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  Table of Contents

  Other Books by Jae

  Title Page

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  About Jae

  Other Books from Ylva Publishing

  Just Physical

  Flinging It

  Wounded Souls

  Crossing Lines

  Coming from Ylva Publishing

  Rescue Me

  Grounded

  OTHER BOOKS BY JAE

  The Hollywood Series:

  Departure from the Script

  Damage Control

  Just Physical

  Portland Police Bureau Series:

  Conflict of Interest

  Next of Kin

  The Moonstone Series:

  Something in the Wine

  The Vampire Diet Series:

  Good Enough to Eat

  The Oregon Series:

  Backwards to Oregon

  Beyond the Trail

  Hidden Truths

  The Shape-Shifter Series:

  Second Nature

  Natural Family Disasters

  Manhattan Moon

  True Nature

  Standalone Romances:

  Under a Falling Star

  Shaken to the Core

  HEART TROUBLE

  by Jae

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing is a solitary activity, but publishing a book is always a team effort. First and foremost, I’d like to thank my wonderful beta readers: Alison Grey, Alisha, Andrea, Anne-France, Christiane Z., Danielle, Erin Saluta, G Benson, Katharina, and Tricia. An extra-special thank-you goes to Christiane and my critique partner, RJ Nolan, who patiently helped me get the medical details right.

  I’d also like to thank my editor, Robin; my proofreader, Louisa; and the staff at Ylva Publishing.

  Last but certainly not least, thank you to my readers, especially those of you who take the time to send me an e-mail or to write a review. I really appreciate it!

  CHAPTER 1

  What a day. Laleh paused in front of her apartment door and balanced the three Styrofoam containers against her chest while digging in her jeans pocket for her keys. She couldn’t wait to take off her shoes and get out of the blouse that was still covered in the remainder of the saffron rice pudding a pouting three-year-old had flung at her.

  When she turned the key, she realized the door was already unlocked. For a moment, she froze, the tiny hairs on her neck standing on end.

  Then her gaze darted back toward the street.

  Her mother’s old Volvo was parked in front of the building.

  Laleh’s death grip on her keys loosened, and she pushed the door open. “Maman! You scared me half to death. What are you doing here?”

  “Is that any way to greet your mother?” The scent of cinnamon and rose water that she associated with her mother swept toward her; then Laleh was engulfed in a warm embrace. Her mother kissed her on each cheek before stepping back and frowning at her. “What’s this?” She tugged on the stained blouse.

  “One of our little guests didn’t appreciate Aunt Nasrin’s dessert.”

  Her mother clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Throwing food…” She shook her head. “No Persian child would ever do that.”

  Laleh didn’t even try to hide her grin. “Oh no? Don’t you remember what Navid did when you tried to get him to eat pickled artichoke?”

  Her mother waved the comment away. “You should soak it in cold water with a little ammonia, or you’ll never get out the stain.”

  “In a minute.” Laleh kicked off her shoes, squeezed past her mother in the tiny apartment, and carried the Styrofoam containers to the kitchenette. When she opened the fridge, she encountered several Tupperware bowls that hadn’t been there when she’d left for work this morning. She closed the fridge, turned toward her mother, and sent her a questioning gaze.

  “I came over to bring you some adas polo.”

  “You don’t need to bring me food, Maman. I work in a restaurant. If I want adas polo, Aunt Nasrin will send some home with me.”

  Her mother waved her hand again, as she had the other hundreds of times Laleh had pointed out she wasn’t about to starve. “She doesn’t use enough cinnamon. I know you prefer mine.”

  Laleh couldn’t deny it. Her mouth watered as she thought about the combination of rice, lentils, raisins, and cinnamon. She popped the biggest Tupperware container into the microwave and made tea for her mother while she waited for the food to heat.

  A few minutes later, they settled down at the small table.

  Her mother sipped chai from a tea glass and watched with a smile as Laleh dug into her food. “Did you know Sepideh is getting married?”

  Laleh swallowed a forkful of saffron rice. “Which Sepideh?” There were two women with that name in her extended family and several more in her parents’ circle of friends.

  “Yasmin Hajimiri’s youngest daughter.”

  Laleh barely remembered her, so she hummed and pierced a raisin with her fork.

  “She’s marrying a Persian doctor. He graduated summa cum laude from Harvard Medical School.”

  Now Laleh could see where this was going. She nodded and pretended to focus on the adas polo.

  “Isn’t that nice?” her mother asked when Laleh stayed silent.

  “Very nice.”

  Her mother continued to look at her, clearly expecting something more.

  Laleh shoved her plate away. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  “Hichi, hichi,” her mother said.

  Laleh didn’t believe that for a second. It was never nothing when her mother talked about marriages.

  “Really, I’m not saying anything. I just wanted to let you know about Sepideh. I don’t care if you marry a doctor or not. You know your father and I are very liberal like that. You can marry any man you want.”

  “As long as he’s a doctor, a lawyer, or an engineer,” Laleh mumbled.

  “What’s so wrong about wanting to see you happy?” Her mother looked at her with her big, dark eyes, a wounded expression in them.

