Prima Donna

by Drewry, Laura

  “Really? That’d be great!”

  “Good. Duke doesn’t much like leaving the yard anymore, so he’ll be happy, and I’ll make up the spare room for you—Carter still has a few things lying around, but the closet’s empty and there’s plenty of space.” She lifted her brow and chuckled behind her glass. “And most important, I won’t have to ask Debra for a favor. Win-win.”

  Ellie popped a peanut into her mouth and grinned. “You and the mother-in-law still haven’t worked out all the kinks?”

  “We’re getting there,” Jayne sighed. “She still thinks Nick would have been better off with Lisa, but at least she doesn’t talk about her incessantly anymore.”

  “That’s good,” Ellie laughed. “Because mother or not, we’ve all seen Nick in action when he thinks someone has dared upset you.”

  Color rushed over Jayne’s cheeks, but she couldn’t deny what Ellie said. Instead, she did the usual Jayne thing, and turned the conversation to someone else. This time it was Regan.

  “Sounds like things are working out for you at the clinic.”

  “So far, so good.”

  “What about Carter?” Ellie’s question hung over the table for a long moment before Regan swallowed her mouthful of beer and set her bottle down. “Maya ratted you out.”

  Regan should have known; Maya had probably called Ellie the second she found out. “What about him?”

  “Oh come on, Reg, a one-night stand with Carter? And now you’re working for him? Doesn’t that break about fifteen of the Regan’s Rules of Order?”

  “Very funny.”

  Shelley stopped at the table, her eyebrows raised over a grin as she set a plate of garlic bread in the middle of the table.

  “On the house,” she whispered with a wink.

  She was gone before they could finish thanking her, and while the others all dug into the fresh, heavenly smelling bread, Regan kept her eyes on Ellie and tried like hell to tamp down her growing and completely unexpected anger.

  “Oh come on, Reg. Carter? Really?”

  “Do you even know him?” Regan asked. “Ever actually talked to him?”

  “I know of him; that’s enough,” Ellie quipped, then raised a questioning look at Regan. “But why are you so defensive of him? What, exactly, is going on between you two?”

  “Nothing.” Thank God her voice held because the word wavered on its way up her throat. “He’s a good guy, Ellie.”

  “Carter?”

  “You don’t—” Regan started to argue, but Jayne’s voice was louder, talking right over her.

  “Don’t even start, Ellie.”

  “All right, all right, I’m sorry.” Ellie lifted both hands, palms out. “I don’t know him, and while I’m happy Regan finally had herself a little much-deserved fun, you can’t tell me I’m the only one who sees their relationship ending badly.”

  Regan couldn’t let her friends duke it out over a problem she herself had caused, and the only way to settle it down would be to make light of it.

  “Who said anything about a relationship?” she said, forcing a scoffing snort. “It was one night. And you’re right, it’s not my usual MO, but it was New Year’s Eve, I was feeling a little sorry for myself and I knew Carter wouldn’t expect anything more than one night. We’re not stupid, Ellie. We both know what it was and we’re both happy to leave it at that.”

  The fact that it took an extra push to shove happy off her tongue didn’t mean anything.

  “He put in a good word for me, which helped get me the job at the clinic,” she said. “And neither one of us are about to do anything to screw that up.”

  “Okay. Good.” Ellie stuffed another piece of bread in her mouth and shrugged, but Regan didn’t for a second think it meant Ellie believed her.

  “Good.” Regan nodded briefly, then looked over at Jayne, who frowned slightly. Should she tell Jayne how she really felt about Carter, about how just seeing him sent her pulse racing and made her brain go a little mushy? How the thought of him touching her again was almost enough to make her bones melt or that her most enjoyable afternoon in recent memory was spent with him in her kitchen eating grilled-cheese sandwiches?

  Should she tell her that a few nights ago, she’d shared her most personal shame and grief with Carter, something she’d never even come close to doing with Jayne or any of them at this table?

  No. No good would come of that, so she didn’t say anything. Instead, she sipped her beer and sent up a prayer of thanks when the entire pub exploded in cheers and whistles as the TV blared the goal horn. Their ears blistering, all four grabbed hold of their drinks as a guy walking toward the bathroom thumped his fist on the edge of their table and bellowed a room-shaking “Fuckin’ A!”

  Yup, another pub poet laureate, but Regan didn’t mind because the outburst was enough of a distraction that by the time the room settled, she could change the subject without it being too obvious.

  “What’s the word from your lawyer?” she asked Maya.

  It wasn’t so long ago the mere mention of her imploding marriage would send Maya into a fit of tears, but ever since she moved into the apartment above Jayne’s bookstore, she’d changed.

  “Dickhead’s going to buy me out of the house, we’ve already split the savings account, and I already took everything I wanted, so he can shove everything else up his whore’s ass for all I care.”

  In Regan’s opinion, Maya was going way too easy on her soon-to-be ex-husband, but if it meant the divorce could be finalized sooner, then maybe it was for the best.

  “So do you have a court date, then?”

  “It’s not confirmed yet, but it looks like the end of February or beginning of March.” Maya quirked a brow dismissively. “So long as Dickhead doesn’t change his mind about the settlement.”

  “Can he do that?”

  “Sure he can, but if he even tries, I’ll rip out his liver and stuff it so far down his throat he’ll be shittin’ organ parts for a month.”

