Outside The Lines

by Kimberly Kincaid

  It was definitely Jules.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” she said, her throaty voice hitting him in the solar plexus as she pulled back against the mattress. “I thought you were gone. In the city.” Her aged-whiskey eyes were still wide with shock, but they flickered with a layer of tenacity that warned she was recalibrating, fast.

  For once, he was going to beat her to the punch. “I was. Work brought me here,” he said, modulating his words with a casual coolness despite the absolute ruckus going on beneath his sternum. Okay, so it had crossed his mind for a fleeting second when he’d first come back to Brentsville that she might still be around, but the city wasn’t exactly a map dot. Even on the off-chance she’d stayed, Blake certainly never thought he’d see her again.

  And yet here she sat, just as tough and brash and beautiful as ever.

  “Funny. Work brought me here, too.” Jules winced ever so slightly at the compress-swaddled arm the nurses had elevated over a stack of pillows at her side. “But it’s no big deal. It doesn’t even hurt anymore. You probably don’t need to look.”

  Blake’s gut bottomed out somewhere in the vicinity of his running shoes. He’d seen enough pain to know she was up to her pretty, freckled shoulders in it, no matter how tough her veneer. But damn it, this woman was no ordinary patient.

  She was no ordinary anything.

  “From what your chart says, I doubt that’s accurate.” Despite the circumstances, she was still a patient in need of medical care. And as a doctor, it was his responsibility to give it, the sooner, the better. “Let’s just see what we’re dealing with here.”

  Blake stepped in to pluck a pair of gloves from the box on the wall and start the exam, but Jules’s mouth became a slash as she served up a head shake both definitive and tight.

  “No.”

  Just like that, he was sitting at the kitchen table with the note in his hand, eight years younger and heartbroken as hell.

  “No?” His pulse cranked through his veins, hand still hovering above the glove dispenser. “Are you seriously refusing medical care?”

  “I got medical care. The nurse gave me one of these cold-thingys, and I’m feeling much better. Really, I’m good to go.”

  Oh yeah, no. Not a chance. Nobody left against medical advice on his watch. Not even Jules. “You have a second-degree burn that needs to be looked at and treated. You are not good to go.”

  “Excuse me?” One auburn brow shot up, but he wasn’t backing down.

  “I said—”

  “Okay, I think that’s enough.” The and-I-mean-it voice came not from Jules, but from the spot right beside the bed, and oh hell. He’d forgotten all about her friend sitting there. The woman’s face plucked a chord of familiarity in his brain, and Blake did a hasty run-through of his mental batch files to try and pin down the connection.

  She saved him the trouble. “Serenity Gallagher. You treated me a few months ago for a concussion.”

  Ah, right. The break-in at the diner. New place over on Fourth Street. “I remember.”

  “He was your doctor when you got clocked on the head?” Jules asked, the words pinched with surprise.

  Serenity nodded, splitting her gaze between him and the spot where Jules sat glued to the gurney. “Yes. So now that we’ve got the pleasantries out of the way, would you mind telling me what the hell is going on? Clearly, you two know each other.” She turned an expectant look on her friend, and despite the self-preservation instinct that was screaming full-bore for him to cut this conversation in half and just treat Jules’s injury, he crossed his arms and followed suit.

  “I…we…uh.” Of course she still fucking blushed when she was nervous. And of course it still heated his own face in return.

  Along with some anatomy due south.

  Jules tried again. “Blake…that is, Dr. Fisher and I are…we were…”

  Nope. He’d never heard her say it out loud, not even when it happened. And he sure as hell didn’t want to start now.

  “Engaged,” he said, refusing to drop her gaze. “Eight years ago, Jules and I were supposed to get married.”

  #

  Jules sat perfectly still against the pancake-flat hospital mattress lining the gurney beneath her even though every primal instinct in her body screamed at her to run.

