Sneak Peek

Here’s a sneak peek into Dr. Greyson! Read more about the book here.

One

Greyson

I stand at the nurses’ station, flipping through a chart. The morning’s been dragging its feet like molasses in winter. After my shift, I’m driving to Vancouver to catch a ferry to Victoria. As I look around, I see a queasy teen clutching a bucket nearby, a victim of last night’s expired takeout. Across the room, a toddler’s screech pierces the air—ear infection, no doubt.

My phone is full of unread messages in the family chat. I scan through them quickly. They’re mostly between my father and younger sister, Tarryn, arguing over the effect of last year’s devastating forest fire that was too close, and the late frost last week. Tarryn says the pinot grapes might not survive. Dad insists they will.

I scroll through, noting the tension in Tarryn’s clipped responses. Elise, her best friend and our vintner’s daughter, wouldn’t let her make that call lightly. She’s preparing to take over when her father retires. The thought nags at me. If the grapes don’t bounce back, what does that mean for the vineyard? For our family’s legacy?

I shove the phone back into my pocket, the weight of responsibility lingering. Another family burden I don’t have time to unpack.

“Greyson,” calls Vivian Daniels, a nurse in the emergency room, snapping me from my thoughts with her velvety voice. “You’re looking particularly sharp today.” She leans against the counter, one eyebrow cocked playfully. I glance over the rims of my glasses, catching the playful twinkle in her eye.

Vivian and I tangled in the sheets ages ago—a mistake wrapped in tequila and poor judgment—but that ship has long sailed. I don’t do encores, a rule that’s kept my life uncomplicated.

“Thanks, Vivian. I’m off to Victoria this afternoon for the MedTalks conference.”

“That’s right. You’re speaking there. Beckett said it was a big deal.”

Beckett is my younger brother and a cardiologist here in the hospital. He was excited when I was asked to share my experiences in emergency medicine to clinicians from around the world.

I’m about to return to endless paperwork when the intercom crackles to life.

“Greyson, we’ve got a bus en route,” the nurse in charge announces. “Three patients, collision with farm equipment over at Dempsey Vineyards.”

I fight the urge to curse. Dempsey. The name hits like a splinter under my skin, sharp and irritating. Memories of the last time we stood toe-to-toe at a wine council meeting flash through my mind—Dad’s voice rising, mine trying to mediate, and old man Dempsey walking out in a huff. I shove it aside.

There’s no room for grudges here. These are lives in my hands, and no family feud will stop me from giving them everything I’ve got. Still, the name lingers like the bitter aftertaste of bad wine.

Vivian’s eyes meet mine, flirtation instantly replaced with professional resolve. No more stolen moments or playful banter. This is where we excel, where every second counts.

“Looks like our break is over,” she says, her tone all business now.

“Wouldn’t want it any other way,” I reply.

I slip into a paper gown, its crinkle a prelude to urgency. With Vivian beside me, the team converges around us, a swarm of focused energy ready to combat the chaos that’s about to burst through our doors.

“Let’s go,” I murmur, and we fall into the rhythm of preparation. Gloves snap against wrists, and my nerves crackle, an electric current of anticipation running through my veins. I hear the wail of the approaching ambulance, a siren song for the wounded.

The bay doors fly open with a bang, and we push forward, ready to receive. “What’ve you got?” I call, my voice cutting through the din.

Warren Sweeny, EMT and familiar face in times of crisis, emerges from the back of the ambulance. A gurney rattles out. “Thirty-seven-year-old male,” Warren reports. “Hit by a dirt bike out in the vineyard. BP is ninety over sixty. Pulse one-ten.” Even as he speaks, my eyes take in the scene—the pallor of the patient’s skin, the crimson that stains the gurney sheets.

“Head trauma,” Warren continues, pointing to a swath of bandages attempting to hold back the bleeding. “Looks like a possible concussion.”

“Got it.” My response is automatic, clinical. “On it, Warren.” I motion to Will Stewart, one of our new doctors. “Take the head trauma,” I instruct, meeting his steady gaze. He nods, all business, and wheels the man away to bay four with a CT without hesitation. He’ll quickly assess for serious brain injuries like bleeding or skull fractures.

Will nods, all business, and wheels the man away to CT, leaving blood droplets on the shining floor.

“Let’s keep moving, people,” I urge, scrubbing the sight from my mind. There’s more to be done, more lives hanging in the balance. The dance of emergency medicine never stops, it only changes tempo.

The ambulance bay doors shudder open again, and Warren rolls in another gurney. This one holds a kid barely into his teens, his body slack but face oddly animated. “Fourteen-year-old male,” Warren barks over the clamor of the ED. “On the dirt bike. BP one-forty over one-ninety.”