  “I am happy. I don’t need a man with a high-paying job for that—or any man for that matter. It would be nice to be in a relationship again, but I’m not unhappy on my own.”

  Her mother made that clicking sound with her tongue again. “If you keep talking like that, you’ll end up torshideh.”

  Laleh hated that word, which literally translated to pickled. “I’m twenty-seven, Maman. I’m nowhere near becoming an old spinster with a dozen cats.”

  “Cats?” Her mother frowned. “What do cats have to do with it?”

  “Forget it.”

  “You aren’t eating.” Her mother waved at Laleh’s only half-eaten dinner. “Did I put too many raisins in it?”

  Laleh had lost her appetite, but she forced herself to pick up the fork and start eating again. “No, it’s perfect, as always.”

  Her mot
her beamed and patted Laleh’s hand. “If you want, I can make adas polo when you come over on Sunday.”

  Laleh swallowed her mouthful of rice. “I’m coming over on Sunday?”

  “Of course. Your father invited a colleague over for tea. If all goes well, we’ll ask him to stay for dinner. He’s from Shiraz, like your baba, and he comes from a very good family. He would be perfect for you.”

  “Oh yeah, just like Mahmood the banker.”

  They looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  “Okay, maybe he wasn’t quite as perfect as Bita made it sound when she told me about her cousin’s son.”

  “Not quite as perfect? Maman, his idea of romance was discussing the stock market for three hours straight. And he kept rearranging his comb-over, as if that would make it look any better.”

  “It will be different this time,” her mother said. “Dariush has hair.”

  They both chuckled.

  “So? You’ll come, right?”

  Laleh sighed. She knew she had already disappointed her parents by not getting a college degree. To them, working in her aunt and uncle’s restaurant was okay as a summer job when she’d been a teenager, but waitress wasn’t in the top ten of desirable jobs for their daughter. It didn’t even make the top hundred. While she had no intention of marrying Dariush just because he was Iranian or gainfully employed, meeting him couldn’t hurt, could it?

  Just as she was about to agree, her heart fluttered in her ribcage like a small, panicked bird. She lifted her free hand and pressed it to her chest.

  Her mother touched Laleh’s forearm. “What is it?”

  “My heart is racing.” She struggled to breathe normally.

  “You don’t need to be nervous. Your father says Dariush is nice and—”

  “Not because of Dariush. It’s one of my episodes.” It had been a while since she’d had one, but she still remembered how to stop it. She pinched her nose closed, held her breath, and bore down hard.

  Usually, that stopped the palpitations, but this time her heart continued to race.

  Her mother jumped up, rushed to the kitchenette, and returned with a glass of water that she pressed into Laleh’s hand. “Here.”

  Laleh sipped the cold water, another trick that sometimes helped. When that didn’t slow her racing heartbeat, she still wasn’t too worried. After all, her episodes rarely lasted more than a few minutes. They usually stopped as suddenly as they had started, so all she had to do was wait a while, and she’d be fine. It was just stress, her doctor said. She tried to relax, but her mother hovering anxiously didn’t make that easy.

  A wave of dizziness swept over her. Her fork clattered onto the plate as she clutched the edge of the table.

  “Laleh…” Her mother fumbled her phone out of her purse. “I’m calling 911.”

  The dizziness eased a little, and Laleh grabbed her mother’s hand. “No. I’m fine. Just give me a minute.”

  “Either you let me take you to the ER, or I’m calling 911.”

  By the time they made it to the emergency room, her heartbeat would probably be back to normal and they could turn around and drive home without even setting foot in the hospital. In the last four years since the episodes had started, that exact scenario had happened twice. “All right.” Carefully, she got up and walked to the door, bent over a little to ease the pressure on her chest. “The ER it is.”

  * * *

  Doctor Hope Finlay swiped her ID badge through the card lock by the staff entrance and stepped into the emergency department of Griffith Memorial Hospital.

  The glass doors slid closed behind her, shutting out the smell of car exhaust from the dense LA traffic and the aroma of bacon-wrapped hot dogs from a cart across the street. Instead, the familiar odors of coffee from one of the vending machines and antiseptic surrounded her. An EKG monitor beeped, and someone moaned in one of the glass-fronted treatment rooms, but no sirens were approaching the ambulance bay. On her way to her locker, she peeked into the waiting room.

  A snoring woman and a man with a towel wrapped around his hand sat on the orange plastic chairs; otherwise, the ER was unusually empty for nearly seven o’clock on a Tuesday evening. Well, the pace of admissions would probably pick up later. Once darkness fell, drug seekers and car accident victims would keep her busy, and her twelve-hour shift would fly by in a productive blur, just the way she preferred it.

  Hope stepped into the women’s locker room and changed into a fresh set of light blue scrubs. She clipped her name badge to the top pocket of her white lab coat and slung the stethoscope around her neck. Only with its familiar weight did she feel fully dressed in the hospital. Her comfortable sneakers squeaked on the linoleum as she made her way to the nurses’ station.

