Impossible by Nancy Werlin Page A

Garciaparra."
    Lucy snorted.
    Zach grinned. And even though Lucy was not looking u him, she knew, because when somebody grins and your cheek is pressed against their chest, you can feel the smile light there in their body. Right in the muscle movement.
    Suddenly Lucy felt so much better that she was amazed. "Yeah. Get back to me on that theory when you have it a little more polished. But anyway, I was wondering about Garciaparra."
    "What about Nomar?"
    "You keep this shirt because you're still a fan?"
    "Oh, yeah," said Zach. "I'm not just loyal to the current Red Sox. The history's important. Also, when I was ten, I thought Nomar was, like, God. So I have nostalgia." He paused. "I remember buying this shirt. I got another one with it too, a Yaz shirt. I don't know what happened to it. I keep meaning to replace it. What's funny is that Yaz meant less to me than Nomar at the time, but now, it might be the reverse. The history thing. You don't get that when you're ten. That's when you only care about the current team."
    Yaz. The name plunked again on that same faraway chord in Lucy's memory. Zach and his Red Sox shirts.
    She let herself rest in Zach's arms for a long minute more. Then she pushed herself away. Zach let her go.
    And now Lucy felt slightly weird. Having hugged Zach. Having been hugged, and held for so long.
    She looked at the sink. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. And then she hiccupped.
    Zach pounded her on the back. "Okay?"
    "Yes." At last she could look at him, and she did, a little shyly. He looked the same as ever, Zach. Or no. No, he didn't. He actually had changed physically since the last time Lucy had taken a good, long look.
    He was taller, of course. She had already realized that. And he had bigger shoulders. And a chest. She had just felt them. Been held against them.
    And this was strange and new: The veins on the back of Zach's hands stood out now, and ran up his forearms, which were smooth and, well, shapely.
    Lucy looked up, into the safety of Zach's familiar face. But had his cheekbones always stood out that way? Had she ever really noticed before how preposterously long his eyelashes were, or how blue his eyes? It wasn't fair that a boy—a man—had those gorgeous eyes. Those lashes. They were just a couple of shades darker than his sandy blond hair—
    Lucy turned away abruptly. But not before she was suddenly aware that Zach was looking at her, too.
     

CHAPTER 22
    "Soledad?" It was Padraig Seeley, rapping on the open door of Soledad's office at the hospital. "Have you got a minute?"
    Soledad looked up from her computer, where she was figuring out the logistics for three prenatal walk-in clinics. She didn't really have a minute. But the at-work well-being of her direct reports, like Padraig Seeley, was her job too. Plus, Padraig was always such a pleasure to talk to. Funny how she only ever remembered that in his presence.
    "Of course, Padraig. Come on in."
    Padraig was already in, closing the door behind him. He took the chair across from Soledad's desk, yanked it back, and stretched out his long legs comfortably.
    "I'm sorry to have been so scarce lately," Soledad apologized. "But I've read your email reports, and your new teen father program is going well. Is there a problem that you wanted to discuss?"
    "No. I have no problems. To tell you the truth, Soledad, I'm concerned about you. I just thought I'd check that all's well."
    Soledad smiled. "Oh. That's nice. Thank you. I'm fine. Everything's fine."
    Padraig quirked a sympathetic eyebrow. "What about at home? Are Leo and Lucinda both all right? Did Lucinda at least have a good time at the dance? After everything that happened with that madwoman—Lucinda's birth mother—I hope so."
    Normally, Soledad would have been appalled at the direct questions. She rarely talked about her personal life at work. And with the exception of her friend Jacqueline, who was reliably discreet when asked to be so, nobody at the hospital knew what