  “Burns can become serious if they get infected. It was smart of your boss to suggest you stay for treatment.” Blake positioned a narrow plastic basin over the rolling tray table in front of him, methodically filling it with clear liquid from a plastic container marked with the word sterile. He checked, then re-checked all the little gizmos on the tray beside the basin, and damn it. All that precise focus and quiet intensity still drove her crazy.

  And not in the bad way.

  “She told you she’d personally help restrain me if I tried to leave,” Jules managed, buckling down hard over the emotions climbing the back of her throat. “That’s hardly a suggestion.”

  “Do you want to wait for her to come back before we start?” He snapped a pair of gloves into place, a tiny yet definite smile of satisfaction threatening beneath his light brown stubble. It lasted for just a split second, but it was reminder enough that if Blake Fisher wanted something, he did whatever he needed to get it.

  Oh, God, she had to get out of here. Not even the security blanket of Serenity’s presence was worth drawing this out.

  “No. If I know Serenity, she’s trying to single-handedly run dinner shift right now through the video chat on her iPhone. And since neither of you is going to let me out of here without an exam, you might as well go for it, I guess.”

  Blake reached for Jules’s wrist, his hand hitching just before contact, and her cheeks tightened with the heat of another rampant blush. Of course he probably didn’t want to touch her. Not that she could blame him, but it wasn’t meant to turn out like this. He was supposed to have moved on from the poor northie who bussed tables in the Brentsville University cafeteria four nights a week just to pay the electric bill. He was supposed to become a successful surgeon in the city and marry some perfectly acceptable Ivy League blond. Hell, he was supposed to have some ridiculously cushy car, two-point-four kids and a summer cottage in the Hamptons.

  He was definitely not supposed to be back in Brentsville, cradling her pan-fried arm like it was made of blown glass and looking exponentially sexier than he had eight years ago.

  “Frequently with burns, the skin is delicate enough to stick to the compress. I’m going to soak it in a cool sterile water bath to remove the dressing with as little damage to the blisters as possible. Then we’ll know what we’re dealing with and I can treat you from there.” He shifted the basin flush against the side of the gurney, lowering her arm into the water. But in spite of his careful movements, sparks of pain still flared hard under Jules’s skin.

  “Ugh.” The sound broke free from her chest before she could stuff it down, and she forced her expression to blankness as she counted the triangles on the curtain over Blake’s shoulder.

  “Sorry.” Something behind his stare flickered, dark and green and unyielding. “Can you rate your pain on a scale of one to ten?”

  Jules bit down on the irony of the question, even though she deserved every bit of the sting. “It’s fine, really.”

  He didn’t let go of her wrist. “A number, Jules.”

  “Four,” she said, until he guided the corner of the compress from her skin. The angry, scraped-thin throb left in its place made her tack on, “And a half.”

  As if Blake sensed her two-point bend in the truth, he said, “I’ll give you something to manage the pain as soon as we’re done.” His tone was so businesslike that for a second, Jules thought she might make it through the exam. But damn it, that flicker made another pass over his eyes as he studied the vicious three-inch strip of blisters that had been hiding beneath the compress, and her words rushed out like a verbal landslide.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I left you a note, Blake. I shouldn’t have
…” Been such a coward. Left when you were already hurting.

  Believed your mother instead of you.

  “But you did.” His gaze, now back to normal, was pinned firmly to his task, the soft trickle of water a complete juxtaposition to the uncompromising line of his jaw. He lifted her arm from the basin, resting it on the fresh towel he’d draped over the pillows at her side, his face calm and cool and absolutely devoid of emotion.

  And as much as Jules hated it, he was right. God, she shouldn’t have said anything. It wasn’t like she could come out with the truth, no matter what was going on behind that dark green stare of his.

  It was better to just shut up and get out of here. The faster, the better.

  “Anyway.” Blake cleared his throat, gesturing to her injury like he’d seen a thousand like it this morning alone. “This is definitely a second-degree burn. The good news is it doesn’t go all the way through the second layer of your skin. So while it’s certainly painful, you’re not likely to have permanent damage. With proper care, it should heal in a couple of weeks.”