  Tom Coffey, the attending who had covered the day shift, was sitting at the large, circular desk that was the center of the ER. Nearby, two nurses restocked the supply cupboards.

  When Hope greeted them and walked up to the counter, Tom looked up from the chart on his computer workstation.

  “Hi, Tom. Ready to sign out?”

  He grinned. “Am I ever. I tried to clear the board, and we almost made it. Janet is taking care of a laceration in exam two, and we’re still waiting for the lab report on Mr. Hegland in exam four. He presented with abdominal pain, but the ultrasound looked normal. Depending on the lab results, he might need a CT.”

  Hope glanced up at the patient board behind the nurses’ station, which listed only three active patients. “Looks like a quiet night.”

  Paula Delgado, the night-shift charge nurse, groaned. “Great. Now you’ve jinxed us, Doc. You know we don’t use that word around here. We don’t even think it.”

  Hope didn’t believe in jinxes or bad luck; she believed in facts and science. But she knew some of the nurses took their superstitions seriously, so she held up her hands and made a zipping gesture across her lips. “I won’t mention the Q word again. I promise.”

  A child started screaming and hollering in one of the exam rooms that surrounded the nurses’ station.

  Paula sent her an I-told-you-so gaze.

  “That’s Jonah,” Tom said. “A four-year-old who shoved a bead up his nose. I sent Scott in to remove it.”

  Great. Even several months into his second year as a resident, Scott had yet to impress her with either his medical skills or his work ethic. His bedside manner wasn’t the best either, so she couldn’t imagine him dealing well with a panicked little boy.

  The crying and screaming from exam room three increased. It sounded as if the boy were being tortured. After a few seconds, the curtain in front of the open Plexiglas door was pushed aside, and Scott Feltner marched toward the nurses’ station. “Page the ENT,” he said to Paula and slapped the clipboard with the boy’s intake sheet onto the counter.

  He hadn’t said please or made eye contact with the charge nurse when he had ordered her to call the ear, nose, and throat specialist.

  Hope sighed inwardly. More than a year in the ER and he still hadn’t learned to treat the nurses with respect. She would have to talk to him later. As an attending physician, she was expected to teach and guide residents like Scott. “What’s the problem?”

  “I can’t get that bead out, and the kid is kicking and screaming bloody murder,” Scott grumbled.

  “What did you use?”

  “A pair of alligator forceps.”

  Hope shook her head. “Round objects are difficult to grasp. If you use forceps, you risk pushing the bead even farther into the naris. Did you apply decongestant nasal spray before trying to remove the bead?”

  His lips compressed into a thin line, Scott nodded.

  Well, at least he had done something right. “Hold off on calling the ENT consultant, please,” she said to Paula. “Let me try first.”

  Scott trudged after her as she walked over to exam room three.

  The boy had stopped crying, but when she stepped into the room, his bottom lip started to quiver.

&nbs
p; “Hey, Jonah,” she said cheerfully as she snapped on a pair of rubber gloves. “I’m Hope.” It was better not to introduce herself as a doctor after Scott had scared the boy with his failed attempt to grasp the bead with the scary-looking pair of forceps. “I hear your nose is giving you trouble.”

  He sniffed and nodded.

  Hope smiled at his pale mother, pulled a rolling stool next to the exam table, and sat so her five-foot-nine frame wouldn’t look so intimidating to the small boy. She kept her hands on her thighs, not yet trying to touch him. “Tell me, Jonah, does your mommy have a vacuum cleaner?”

  He nodded, and his lip stopped quivering.

  She could tell that she had his attention now. “We have one here too. But it’s a very special one. Do you want to see it?”

  Cautiously, he nodded again.

  “Dr. Feltner, could you get me the suction catheter, please?”

  Without comment, Scott handed her a sterile catheter from one of the supply carts.

  She attached it to the suction machine, which she then turned on. “It tickles if you hold it to your arm.” She pushed up the long sleeve of the white T-shirt she wore beneath her scrubs and showed him on her own arm. “Do you want to try?”

  The boy glanced at his mother, who nodded and smiled. Hesitantly, he held out his arm.

  Hope gently held the soft tip of the catheter to his forearm.

  He held still for a moment before squirming away.

  “See? It doesn’t hurt, does it?”

  Jonah shook his head.

  “You know what else this special vacuum cleaner can do? It can suck the bead out of your nose. It might tickle a little, just like it did your arm, but it won’t hurt.”

  New tears formed in his eyes, and he clutched his mother’s hand.

  “Can you hold still for me for a second? And then you get to pick out a sticker from the nurses’ collection and go home with your mom. What do you say?”

  He watched her skeptically. “What kind of sticker?”

  Hope laughed. “I don’t know. The nurses won’t show them to me. They are only for brave little boys and girls.”

  He hesitated for a few seconds longer, then mumbled, “Okay.”

  Hope gestured for Scott to come a little closer. If the boy started to kick or flail his arms halfway through the procedure, she needed Scott to hold him down so she wouldn’t hurt him. Gently, she tipped up Jonah’s chin and shone a light up his nose.