Protecting What’s Mine: A Small Town Love Story

by Score, Lucy

  Mack shook her head. “I don’t fit in here.” There was more to the statement than a moment of doubt. And Linc was going to get to the bottom of it. Very carefully.

  “You feel just fine to me,” he said, drawing her an inch closer.

  “You make it very difficult to resist you.”

  “Why deprive us both?” he insisted and then felt lighter when she laughed. “Dreamy, you don’t have to try so hard.”

  “If the next words out of your mouth are ‘go with the flow,’ I might murder you right here,” she warned him.

  “Just consider my offer. That’s all I’m asking. I’ll literally show you a good time.”

  She snorted. “That’s the worst line ever. I expected more from you.”

  “I’m off my game. I’ve got a beautiful woman in my arms and a lot of dark fantasies in my head.”

  She bit her lip. “I’m not going to ask you about those fantasies,” she announced.

  “I’ll write ’em down for you. Maybe draw some illustrations.”

  Her watch vibrated against his shoulder. “I should go,” she said.

  “Got a hot date?”

  “It’s my get ready for bed alert. I’m trying to be healthy and make good choices, remember?”

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” he offered.

  “Why? Does the crime rate skyrocket in the parking lot after dark?” she teased.

  “You’d be surprised.”

  They paid their bill and said goodbye to Sophie before heading outside.

  “Feel free to be overcome with gratitude,” he said, opening her car door for her.

  “If I swoon, I have ammonia inhalants in my med bag,” she said with a slow smile designed to devastate.

  Linc wasn’t one to back down from a challenge or a guaranteed disaster. “I really want to kiss you right now, Mackenzie.”

  She cocked her head, considering. “You’re just going to keep chipping away at my defenses until there’s nothing left but rubble, aren’t you?”

  He boxed her in with his arms, careful not to touch her.

  “That’s the plan.”

  He watched her make the decision and reveled in it when she slowly, deliberately slid her arms around his neck. “It’s working,” she said on a sigh before pressing her lips to his. She tasted of wine and hot sauce and lust.

  His hands tightened on the door frame, still not touching her anywhere but that wild and wonderful mouth.

  She wasn’t delicate or dainty. She didn’t need to be coaxed. No, Mackenzie dove into the kiss like jumping off a cliff. With an aggressive surrender that drove him mad.

  And she gave him permission for more when she sagged against him, when she pressed that long, lean body against his. Then and only then did he finally let himself touch her.

  That mouth, sharp and sarcastic, worked its magic against his as she tasted him and let him savor her. Her teeth scraped over his bottom lip, and the world went black.

  A surprise. The continual surprise of Dr. Mackenzie O’Neil.

  His hands fit her waist, her hips, her back. Seeking out new curves with the intent to memorize. Crushing her to him, he heard and felt the sexy vibration of a whimper when she sidled up to his erection.

  “Oh, boy. Okay.” She slid her hands between them and pressed lightly against his chest. Enough to stop, not enough to part.

  Her lips were swollen and rosy. Her hair that he didn’t remember shoving his hand into was a disheveled tangle. Those high cheekbones wore the faint blush of excitement. And her eyes danced with arousal.

  No regrets.

  “That’s going to give me a lot to think about,” she said, pushing him back a millimeter.

  He could still taste her on his lips.

  “The offer still stands, Dreamy.” He reached down and clasped her hand. Those green eyes, so serious now, watched as he lifted it to his mouth.

  “No strings? No expectations? No complications?” she asked.

  “No-expectations, monogamous fun,” he said.

  She gave him a nod and slid behind the wheel. “Why not platonic fun?”

  “Honey, I think that kiss already answered that question.”

  She looked ahead through the windshield. “I’ll think about your offer.”

  So would he. He shut the door for her and tapped the roof with a hand that seconds before had coasted over her body.

  Mack drove off, leaving him watching her go.

  “This is gonna get complicated,” he sighed to himself.

