She crossed her arms looking me up and down with pursed lips.
“That’s what I thought.” I stepped into her space. Even standing there having our first argument about something neither one of us intentionally did, she was irresistible. The way her arched brows furrowed at me as she tightened her full lips. The way her toe tapped lightly on the ground. The way she tried so damn hard to be mad at me.
“Why’d you pretend like you didn’t know me today?” she asked. “Do you have any idea how that made me feel?”
“What was I supposed to do? My nurse was right there.”
Her face softened.
I reached out gripping her waist and pulling her toward me hoping she’d calm down. I’d been told I had a calming effect on people before.
“We have to figure this out,” I whispered as I cupped her sweet face with my hand. “We can’t have this both ways.”
“Why not?” she said. “You’re the best neurosurgeon in the city. I don’t want anyone else. I waited a month to get in to see you.”
I smiled. “I’ll find someone to do the surgery, okay?”
“So I’m having surgery,” she said. “For sure.”
I nodded. “As your doctor at the present moment, I’m going to recommend it. But we’ll have to discuss it tomorrow when you come see me.”
She pressed her face against my chest closing her eyes and breathing me in. “Please fix me, okay?”
“I will. I promise.”
11
SOPHIE
“I have to leave around three today for an appointment,” I said to Mia Tuesday morning as I hung my coat on the back of her office door.
She scrunched her face in worry. “Didn’t you go yesterday?”
“Yeah,” I sighed, biting my lip and trying to stifle a smile. “So, you know Jamison?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s kind of a doctor.”
“What do you mean, ‘kind of a doctor?’”
“You know that specialist I’d been waiting a month to get into see? Dr. Garner? That’s… him.”
Mia stood up from her desk, throwing her pencil down as her jaw hung half-open. “You’re kidding me.”
“Nope.”
The front door chimed interrupting our little talk.
“I’ll get it,” I offered, jetting up to the front of the store and returning ten minutes later.
“So, what now?” Mia asked as she tied a paint-stained apron around her waist. “Are you still going to see him? Doctors can’t date their patients, right?”
“We’re still trying to figure things out,” I said. “We were both in shock yesterday. He pretended like he didn’t even know me.”
“Understandable. I mean, can you imagine what would happen if someone found out? All that schooling, his life’s work. It could be destroyed in an instant if something happened between you two.”
“What would happen?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he pisses you off, and you run to his boss and say he touched you inappropriately, or…”
“Mia.” I crossed my arms. “You watch way too much TV. I’m not like that. You know that.”
She drew in a long breath. “I’m just saying I don’t want to see you get hurt. He has to protect his career. He might decide he can’t see you anymore. You need to be prepared.”
I tucked my head down. “He did say we couldn’t have it both ways.”
“See?” Mia breezed past me to straighten up the paintbrushes on the shelf. “That was bugging me.”
I stood back watching her sort the brushes. She’d been all about cleaning and organizing lately, and I suspected it had to do with me, providing a distraction from the reality of my situation. We’d known each other since college, and we’d always been each other’s rock. The interdependent, symbiotic relationship we had wasn’t just a way of life, it was a way of survival.
“Let me ask you this.” Mia turned to me. “Would you rather date him and have a different doctor? Or would you rather have him as your doctor and not date him?”
I’d laid awake in bed the night before asking myself that same question. The easiest thing to do would be to cut our losses and go our separate ways. But I knew myself. I knew the butterflies would kick in every time I saw him, and I’d have to contain my excitement every time I’d go to the hospital for an appointment. I’d have to pretend I wasn’t still wildly attracted to him. I’d have to forget what it felt like having him between my thighs in the middle of the night. I’d have to forget what he tasted like or how soft his hair was through my fingers and the way he made me forget my name in his presence.
But if I stayed with him and found another doctor, they wouldn’t be half as good as he was. After my appointment yesterday, I ran home and Googled him. Prolific and renowned didn’t even begin to describe him. He had graduated at the top of his med school class at Johns Hopkins, studied under countless, prominent neurosurgeons in the country, and had a patented, innovative brain surgery technique with a name I could hardly begin to pronounce. In the city of Manhattan, Dr. Jamison Garner was the top neurosurgeon. No question.
“I don’t know, Mia,” I sighed, not wanting to think about it but knowing I had no choice. I had to decide. He had to decide, too. “I don’t want him to risk his career for me. I can’t ask him to do that.”
My life was a sea of chaos at times, and Jamison was quickly becoming the rock that stood firm as the raging waters passed around him. He was my distraction. He was my calm. I couldn’t just go out and get another Jamison.
“I’m going to take inventory,” I announced, heading to the back room.
“Oh, Sophie, I was going to ask you.” Mia placed a finger cheekily in the corner of her mouth. “Can you work late tonight? I sort of have a date.”
“You have a date?” My jaw nearly fell clean off. Mia talked to guys, but she never, ever dated. That word was hardly in her vocabulary. She’d been hurt badly by her college boyfriend, and ever since we moved to the city, she only ever did hook-ups. She might see a guy a second or third time, but three was her max. She called it pseudo-dating, and non-committal was her middle name. “With whom?”
