No Good Doctor

by Nicole Snow

  I’m not sure what’s racing faster – my mind or my heart.

  Because the more I think about it, the more it frightens and thrills me, wondering what Gray freaking Caldwell would do to protect someone like me, if push came to shove.

  It’s not long before the hummingbird is splinted and safely settled in an artificial nest in a tiny cage.

  We’ve set up a special dropper of sugar water with a little honey mixed in close by. Just so it doesn’t have to go far to feed.

  I’ve given it a very mild sedative, enough so it won’t try to fly when it’s splinted. Hopefully by the time the sedative wears off, it’ll realize it’s no longer in pain and will calm down and wait until it heals. It needs time, plus a little peace and quiet.

  Now for the bad news: it’s going to have to be watched around the clock, and have its “nectar” constantly refilled. It’s a full-time job, which isn’t easy when we’ve got other creatures to care for.

  “Doc?” I ask, reaching in to stroke my fingertip over the brilliant, reflective emerald facets of the hummingbird’s head. “What are we going to do with this little guy?”

  He thinks for a long moment, silent as he strips his gloves off with a distant, thoughtful frown. “Bring the cage.”

  I blink, looking up at him. “Huh? Where are you going?”

  “We,” he says firmly. “I need you to hold the cage steady in the truck.” He tosses his head toward the door, fishing in his pocket for his keys. “Let’s go.”

  I don’t even know what’s happening. It shouldn’t shiver me right down to my core when he’s so demanding, so in control, so spontaneous.

  But Lord help me, it does.

  So I carefully pick up the hummingbird’s cage, careful not to jostle it, and turn to follow Doc from The Menagerie without even questioning again just where it is we’re going.

  I get my answer soon anyway, after a brief drive beneath the morning sun, the light reflecting off the highway and silence between us in the warm cabin of the truck. The whole mood feels so intense it’s like it has weight, substance.

  Like I can wrap myself in it, and it’s strange and hot and comforting, but also so new it makes my entire body feel far too sensitive to the slightest rush of air bringing Doc closer. Like when he changes gears or drapes an arm across the back of the seat, his worn fingers dangling so dangerously, deliciously close to the nape of my neck.

  Gawd.

  I’m surprised, though, when he pulls into the lane leading to the Charming Inn.

  Wait. Is he dropping me at home?

  No, it turns out.

  We’re here to see Ms. Wilma.

  I only met the woman once, when I was first checking in. From what I understand, she’s the former owner of the inn and Warren’s grandmother, but since she’s handed over a lot of control to Warren and Haley, she mostly stays off stage in her old world.

  She struck me as stately and warm then. The impression remains now as she reaches out to grip both of Doc’s hands in a firm, friendly, welcoming grasp before offering me a bright-eyed, thoughtful smile as she leans in to peer at the wounded hummingbird.

  “Now what do we have here, dearie?” she asks, then straightens, beckoning to us. “Come, come inside. It’s getting too warm to be standing out on the porch. You can tell me about our new friend over cold lemonade.”

  A bit wide-eyed, I follow her and Doc into the elegant shadows and stately hallways of the main house. Most of it was an old hotel once, I think, but there’s a part in the back for family quarters.

  I’ve never been back there in my few short weeks here, and I can’t help but feel a touch out of place as she ushers us into the kitchen and settles us down at a doily-draped kitchen table.

  It’s some comfort that Doc looks just as stiff and awkward as I feel. I catch his eye as I set the hummingbird’s cage down, flashing him a little secret smile.

  And for half a second, he smiles back. And my heart stops. And I can feel my cheeks ignite like the sun.

  Then Ms. Wilma serves us these tall, condensation-beaded glasses of lemonade, and settling down next to me, folds her prim hands on the table. She peers in, focusing on the quiet, drowsing hummingbird. That’s the sedative working – birds usually don’t sleep during the day, which is why most pet owners cover over their cages with a heavy cloth to fool them into thinking it’s night when they want birds to sleep.

  Wilma makes a little cooing sound, curling her fingertip against the wire of the cage.