  18

  Mack let herself in the back door of the clinic. She’d slept like crap last night. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt Linc’s mouth on hers and then spent the next several minutes fantasizing about having it everywhere else.

  She’d snap out of it, long enough to carefully weigh every pro and con of letting him get past first base. Then, as soon as her eyes closed again, the delicious cycle started fresh.

  She hoped to God the man had at least suffered through a cold shower.

  “Good morning, Dr. O’Neil,” Russell, wearing a violet Oxford shirt and eggplant tie under his white coat, greeted her at the front desk. His cognac-colored loafers gleamed under the sharp pleat of his trousers.

  He nudged a to-go cup in her direction. “Green tea with lemon.”

  Tuesday and Freida exchanged smug looks. The friendly balance of the office had been restored.

  “Thank you. Good morning,” she said, accepting the cup. “How was everyone’s night?”

  Small talk. See? She could do this. She could push aside dirty, naked thoughts about a sexy firefighter. She could dust off social skills.

  “I hit up a cycling class and then grabbed smoothies with my brother so he could tell me about his new boyfriend that he met at the gym. Then my boyfriend and I had a nice, quiet night in,” Tuesday said perkily.

  Mack felt relatively certain that “quiet night in” was the girl’s code for Netflix and chill.

  “My husband did the laundry. That beautiful, beautiful man,” Freida said dreamily and shot them all spirit fingers.

  Okay. So Tuesday and Freida got laid. Fine. People in relationships had sex.

  “My wife surprised me by coming home early for a long weekend,” Russell said. His tone was light, friendly even, but Mack saw the residual gleam of tasteful, polished, married sex in his brown eyes.

  Dammit.

  She imagined a tumbleweed rolling through her vagina.

  She’d already weighed the options and judged that cooling off her sex life for a while was essential to her New Mack Plan. Now all she could think of was Linc. And his mouth. And those tattoos on his chest and biceps. And how she could see that V on his torso when his shorts rode low.

  “How about you, Dr. Mack?” Russell asked.

  She opened her mouth, ready with the usual “Not much” and then realized she had done something.

  “I met Ellen at Remo’s for dinner and drinks.” She felt it was a good idea to leave out the fact that she’d slow danced with and then kissed the fire chief. There was probably a line of sharing too much too soon.

  Russell raised his eyebrows in approval. “How nice. I happened to run into Ellen this morning at the YMCA pool.”

  Surprised by the fierce surge of delight, Mack forced herself to take a slow sip of her tea. “Good for her,” she said. It was stupid to be excited that a patient had taken her advice for one day. The odds were Ellen would be microwaving potato skins and yelling at her husband by seven p.m. But, God, it still felt good. It still felt like a win.

  “Dr. Mack, I thought you’d like to sit in on an appointment or two with me today so you can get to know some of our patients a little better,” Russell suggested.

  “I’d like that,” she said, surprised even more by the fact that she meant it.

  * * *

  Russell’s bedside manner differed from Trish Dunnigan’s. He was smooth, urbane. His conversation made patients feel like they were attending a fancy cocktail party. He
wasn’t their friend, but he was their confidant.

  Mack perused patient histories and listened while he talked to Mr. Lewis about retirement, amusement park road trips with the grandkids, and, inevitably, cholesterol and fitness.

  “I’m busy. I’ve got a lot going on,” Mr. Lewis insisted. He was a round, cheerful guy with tattoos down both forearms and a quick, infectious laugh.

  She noted that he’d been treated for depression a few years ago. She also noted that Russell’s exam included a subtle patter of questions that seemed innocent but were designed to tease apart the current mental state. There was no, “Any side effects from your depression meds?”

  But there were questions about his wife—she’d recently decided they needed more quality time, and he had to choose between ballroom dance or cooking classes—and about his sleep, how he was feeling about being out of the workforce after a forty-year career.

  He was a jokester. He’d send Mack a wink at the end of every punch line, like she was the audience.