“This guy I met New Year’s after you and Dr. Feelgood left me,” she said with a grin, blowing wisps of blonde hair from her blue eyes. “His name’s Evan. That’s all I’m going to tell you about him because I don’t want to jinx anything.”
“Yes, I’ll work late for you,” I said with a tease in my tone.
I hustled to my appointment, my heart racing in my chest at the thought of seeing him again. The second I checked in, I took a seat never taking my eyes off the door. Every time it opened, I tried to peek back for a glimpse of him holding my breath each time.
“Sophie?” a raven-haired nurse called moments later. She clutched my file to her chest and offered me a reserved smile as she escorted me back to the exam room. “Dr. Garner will be in shortly. He just came out of surgery.”
“Oh?”
“He squeezed you in between two surgeries today,” she said. “You’re very lucky. He normally doesn’t take appointments on Tuesdays or Thursdays.”
She slipped out of the tiny exam room leaving me perched on the table with nothing but the ticking of the clock on the wall and a myriad of pharmaceutical swag filling every square inch of that place. The chart on the back of the door. The clipboards. The pencil cup. The soap. The tissue holder. Everything around me was emblazoned with brightly-colored logos and medicinal names I couldn’t pronounce if I tried.
A light rapping on the door followed by a slow-motion turn of the handle ushered in the man of the hour causing my heart to fall ten feet in a matter of two seconds. His ice blue eyes greeted me first followed by a knowing smile. It was only us in that room.
“Hi,” I said coyly. I wanted to throw my arms around him and smother his full lips in kisses, but I knew I couldn’t. I also knew I shouldn’t even though his hot body was covered in green surgical scrubs and a white coat, and I wanted to jump hi
s bones right then and there. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in those before.”
“Surgery day,” he said. “I wear these on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
I drank him in from head to toe, and then I did it again. He was damn sexy before I knew he was a doctor, but this just added a whole new layer of hotness.
“Sophie,” he said, studying my face and ignoring the electric charge in the air. He wanted to do the same thing. I could tell. And he fought it like hell.
He walked over to the light box on the wall and clipped in my imaging results. “I’ve gone over your file. I’m going to recommend the coiling procedure. I don’t think we need to dive into surgery right away. You’re a prime candidate given the location of the aneurysm, and it’s less invasive.”
“So, it’s not surgery?”
He shook his head. “It’s an inpatient procedure, and you’ll be anesthetized, but no, it’s not surgery.”
“Can you perform it?” I asked, knowing full well the answer would be ‘no.’
He lowered his eyes before drawing them up to meet mine again. He shook his head. “We already went over this. I’m sorry. I can’t. Not if we’re…”
“Can’t I sign a waiver or something?”
He shook his head. “Even if you could, it goes against my code of conduct. I would never perform a procedure on someone I was involved with. You’d be hard-pressed to find a doctor who would.”
“What if we ended this?” I proposed, hating the taste of the words that came out of my mouth and hoping to God he wouldn’t let me go that easily.
“You mean that?” he asked, eyes hooded and forehead wrinkled. “Is that what you want, Sophie?”
“No,” I said, voice low and unable to look at him.
He charged toward me, though slowly, and lifted my chin up with one steady hand. “You have to trust me. I’m working on lining up another doctor for you.”
“You are?”
He nodded, lips tight, as I got lost in his hypnotic gaze for a moment. “I’ve placed a call, and I’m willing to fly in one of the best neurosurgeons in the country.”
“You’d do that for me?”
He looked back toward the door then turned to face me again. “I gave you my word, Sophie. I’m going to fix you.”
In the quiet, small space it was just the two of us, and I took comfort in knowing he was fighting this battle as much as I was. His free hand cupped the other side of my face as he leaned down and pressed his soft lips to mine. His scent filled my lungs and the space around us, a mix of expensive aftershave, bar soap, and determination.
He released me from his kiss and glanced down at his watch. “I have to go scrub in.”
My shoulders sank. I couldn’t hide my disappointment. I knew he had a job to do. I slid off the exam table and gathered my things.
“Can I see you tonight?” he asked, hand on the door.
“Working late.”
“How late is late?”
“Ten.”
He gave me a nod, feet locked in place for a second, and then left the room.
Mia was a ball of nerves the second I returned. In my absence, she’d managed to slip into a pair of black leather leggings, an ethereal pink blouse, and short leather booties. Her wild blonde hair was smoothed and flat mirroring every light source in the room. I could practically see my reflection in it. Her flawless, tan cheeks were kissed with a hint of pink, and her lashes were curled and coated with several coats of mascara.
“You did all this while I was gone?” I asked, looking her up and down.
She nodded. “Yep, in the bathroom.”
“You’re going all out.”
She rolled her blue eyes. “Stop.”
“Must really like this guy.”
“Sophie,” she groaned. “Enough. Get to work. I’m not paying you to gawk at me.”
She pulled her coat on and threw her bag over shoulder, and I pretended not to notice when I saw her checking out her reflection in the mirror in the hallway.
“Have fun, sweet cheeks!” I called as she hightailed it out of there.
I hated being in the shop alone, especially at night. We had our five o’clock rush when people would stop in after work and grab things on their way home, but after seven, things were dead. Quiet. Time stood still.