  “Now,” she says. “What happened to this pretty little darling?”

  I glance at Doc, but he’s silent – doing that thing again where he lets me take the lead.

  I clear my throat, and say, “We’re not sure. He was brought in with a broken wing, but...we just don’t have the resources to watch him full time. He’s going to need to be watched constantly, and while it’s okay to refill his dropper, sometimes he’ll need to be manually fed.”

  “And the only one around with enough time on her hands is a retired old woman who spends all her days in her garden, is that it?” Ms. Wilma asks slyly, and I flush.

  “Oh, no. I didn’t, I don’t mean—”

  “I do,” Doc says. “Ma’am, I’m after a favor. Would you mind looking after him until he recovers? His wing should heal naturally on its own as long as it’s properly splinted and immobilized.”

  “Look at him, still calling me ma’am after all these years,” Ms. Wilma teases, leaning closer to me. “That’s how you know you’ve got a proper gentleman. Even if I do wonder at his manners. The first time he brings a girl around, and he doesn’t even introduce us properly!”

  Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

  That flush in my cheeks roars so hot it’s like I’ve got dual suns stuck to my face, and it must be the heat that melts my tongue. “No, I mean, I’m not—I don’t—he’s...”

  “She’s my employee, Ms. Wilma. My new vet tech,” Doc blurts out quickly, his eyes a little too wide. “And I believe you know that!”

  “Yes, yes, we’ve met!” I throw in, sputtering helplessly. “When I first rented the place.”

  She just watches us with that knowing little smile, and that’s when it hits me. So obvious in hindsight I could pull my own hair out.

  She’s baiting us.

  Probably because she wants to see how we react to the idea of being more than just boss and employee. And we just took it all hook, line, and sinker.

  I make an exasperated half-hiss. “Ms. Wilma!”

  She bursts into soft, delighted laughter. “Oh, don’t look so scandalized. Let an old woman have her fun. I do like to get this one riled up. He never, ever smiles.” She clucks her tongue at a glowering, almost sullen Doc, and mock whispers conspiratorially to me. “He’s a good one, you know. He just doesn’t want to admit it. You be careful and snatch him up before one of those greedy guts gets their claws into him first.”

  “Ms. Wilma!” I gasp, and then I can’t stand it anymore – I press my face into my hands.

  It’s the only hiding place I’ve got, and I don’t want to see if Doc’s even looking at me right now. Let alone the look on his face.

  Just imagining it already has my stomach swarming with butterflies, and I just...I can’t. I’m not ready for this torture, even if it seems a little familiar. She’s as bad as my mother.

  Doc interrupts sternly. “So does this mean you’ll be able to care for the bird, ma’am?”

  “Oh, tosh,” she says. “Of course! I’ve a million of these lovely boys and girls in my atrium and plenty of food. I’ll make him right at home and nurse him back to health.”

  “Thank you,” he says, and I peek over my fingers nervously.

  “Thanks!” I manage, more like a squeak than a real word.

  Ms. Wilma gives me one of those long, measuring looks that makes me feel like she can see the weight of my soul, then smiles kindly and pats my arm. “Forgive my teasing. With Warren married off and giving me great-grandchildren, I need someone new to me
ddle with.”

  I smile weakly. “It’s fine,” I manage in a trailing mumble.

  It’s so not fine.

  Not when I’ve tried like hell to keep my mind out of Doc’s gutter, and it’s not helping when everyone keeps pushing me back in.

  But I manage to fumble my way through a few more pleasantries, and thankfully Ms. Wilma leaves me alone. She shifts, asking Doc about his practice and other little things that make me realize he’s been part of this town for a long time.

  Funny. He acts like he’s a stranger to it, like he doesn’t belong here, but I think he’s the only one who thinks that way.

  Finally, when our lemonades are just yellow-tinted ice cubes in the bottom of our glasses, we leave the hummingbird with Ms. Wilma Ford and head out into the morning sunlight. Standing on the porch of Charming Inn, I blow out a sigh and rest my hands on my hips.

  “Well,” I say, “that was something.”

