Chapter Three

Annie burst into the E.R., feeling all kinds of horrific déjà-vu, all over the damn place. She exploded around the corner, and skidded to a halt. She stared wildly around the room, her eyes darting from patient to doctor to paramedic, and when she saw the massive man with the dark hair sitting there wearing his usual scowl, she shot over to him.

“Jax!” she cried, in an eerie echo of three years earlier. “Jax!”

Jax got to his feet easily, held out his hands; he knew exactly where her mind had gone, because it was the same place that his had. “Hey, Annie… hey, it’s OK. I promise. It’s not like… like last time. Not even close.”

“Where is he?”

“He and Sarah went with the nurse to choose a bandage.”

“Bandage?” Annie was terrified, then she reasoned that clearly, Noah was walking unassisted, and she calmed down a fraction. “Why? For what?”

“Noah’s cheek.”

“How bad is he, Jax?”

“Why don’t I let the doctor tell you?”

“Fine.” Annie glared around the bustling room. “Where the hell is the doctor?”

“Hello, Annie.”

She whipped around at the familiar voice, and – oh, dear God above – there he stood. The man that Annie had thought about every day for three years, despite the fact that she felt like a cradle-robber every time that she did so.

But come on… she was human, just flesh and blood, and he was… well. He was delicious.

Tall. Broad. Arms to die for. Dark hair that she longed to run her fingers through. The warmest, kindest dark eyes behind those glasses. A genuine good heart. A great sense of humor. A sharp, smart brain. A fierce loyalty to his patients and his work.

Hot. Kind. Funny. Brilliant. Dedicated.

The perfect man. The perfect fantasy.

And there he stood, a living, breathing, moving dream, looking his usual lethal combination of brainy and gorgeous.

Doctor Sam Frickin’ Innis, as I live and hyperventilate. Why didn’t I pull my hair up today? And the betting’s good that my makeup is gone, except for the shit smudged all around my eyes, of course. Goddammit.

“Sam,” she managed, her voice sounding very far away. She cleared her throat. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said in that deep, smooth voice, the one that just washed on over her like a wave, leaving her wrecked and broken in its wake, and always had done. “You OK, Annie?”

God, the way that he said her name. It was one of the most boring woman’s names ever, she thought, and she’d always insisted on ‘Annie’ as opposed to ‘Anne’, just because she’d wanted a tiny slice of glamor in her life, and that had been it. Her glamor. Sad but true, and the reality was that ‘Annie’ wasn’t much better than ‘Anne’, in the end.

Before she’d met Sam, she’d long forgotten that she’d chosen her new name at the age of seventeen, the night after she’d walked away from her abusive stepfather, the night that she’d met and introduced herself to the man who had become Sarah and Noah’s father… and how daring and carefree she’d felt calling herself 'Annie' for the first time, right there in that crowded, hot, heaving roadhouse bar. And the way that he’d grinned at her, all flashing blue eyes and curly blond hair… she’d fallen for him there and then, and married him four months later, the day after her eighteenth birthday. She’d gone into marriage with Billy Matthews two months pregnant with the twins, and her stupid red head full of dreams of glory.

The pretty shine had faded almost immediately, of course, even before the babies had come. But she’d clung to her life, held on to her fragile dreams in an iron grip, kept the faith even after Noah’s diagnosis. She’d found work, and she’d brought home more than her share of the money for the bills, and she’d spent every spare moment with her beautiful, amazing children.

And that name, the name that she’d chosen to mark her hard-won triumphant independence, and courageous escape from abuse, the name that she’d thought meant something, represented something, had lost its shine and lustre, too. Billy had shouted her name in a harsh voice, cursed it in guttural, disgusted tones; the diner customers still bawled it and called it, followed it up with, ‘Where’s my fries?’ and ‘Bring me more coffee’. All these things cheapened it, took away its innocent, fragile magic. Stole its minuscule glamor, its tentative glow. Took the one small, pure, shimmering thing that she’d chosen for herself.

Until the first time that Sam had said it.

Two syllables. Two syllables that, when said one after the other, resulted in her stupid, cheap, dull name. But in Sam’s mouth, those two separate sounds came together like music, like poetry, like a promise or a vow. The way that he said her simple, boring name was how she’d wanted it to be said every single day of her life.

Sam had made her feel that bit of glamor. He’d given her that gift, given her her heart’s desire – and he’d never known it.