“Jesus, that’s high,” I mutter, inspecting the boy as we snip away the protective pads. The unmistakable flush of adrenaline—or something more illicit—paints his cheeks a vivid rouge and his eyes dilated. “Matthew Dempsey, right?” I lean in, trying to pierce the haze of his intoxication with my gaze.

He flails an arm, nearly clipping my jaw. “Nah, man, I ain’t done nothing.”

“Sure.” My voice is flat, unconvinced. “Bloods, tox screen, and keep Narcan on hand.” As I rattle off orders, he snickers, lost in whatever chemical joyride he’s on. I don’t have time for this.

Regina Prince strides over, her short frame practically buzzing with energy. Don’t let her size fool you—she’s the kind of doctor who commands respect from the moment she opens her mouth. ‘Saline, now,’ she barks, her tone sharp but calming, a paradox I’ve never been able to figure out. The kid flinches at her efficiency, his bravado cracking. Good. Regina will handle him, no matter what he’s on.

“His parents?” I ask, already pivoting to the next crisis.

“Right behind us,” someone assures me.

I leave Matthew in Regina’s capable hands and turn to find Warren gesturing helplessly towards a young woman cradling her midsection. Josie Dempsey—her features twisted in pain. “She’s hypotensive, same as the first guy,” Warren says. “Dazed and confused after the collision.”

“Josie, talk to me,” I say, easing her onto a gurney. “Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere,” she breathes, her voice trembling as her hands hover protectively over her abdomen. “It was just—so fast. Enrico’s mower came out of nowhere, and then Matthew on the dirt bike…” She trails off, wincing as the pain overtakes her words. Her hands clench the gurney rails. “I didn’t even see Matthew.”

The frustration in her voice is tinged with fear, and I quickly order Demerol to take the edge off, knowing we’re only just beginning. Inspecting her, dread coils in my stomach—the way her abdomen distends isn’t right. I lean down. “Josie? Are you pregnant?”

“God, no.” She moans. “Unless it’s immaculate conception.”

I smile at her reply, but I can see she’s scared and hurting. She chokes back a sob as we cut through her T-shirt.

“This was my favorite concert.”

“Coldplay will be around again,” I assure her, attempting a smile. I know distraction is feeble comfort when fear has its claws sunk deep.

The needle I’m handed feels like lead in my grip, but I wield it deftly, pulling fluid from her belly. It’s blood—too much of it. Josie’s eyes roll back, her body surrendering to unconsciousness.

“Ana!” My shout pierces the clamor, summoning the surgeon on call. Dr. Ana Williams appears, calm and unflinching despite the blood already streaking her scrubs.

As she whisks Josie away to surgery, I take a moment to breathe. The scent of antiseptic and blood clings to the air, and the adrenaline in my veins feels both familiar and suffocating.

The name Dempsey rings in my ears. I can’t help but wonder if this surgery will save her—or become another mark in our families’ long history of shared tragedies. “Dammit,” I whisper to no one. There’s no time to dwell. I’ve got more patients to see.

Blood speckles my scrubs, and the pulse of the emergency department beats around me. I take one final look at the frenzy, feeling the weight of responsibility on my shoulders. So much to do and I need to get on the road.

“Greyson, when are you off?” my nurse, Linda, asks, her eyes scanning for the next crisis even as she speaks to me.

I flick my wrist, the watch face glinting under harsh fluorescent lights. “Three hours ago,” I admit with a rueful chuckle.

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Go,” she urges, already looking past me to the next task at hand. “Before we get another wave of patients.”

“Will do,” I promise. “And hey, I’ll grab you those chocolates from Victoria if I have a chance.” Her grin is brief but genuine. I’ve committed her favorite treat to memory.

“Thanks, Greyson. Have fun at the conference,” she calls, her attention already back to the fray. “Knock ‘em dead with your talk.”

A nod and a half wave are all I manage before I pivot on my heel, striding to the exit. The hot spray of the hospital’s staff shower does little to wash away the day.

By the time I’m slipping into fresh clothes, the weight of what I’m leaving behind presses on me. Josie’s pale face, the teenager’s bloodshot eyes, Dad’s terse messages—it’s all there, a quiet storm in the background of my thoughts. I push it aside.

My ten-year-old Range Rover waits patiently in the parking lot like an old friend. The drive to Victoria will be a welcome escape. Five hours without interruption or emergencies.

As the hospital fades in my rearview mirror, I feel a strange twinge of guilt—a whisper of everything I’m trying to leave behind for a few days in Victoria. But it’s fleeting, gone with the first rush of open air through the window. No need to worry about that now, I tell myself. Right now, all I’ll focus on is getting through this drive and finding a place where nothing feels like it’s waiting for me.