  He makes a soft tsk sound under his breath. “Some people seem to grow more immature with age.”

  I grin. “Hasn’t helped you, old man.”

  A slit-eyed, not entirely serious look slides toward me. “Impudent child.”

  Somehow, that takes the wind out of my sails.

  I know there’s fifteen years’ difference between us, but I wonder. Does he really just see me like a child?

  I bite my lip, folding my arms over my chest and look away, toward the gorgeous cliff drop-off that I hear gave Heart’s Edge its name thanks to its curving shape. There’s nothing like pretty scenery for cover while I gather my thoughts.

  “Listen,” I murmur. “So I was checking during morning prep, and noticed we don’t have any scheduled appointments today. Pam can page us for a walk-in, right?”

  He gives me a strange look. “Why? What’re you suggesting?”

  “Playing hooky for a little bit.” I offer a faint smile. “You work in that clinic six to seven days a week. When was your last real day off?”

  “I’m the only veterinarian in town, Ember. Long weeks come with the territory.”

  “And this isn’t that big a town, Doc. There can’t be sick animals every single day of the week, and half the people we see are just faking it so they can get at you. And if anyone really needs you, you’re a phone call and a mile’s drive away,” I point out. “I mean, we’re already here. Come hang out at my place for a bit. Enjoy the view from somewhere besides your office.”

  I fully expect him to say no.

  He’s so guarded. Even if sometimes I wonder at those long, heated looks he gives me, the way his hand lingered on mine when he’d held it, so many things that say he might just see me as a woman and not just a bratty young employee to mentor, I shouldn’t get ideas.

  I can’t really fool myself into thinking he might actually be interested in me.

  He sighs, tilting his head back, looking up at the sun. The heated rays wash over his face, drawing out every weathered line, every suntanned slope, every subtle scar.

  I can’t help lingering on his hands, too.

  Those scarred marks, deep lines and punctures promising a mystery. What happened to him there?

  Would Peters and that Fuchsia lady know?

  “One hour, Ember,” he says. “One damn hour, and then we go right back to work.”

  I brighten. I can’t help myself. It’s hard not to be happy. More and more, it feels like he’s actually choosing to spend time around me of his own free will. And if we start to do that, spend a little time talking, laughing together, it could...oh.

  Oh, no.

  I bite my bottom lip, wondering. When exactly did I fall so head over heels for this man? He’s still nothing but a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in one frustrating gorgeous shell.

  I tamp down my excitement, but smile, start to reach for his hand, then stop myself, taking a few skipping steps backward down the porch steps. “Come on, then. My cabin’s this way.”

  We step down onto the cute little worn dirt trails that meander through the grounds to the vacation cabins, following the pathway to mine. It used to be a duplex, I guess, but Haley told me last summer they turned the central wall into half-walls and partitions to convert it to a family unit.

  Lucky me, it’s all mine. A quiet, two-bedroom place with rustic wooden slats and massive floor-to-ceiling windows that let in plenty of light, a lovely view, and understated, comfortable earth-toned furniture.

  I haven’t done much to personalize it, though, other than tossing out a few personal effects here and there. For now, I’ve settled in and it’s just cozy. Private. Peaceful.

  And it’s nice to have Doc in what’s essentially my space, my first real guest besides Mom, as I unlock the door and let us both inside.

  He glances around briefly in a polite, unobtrusive way. I offer a smile. “You can sit wherever you want. Do you want a drink? Coffee? Did you have time for breakfast?”

  He levers his tall frame down to settle on the couch with powerful thighs casually spread. It makes me think of how he looks behind the wheel of his truck, the cold formality of the lab coat stripped away, leaving this rugged mountain man in well-worn jeans, his narrow hips slouched forward, broad shoulders leaning back against the couch seat.

  “You don’t have to treat me like formal company, Ember. It’s fine to just relax.”

  “It’s not really formal, just...you know, wanting you to be comfortable and all.” I shrug, ducking my head sheepishly. “And you look like the kind of man who always remembers coffee and forgets breakfast.”

