constant staring at the couple in the corner. Yet Holly Whitacre knew his attitude was only for show. Even though they were sharing a meal at the cafeteria, he was in his I-hate-people-which-is-why-I-specialized-in-radiology version of Dr. Jack Shay, which has earned him the nicknamed Gaston by more than a few nurses. He was as handsome as the fairy-tale villain, and often as rude. Holly had once wholeheartedly agreed with the nickname, before an unexpected turn of events changed her late husband’s irritating best friend, Jack “Gaston” Shay, into her absolute rock.
It still surprised her—and everyone else—from time to time.
“I’m fine,” Holly said distractedly, but she still couldn’t tear her gaze away from the couple sitting in the corner of the hospital cafeteria. They were their late sixties, and something about them drew Holly’s gaze back in their direction. Maybe it was the shining glow on the man’s face as they held hands while eating, or the sneaky smiles they gave each other, like they had worlds of history and experiences no one else would ever understand. Love emanated from them in an almost tangible way.
They would be absolutely perfect for her MyHeartChannel show: One Great Love Story.
She looked back to Jack in time to catch him sneaking a pinch of her pecan caramel sticky bun. She smacked his hand away half-heartedly, but he still came away with a chunk of her bun, which he stuffed in his mouth. She could retaliate, but he’d gotten salad and a yogurt, neither of which were worth stealing a bite.
She tried to put her head back into their conversation before she began stalking the couple. “What were we talking about again?”
“How much you love the Christmas explosion in here,” he said dryly.
Right. Holly looked around, her mouth turning down at the miniature Santas, winter villages, great wreaths, and red berries liberally placed around the hospital cafeteria. Outside the window, delicate puffs of snow frosted the tops of the pine and evergreen trees and gathered at the corners of the windows, creating the perfect holiday picture. She knew the hospital had no control over the weather, but still. Patients and doctors alike needed a comfortable place to eat without so many … reminders.
“Everyone knows Christmas is in less than a month; there’s no need to throw it in our faces. Plus, there are other religions to consider,” she grumbled. “And if you wanted a sticky bun, you should have gotten one.”
Jack’s dark green eyes flickered with amusement. “I think I’m rubbing off on you. It’s almost disconcerting.”
“You don’t have the market cornered on grumpiness.”
He lifted a brow. “How many interns have you made cry?”
None that she knew of. Jack had a reputation for weeding people out of radiology.
“Besides, I’m doing you a favor, Dr. Whitacre.” He smirked. “Don’t you know food like this is bad for your heart?”
She rolled her eyes at him throwing her own words back in her face. Up until a couple of years ago, whenever her husband, Dallon, insisted Jack tag along with them to dinner, Jack always ordered hamburgers topped with bacon and grease, or buttery, fatty, chocolate-filled croissants, or whatever the highest-cholesterol item on the menu was, and she’d lectured him often on how bad it was for his heart. Mostly to get under his skin, she could admit. At some point, he’d converted to vegetarianism—and gotten into running—and was pretty high-horse about it, too. Sure, he had muscles now and looked breath-catchingly amazing from time to time, but the effect was lessened when he made sure to flaunt those things.
Holly rarely indulged in sweets, especially at the hospital, where any one of her patients might see her and think her a hypocrite. No one wanted to see their cardiologist down a twelve-hundred-calorie burger. But December was a difficult month, and today was a sticky bun sort of day.
Her thoughts drifted toward the other reason she was in a bad mood today, making the bun look less appetizing. “It’s been two years,” she said quietly. Even with time, this season and its reminders still ran through her like a cold knife in the stomach.
Jack drank from his steaming mug, his eyes hooded, but she knew he understood. Dallon had picked Jack up that cold December afternoon, exactly two years ago, for their speaking commitment at a Bridger University medical symposium. On the way home, the car skidded across black ice, through a weather-beaten barrier, and they plunged into a freezing river. Dallon had been knocked unconscious, but Jack managed