By nine-thirty, I hadn’t had a single customer in over half an hour. The sun had long gone home for the night, and I was itching to get out of there. Grabbing a piece of scrap paper from the back and a charcoal pencil, I began to sketch the one thing that had been burning a hole in my mind all afternoon, flooding my every thought—Jamison.
I sketched and shaded every inch of him from memory—his hooded blue eyes so pale I could practically see through them, his perfectly straight, Grecian god nose, the natural highlights of his sandy brown hair, the cupid’s bow of his full upper lip, and the meticulously groomed scruff on his cheeks.
When I finished, I held it out, and it was as if he’d come to life right there on the paper. I smiled, but the second the door chimed and a wind gust blew in a tall drink of water in a long black coat, I flipped the paper over.
“Jamison,” I said, cheeks burning red as if I’d been caught doing something I wasn’t supposed to. “What are you doing here?”
He held up two paper bags. “Brought you a late dinner. Have you eaten yet?”
I shook my head as he walked toward me unloading the bags on the counter in front of me.
“Think you can close up shop a little early tonight?” he asked.
I glanced outside at the blistering January night. We’d been dead most of the night. And Mia was on her date. She wouldn’t know if I closed up a half hour ahead of schedule, anyway.
“Sure.” I walked around the counter and clicked off the sign and turned the lock on the door watching as he pulled Styrofoam container after Styrofoam container from one of the bags. From the other bag, he pulled out a gray, merino wool blanket and spread it out on the floor. “Can you hit the lights?”
I flipped the lights off, and he pulled a couple of small candles from one of the bags, striking a match and lighting them before carefully setting them down on the blanket. Only Jamison could take something so ordinary and make it magical.
12
JAMISON
“Thanks for meeting me,” I said the following night, staring across the table at an older version of myself. It was almost like looking into a mirror, only I barely knew the asshole looking back at me.
My father unfolded his napkin and placed it on his lap, his dark eyes burning into mine. They were the only features of his I didn’t have, and I was quite certain every time he looked into my eyes, he hated that he was reminded of my mother.
“I was in the city,” he said. “It worked out.”
“You’re a tough man to track down,” I said, taking a sip of the scotch I’d ordered earlier to calm my nerves as I waited for him. My body tensed in his presence, the way it always did when we’d see each other once in a blue moon. As a child, I’d fantasized about having the kind of doting father my friends always had, a dad who would throw a football with me in the yard or hoist me up on his shoulders during parades and ruffle my hair as he looked at me like I was the best thing since sliced bread. Instead, I got Dr. James Fowler, number one neurosurgeon in the United States of America. Top five in the world.
And my stepfather, Arthur, was a second-rate stand-in. I’d never met a more self-serving, spineless excuse for a man than him. Everyone thought the pot-bellied, balding man with the kind smile and jovial laugh was harmless. I knew better. He was nothing but my mother’s minion, and as long as he stayed loyal and kept her happy, she rewarded him with a generous bank account.
My father’s impossible-to-please persona and my unquenchable need for a taste of unconditional love were what fueled me. The number one driving factor that made me who I was sat across from me, annoyed as if he were doing me a favor by having dinner with his son.
When I’d gr
aduated from Johns Hopkins, I’d sent him an invitation to the ceremony. He showed up. Clapped for me. Even took a picture with me. When I asked him what he was doing after the ceremony, he mumbled something about meeting an old colleague for dinner. He wasn’t there to support me. He wasn’t there because he was proud of me. He was there because I made him look good. I was nothing but bragging rights and an excuse to fly into town to have dinner with some old friends.
“I’m speaking at the Garrison Convention in Midtown,” he said, sipping his still water and scanning the room. As per usual, he was completely disengaged, and I could only imagine how badly he wished he were anywhere but there. With me.
“I saw an article about your latest research the other day on peripheral nerve surgery…” I said, “… featured in the American Journal of Neurology. Nice work.” Small talk with him pained me. I wanted to crawl out of my skin, and each second that ticked by was pure torture. I drew a deep breath forcing myself to smile and be pleasant. I wasn’t there for me. I was there for her.
He shrugged as if it were just another day for him. Another award given to him for a job well done. Another plaque on the wall. “How’s your mother?”
It was the dreaded question that always came up anytime we were together, though it never made any sense. He’d abandoned her when I was not quite six, but I was old enough to remember everything about that day. It was the day he turned my warm and loving mother into an ice queen with a heart of frozen steel.
She was never the same after he left. Shortly after the divorce, she changed my last name from Fowler to Garner, after her side of the family as if to get one last dig at him for leaving us.
But he didn’t care. He didn’t try to stop it.
“She’s good,” I lied. I hadn’t spoken to her in years, but he didn’t deserve to know a damn thing. It was none of his business. He had stopped giving a shit about both of us the day he chose work and accolades over his family.
“And your brothers? What are their names again?” he asked, wrinkled corners of his brown eyes scrunched. Twenty-some years, and he could never bother to remember the names of my two younger half-brothers.
The Promise of Everything - Garner-Willoughby Brothers Book Three Page 6