  He arches both brows with a self-mocking cant of his head. “Depends on what you’re calling breakfast.”

  “Coffee doesn’t count. House rule.”

  That actually gets a burst of genuine laughter from him, startled and rumbling so deep, my chest tightens. “Am I that damn obvious?”

  I bite my lip on a smile. “Do you like French toast?”

  “I can’t say I’ve had it in long enough to remember.”

  “Then let’s find out!”

  I’m already digging through the fridge, pulling out eggs, milk, butter. I don’t do that lazy French toast where it’s just buttered up bread with cinnamon and sugar sprinkled on top. My French toast goes all out, all the flipping way to Paris and home again.

  Today, we’re gonna do this right.

  He watches me with curious interest as I attack the pantry, too, lining up everything I need on the counter and the stove. “Would you like a little help?”

  I pause, flicking him a startled look. “French toast is kind of a one-person job, unless you want to whisk eggs?”

  “I think I could manage that without setting the kitchen on fire.”

  I just hold up a fork, raising both brows. “Be my guest.”

  He rises off the couch and moves forward. Then it’s just me and his body heat in the kitchen, walled in by the L-shaped counter, moving around each other with an ease that’s new and familiar.

  It reminds me how we work together at the office, the way we always seem to know where the other person is, always gliding smoothly in tandem.

  He works hard on whisking the eggs, and I start mixing together granulated sugar and cinnamon, setting aside a separate tin of powdered sugar while I keep an eye on the butter melting slowly in the pan. When it’s time, I take one bowl of whisked raw egg from him and leave him to start on another, nearly glowing with warmth when our hands brush as he hands over the bowl.

  And Gray doesn’t pull away like he’s just touched something forbidden, like he has in the past.

  Oh, mama.

  We’re quiet the entire time, but it’s a comfy quiet. The kind that says good vibes, good waves, and lots of good looks.

  As I start dipping slices of bread in the egg batter and laying them in the skillet to sizzle, though, I glance over at him uncertainly.

  “So is she really that bad?”

  He glances up from cracking eggs. “Who?”

  “That woman who keeps coming around. Fuchsia.�
��

  His hand clenches so suddenly he crushes the egg in his palm, fragments falling into the bowl like dust. Cursing, he shakes his hand off, and with an apologetic wince, I rip off a paper towel and offer it to him.

  “Sorry,” I mutter. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  He scrubs his hand off, then moves to the sink and turns the water on, pumping soap into his palm. “Why are we talking about her, anyway?” he asks tightly. “I thought you wanted to relax.”

  Ouch, he’s right. And I’m busted, my curiosity running over my inner cat.

  “Well, you seemed pretty mad to see her,” I whisper cautiously, keeping one eye on him, one on the skillet, my brows wrinkling. “But she was nice enough to bring the hummingbird in for treatment. Someone who’d do that can’t be all bad...right?”

  “For all either of us knows, she crushed that poor hummer beneath her heel just to have something to taunt us with.”

  I wince; the very idea makes my heart hurt. “You’re serious. But how do you know someone so cruel, then?”

  “Does it matter, Ember?”

  “When you’re threatening her to protect me...maybe a little.” I barely remember to flip the French toast in the pan so it can cook easily – moving the spatula around absently, its tantalizing scent rising between us, mocking the suddenly tense air. “What could she do that I’d need protecting from, Gray?”

  He says nothing for several long seconds as he dumps out the shell-filled bowl of eggs in the garbage disposal and rinses it, then returns to the counter to crack open another one.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says, his dark eyes on his hands, gaze shuttered. Shielded. It’s like a transformation. That moment when I know I’m dealing with Doc, my boss, not Gray, the man. “I’ll handle it, trust me. She won’t fucking touch you. Ever.”

  My lips tremble a little. I don’t even know what to say.

  There’s a quiet vehemence every time he mentions her that drives home just how serious this is. That worries me. Also makes me realize my instincts about that woman were right.

  It’s no comfort. I was right to be afraid, alone with her.

  Maybe I should’ve called the police, even after Doc showed up.