  She nodded, not willing to trust her traitorous mouth to anything more than that, and Blake continued, his motions as efficient as his words. “We’ll treat the blisters with an antibiotic ointment, and you’ll need to keep it lightly bandaged so the wound stays clean and dry. Elevating it for a few days should reduce the pain and swelling. You said this happened on the job?”

  More nodding, and where the hell was Serenity? “Yup.”

  “I take it you’re working in the kitchen at Mac’s?”

  His gaze zeroed in on hers, and suddenly, Jules was back in a kitchen, sleek and small, but not at Mac’s. She’d spent a year’s worth of Sunday mornings sneaking down to this kitchen to make French toast from the day-old castoffs from the bakery next door. Fat slices of butter-gold brioche stacked four-deep with tangy-sweet orange marmalade and honeyed cream cheese layered in the middle… God, there was nothing else like it. She’d hum while she cooked, taking care not to let a single drop or crumb go to waste before she slipped back up the stairs with a plate in each hand. But no matter how long it had been since they’d last eaten, Blake always wanted her instead of breakfast, like she could sustain him in a way that even food couldn’t…

  “Jules?” Urgency shaped her name into sharp notes, and whoa, he dropped that sterile bandage awfully fast. “Are you okay?”

  “What? No! I mean yes. Yes, I’m totally fine.” As long as complete lunacy didn’t count. Seriously, she needed to get out that door and back to Mac’s, where she could run the front of the house and put food in people’s bellies and get back to freaking normal.

  But Blake didn’t pick up the medical tape. “Your pulse is racing.”

  “What are you, psychic?”

  “No.” The edges of his mouth tipped up into a smile that took a sexed-up potshot at her breastbone, and fabulous. There went her blood pressure too. “I’m a doctor. And I’ve got my fingers on your radial artery, so…”

  “Oh.” Jules looked down, and sure enough, his gloved fingers were still curled snugly around her wrist. Barely a breath of space separated his chest from the length of her arm, and a hot tingle rushed over her bare skin all the way to the strap of her tank top. His mouth, firm enough to show strength yet full enough to be an unfair advantage, was close enough that if she pressed forward a few inches, they’d…

  Right. She really, really needed to go. “Must be the pain endorphins. I feel fine.”

  The smile faded from Blake’s face. “Are you sure?”

  She nodded hard enough to bounce her ponytail off her shoulders, shooting a glance at the gap in the curtain and the hallway beyond. “So, all I need is this ointment, right? And to keep my arm dry and clean and stuff?”

  He hesitated, then finished dressing the burn with a layer of gauze. “Yes. All the standards of care are right here on this page. But if the pain worsens, or if you see any signs of infection at all, you’ll need to come back to see me immediately.”

  “Absolutely. You got it. So are we done?”

  He let go of her freshly bandaged wrist and stepped back from the gurney, his running shoes squeaking softly against the linoleum. “You’ve been treated, yes.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jules took the release order from his hand and ran.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Blake sank into the standard-issue hospital couch in the emergency department’s staff lounge, caught halfway between sheer exhaustion and utter disbelief. While everything from his neck down wanted to cave in to the former, his brain was too tangled in the latter, and the harder he tried to make sense of what had just happened, the more Blake came up with a series of big, fat question marks.

  Not that it really mattered. He’d barely handed over Jules’s release order before she’d turned into a ghost, leaving behind nothing but a set of rumpled bed sheets and a bunch of bone-deep emotions he couldn’t maneuver into a logical train of thought.

  Second verse, same as the first.

  “I thought I might find you in here.” Frances Fisher balanced a stack of folders emblazoned with the Brentsville Hospital logo over one thin hip as she crossed the threshold to the staff lounge, and shit. With all the spin-cycle insanity of his shift’s end, Blake had completely blanked on the monthly meeting of the board of trustees. As the appointed representative for the emergency department, his attendance at meetings was preferred.

  As the son of the board’s president, his attendance was only excused by catastrophic injury. Even then, it depended on whose.