  They joked back and forth, with Mr. Lewis teasing Russell about his less-than-stellar racquetball performance at a local tournament.

  “At least I’m trying to get my ass out there,” Russell said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the exam room cabinet. “When’s the last time you even hit the links?”

  “Been about six weeks. My elbow’s been bugging me,” the patient confessed, rubbing a hand over his right elbow.

  “Excuses, excuses. Let’s have a look,” Russell said, scooting forward on the stool. He examined the joint and ran Mr. Lewis through a few motions. “This has all the hallmarks of good old-fashioned tennis elbow.”

  “Tennis?” The patient gave a derisive snort. “I’m a golfer! You sure this guy has a medical degree?” he asked Mack.

  “Golfer’s elbow then.”

  “I just figured it was sore.”

  “For six weeks? Come on, man,” Russell snorted. “Look. You just retired. I want these to be the best years of your life. We’re getting old, man. Things are going to start aching. We’re going to make weird noises getting out of chairs. But if something starts hurting, don’t stop using it. Come see me or Dr. O’Neil.”

  “I hate to make a fuss,” he complained, again rubbing a big palm over his elbow.

  “Taking care of yourself isn’t making a fuss,” Mack said. “It’s smart. And you seem like a smart guy.”

  “Well, I didn’t go to no medical school,” he cackled. “But I did okay.”

  * * *

  In the breakroom, Russell expertly dug into a colorful sushi roll with his chopsticks. Both of which he’d packed. “So, let’s debrief.”

  They’d seen three patients together that morning. He’d taken the lead on two of them. She’d fumbled through getting-to-know-you ice breakers during a case of bronchitis with a side of high cholesterol that wasn’t being taken seriously.

  Mack speared a piece of crisp lettuce with her fork. “You have a history. Even possibly friends.”

  He nodded, waited.

  “You balance the repertoire with authority. But you’re respectful about digging into personal details. ‘How’s your wife? You’ve been married how many years now?’” she repeated. “You were testing out his mental state with innocent questions while still giving him an opening to bring up any topics he needed to discuss.”

  “A fair assessment,” he announced, wiping his mouth on a linen napkin that he’d produced from his lunch bag. “Now, your turn.”

  She winced.

  “You can intubate a patient in mid-air, but ask you to discuss the weather or TV and you freeze up,” he told her.

  She bit off a sigh. “A fair assessment.”

  “It’s something to be improved, not embarrassed about.”

  “I shouldn’t be this bad at something.”

  Russell placed his chopsticks just so in the folded napkin.

  “There’s no shame in not knowing how to do something. There’s no shame in learning and trying. Shame never works as a motivator.”

  She wanted to argue. Shame had been a constant motivating factor in her life. She’d worked hard to distance herself from the things that needed distancing, to prove herself over and over again to be good enough.

  “By all accounts, Mackenzie, you are one of the most technically proficient doctors this county has ever seen. That’s a huge compliment. But it doesn’t excuse you from having to learn how to relate to patients. We both know you can be a hell of a lot more than just a competent set of hands in an emergency.”

  She wasn’t so sure she knew that.

  He waited a beat.

  “I’m processing,” she said. “I suppose your theory means that shame doesn’t work on patients either.”

  He clapped his hands—manicured nails, smooth palms—together. “Exactly.”

  “I can’t get Leroy Mahoney to return my calls,” she said. She thought of the messages she’d left. An urgent medical matter, she’d said. So it wasn’t necessarily calling him out for being negligent with his health, but it wasn’t a friendly open approach either.

  “His grandson plays Little League in the park by the high school a couple of nights a week. He’ll be there.”

  The personal touch. Ugh.

  She wished she’d picked up a few extra air shifts with the hospital. At least there she didn’t have to chase patients down for routine information. There she was in charge, in her element. Confident.

  “Things happen for a reason, Mackenzie,” Russell insisted. “You’re here for a reason.”

  Yeah, to babysit patients and kiss firefighters.

