. The skin on his face was angry and tight.

She hoped it wouldn’t scar.

She took off her suit jacket—oh, yeah, a century ago, she was going to give a presentation—and looked at herself in the little mirror in the exam room. She was as white as her shirt. Her knees stung; she’d fallen getting out of the car and skinned both of them.

She took her hair out of its twist and ran her fingers through it. Pinched her cheeks to bring some color.

Tugged down on her white blouse so the V showed enough cleavage, then tucked it in really tight. Got her bag, dug out her lipstick and put it on. Took a deep breath and went into the hall. Walked toward the nurses’ station, making sure her hips swung.

There were three women and a man sitting behind the counter. One of the women was the useless nurse; the man was sitting with his feet up, eating an apple.

She went to the man. Tucker Simmons, MD.

Perfect.

“Hey,” she said, leaning onto the counter, her arms folded under her chest. “I wonder if you can help me.” She wound a piece of hair around her finger and gave him a little smile.

“Sure!” He tried very hard not to look at her cleavage. He failed. One of the women snorted in disgust. Jess didn’t bother looking at them.

“I know you’re really busy today,” she murmured, “but my little brother got hurt in a fire, and he’s special needs, and we’ve been waiting forever. Do you think you can peek in at him? I bet all he needs is to be checked and maybe get a prescription for some painkillers.”