  “Sorry I missed the meeting. I got,” blindsided by a gorgeously stubborn redhead I’ll never see again…again, “caught down here with a patient. We’ve been slammed today.”

  “Did you work another double shift? You look exhausted.” His mother’s stare narrowed sharply from behind her elegant, gold-framed glasses, and damn if it didn’t make him feel thirteen instead of thirty.

  “But you look fantastic. As always.” Blake unfolded his frame from the couch, much to the chagrin of his screaming muscles. He crossed the room, leaning in to kiss her cheek as he reached for the paperwork in her grasp, but she planted her Chanel pumps into the linoleum.

  “Don’t try and sweet-talk your way out of this, Blake. This is the fifth double shift you’ve done in two weeks.”

  “Really?” His chest went tight beneath the drape of his stethoscope over his scrubs, but he locked an affable smile over his face. “I haven’t been keeping track.”

  Of course, there was no dodging an argument with Frances Fisher. Especially not within the walls of their current location. “There are regulations against this sort of thing for a reason. Perhaps I need to speak to the chief medical director. Although truly, you wouldn’t have this sort of schedule outside of the emergency department. It’s not too late to become a surgeon. I could speak to—”

  “I volunteered for the doubles, mom. My schedule doesn’t need adjusting, nor does my career.” Blake put just enough mustard on the words to hook her attention without skirting the borders of civility. Even if she had no qualms about expressing it, he still respected her opinion. Hell, so did everyone at the hospital, from the custodians to the chief of staff. His mother’s endless hard work on the board had earned her that by the boatload. But Blake had opinions of his own. Ones he wasn’t about to compromise, no matter how frosty she got.

  “I’m an emergency physician. The long shifts are all part of the job, remember?” This time, when he reached for the folders, his mother handed them over.

  “I only want what’s best for you,” she said, lifting one perfectly penciled brow. “So tell me. Is foregoing a haircut also part of the job?” The wry smile underscoring her otherwise cool demeanor gave her away, and Blake chuffed out a laugh.

  “Nope. I do that just for you. Why don’t we grab some lunch and you can tell me all about what I missed at the board meeting?”

  “Because it’s five-thirty in the evening, for one. And for another, I’m
not available. I have a dinner meeting with the financial director to discuss the charity budget for this fiscal year.”

  “Wow. That sounds…stimulating.” He settled his gaze on her more carefully now. On the surface, his mother was just as well put-together as always, from the tasteful, silver-blond knot at her nape to the crisp, gray skirt of her power suit. But whether it was the time he’d spent away from Brentsville or the training that had made him more perceptive to all things unspoken, he couldn’t be sure. Either way, the shadows beneath her eyes were just a bit too pronounced, the angle of her shoulders beneath her jacket just a little too thin.

  Blake might be exhausted, but it took one to know one.

  “Mom, listen. Why don’t you let me take the meeting tonight? You should go home, get some rest.”

  “Blake, please.” His mother crossed the cluttered space of the lounge, sliding a stack of takeout napkins and a pad of Post-Its shaped like a human heart off the table to carve space in front of her. “I’ve been running the board of trustees for fifteen years. I’m fairly certain I can handle a budget meeting.”

  “And I’m fairly certain I didn’t leave New York City just for a change in scenery.” He ignored the twist in his gut, letting the words sink in before adding, “You have to let me help you, here.”

  A sigh leaked past her lips, but even that was graceful. “I knew I shouldn’t have let Dr. Worthington tell you. It was only a little fainting spell.”

  “You were hospitalized for two days for dehydration and exhaustion,” Blake said, lining the facts up in his head to cover his chugging emotions. “Plus, you don’t eat enough and you’re anemic.” He knew, because he’d ordered the blood panel himself. “I’m a doctor, mom. I came back here to help take care of you. But you’ve got to let me.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I feel just fine.” She folded her hands together into an impenetrable knot over the table, and Christ. Even her fingers looked frail. “And anyway, my work at the hospital is important.”