  “I guess we’ll see,” she said.

  “Now, tell me about slow dancing with the fire chief at Remo’s last night.”

  Mack’s fork hit the table.

  Freida and Tuesday poked their heads into the doorway. “About time you asked her,” Freida said.

  19

  The chopper rose smoothly into the early evening air at Sally’s behest, and Mack’s stomach gave its customary dip. Nerves and excitement hummed in her veins. Things had been too quiet the past few days, giving her entirely too much time to think about that kiss.

  Which led to her thinking about all of the other things that kiss could lead to. Which led to her making the effort to dig her vibrator out of a moving box.

  A good trauma patient was exactly what she needed to clear her head and stop thinking about Chief Reed…and his very talented mouth. And his equally impressive cock.

  But now she had a life to save. Female. Mid-twenties. Backroad altercation with a tree. Head trauma. They’d be there in two minutes, landing in a cow pasture with permission from the farmer.

  While her fingers worked their way through supplies and equipment—checking and double-checking—Mack let her mind settle. It ran through scenarios and protocols. Training, education, and experience molded together into instinct.

  Here, eighteen hundred feet in the air, she was confident in her abilities and herself. Much more so than in the little exam room staring down a case of sinusitis and getting-to-know-yous.

  “EMTs say there’s some trouble on the ground. Belligerent, drunk passenger. They’re trying to get the patient on a spine board,” Sally warned matter-of-factly through the headset.

  Mack glanced at Bubba. His hulking frame was crammed in the corner, triple-checking the plasma inventory. “You ever work as a bouncer, Bubba?” she asked him.

  “Always wanted to.”

  “This might be your chance if the guys on the ground need a hand.”

  “Yippie-ki-yay.”

  * * *

  They were on the ground less than a minute later in a grassy green pasture. The land’s inhabitants, a dozen cows, crowded against the pretty-as-a-picture white fence several hundred yards away from the flying invader.

  Mack could see the rescue vehicles and mangled wreckage of a pickup truck wrapped around the stalwart base of an oak tree on the other side of the country road.

 
; “Let’s give ’em a hand,” she said, grabbing her med kit.

  She and Bubba climbed down and ran low across the grass. They took the four feet of fence in stride. Mack scrambled over it like she was back in basic training. Bubba hopped it like a cowboy. Together, they made a beeline for the crowd of paramedics crouched around a prone victim.

  Almost every accident scene had the same players. The fire department was there working on clean-up. Witnesses, most likely the farmer’s family, clustered around a big, dusty truck in the field near the scene. A handful of other spectators out for an evening cruise were pulled off on the side of the road watching. A police cruiser was just pulling up to the scene.

  And there was Linc. He was in gear and set up as incident command, throwing her a smug smile and a little salute.

  She nodded her acknowledgement and elbowed her way into the circle. They were up against a low guard rail. On the other side, the road gave way to a steep, ten-foot drop-off down to a creek.

  “What have we got, guys?”

  “Female. Twenty-five. Head versus steering wheel. Unconscious. Possible neck and spine injuries. Witnesses say the idiot pulled her out of the car.”

  “Fuck.” Mack was succinct.

  “Yep,” the female paramedic on her right agreed.

  “Get off my girlfriend!” The man, still practically a kid, was stinking drunk…and quite possibly high on something. He was missing a canine tooth and had inch-wide holes in his ear lobes. His ball cap had seen better days fifteen years ago. Skinny and mean.

  Mack had dealt with enough of his type to know that addressing him wasn’t worth it.

  He tried to push his way into the circle, but Bubba hauled him back out. One of Linc’s crew stepped in to help.

  “Stay over there, man. The sheriff needs a word,” Bubba said, pointing at Sheriff Ty Adler as the man approached.

  “Fuck!” the drunk screamed, unhinged. “Fuck me!”

  Mack ignored him. They ran through the patient’s vitals while stemming the flow of blood from her head wound. She had blonde hair turning pink at the roots.