  Jayne choked on a swallow of wine but still raised her glass along with the rest of them as they all cursed Dickhead’s name and toasted the impending end of Maya’s marriage.

  Chapter Eight

  “Come on, you want me to stay because of the way you feel about me.”

  Han Solo, The Empire Strikes Back

  Fridays were the slowest days. The office closed early, styling appointments were few and far between, Ellie, Jayne, and Maya all kept their stores open late, and every Friday morning Carter went down to St. Mark’s to work a twenty-four-hour shift.

  Regan enjoyed working with Julia and Rossick, but it wasn’t the same when Carter wasn’t there. Instead of calling her on the intercom like the others did, he always came out to her desk to ask for files or for her to make follow-up appointments; he always kept a stash of treats and stickers in her bottom drawer for when he walked his patients out, and it wasn’t unusual to find him sitting cross-legged on the floor playing Xbox with one of his patients.

  It didn’t matter how often it happened; the beauty of seeing him down on the floor, so at ease with the kids, so genuinely happy to play with them, to give them whatever time they needed…and then he’d look up and grin sheepishly at her, his dark eyes crinkling slowly at the corners, his mouth pulling up slowly on the one side…sigh.

  In those moments, seeing him like that, he could have been a wart-covered troll with green teeth and scales, and he’d still be the sexiest damn thing God ever set down.

  Yesterday afternoon, after one such moment, he’d crouched next to Regan, one hand on the back of her chair, the other resting on her desk as she scrolled through the endless list of Dr. Smiths at Vancouver General until she found the one he wanted. She actually went right by the name twice, but how was she supposed to concentrate when Carter was that close and smelling so damn good?

  And when he stood to leave, he set his hand on her shoulder in nothing more than a token touch of thanks, but if she hadn’t been sitting, she’d have ended up on her b
utt, that’s how deep the tremble shook her. She knew it was coming and had braced for it, even managed to keep writing on the notepad beside her mouse until Carter walked away.

  Gibberish, that’s what she’d written. Completely indecipherable gibberish.

  The whole episode left her light-headed, a little spacey, and unable to focus, so much that Julia worried she might be coming down with something.

  And now, less than twenty-four hours later, she was still a little light-headed, but this was completely different and had nothing to do with Carter. The annoying tickle in her throat that she’d woken up with now felt like everything she swallowed was made of 30-grit sandpaper. A dull throb pulsed deep in her skull and her nose couldn’t decide if it wanted to be plugged or if it wanted to run, so it did both.

  Luckily they didn’t have a lot of patients that morning, but Regan still made sure she kept a good distance from everyone, and anything she touched got wiped down. By the time she got home, she felt like she’d been hit by a truck and dragged five miles. She dropped her clothes as she walked through the apartment and crawled into bed with a box of tissues, a tall glass of water, a mug of lemon tea, and her new BFF, NyQuil.

  She managed to doze off and on for a while, and with the help of an added dose of Advil, she managed to fend off some of her headache. When her phone buzzed in a new text message, though, it took a long couple of blinks before she could focus enough to read it.

  Jules says you’re not feeling good. You okay?

  As crappy as she felt, Carter’s message still made her smile. She could just picture him frowning as he typed it out, probably expecting her to say she was fine. She hated to disappoint him, so even though every push of her thumbs was an effort, she finally managed to answer.

  Fine. Guess I’m the exception to the “Flu Shots Work” rule.

  Regan waited, half hoping he’d respond, half hoping he wouldn’t. When he didn’t, she powered the phone off and let it fall to the floor beside the used tissues and the extra blanket she kept pulling on, then tossing off. She tucked her quilt under her chin and curled up on to her left side, but no matter how slowly she moved, it still felt as though Beckham was using her brain for practice drills. How was it possible for a head to pound that hard and not concuss itself?

  Sleep. Lots of sleep, that’s all she needed. If she stayed perfectly still, the head-pounding eased a little, and if she could maintain her breathing in long, slow, even measures, that was better. Not an easy thing to do when breathing of any kind made her cough.

  She drifted off again and didn’t wake up until a strange weight came down beside her on the bed. She bolted upright, grabbed the quilt with one hand and her throbbing head with the other.

  “Ah…Ow! Carter?! What the hell?”

  “You should really lock your door.” His dark eyes crinkled at the edges as he reached over and pressed the back of his hand against her forehead.

  “I never—” With a low groan, she lay back down and closed her eyes, hoping the stillness would once again ease her throbbing head. “I’m not dressed.”

  “Yeah, I followed the trail of clothes.”

  Regan just moaned and pulled the blanket up higher, even though her earlier chills had now given way to a full-body sweat. No matter how awful she felt, she was all too aware of how close he was and of what happened the last time he was on her bed. And in her bed. And beside her bed. “I’m fine,” she mumbled. Maybe she should have it tattooed across her forehead. “Go home.”

  “Hey.” Ugh, why did his voice have to be so soft? “Do you really want to send away the only doctor in the western world who still does house calls? Come on, open up.”

  Too tired to argue, she opened her mouth just wide enough for the thermometer to fit in, then closed her lips around it.

  “Coughing? Aches?”

  She tried to nod, but it was too much effort.

  “Headache?”

  “It was getting better,” she grumbled over the thermometer. “Until you came into my room and scared the shit out of me.”

  Footsteps sounded around her room, then out to the kitchen and back, but she didn’t look; just lay flat on her back with one arm draped across her eyes. He could be robbing her blind and she didn’t care. All she cared about was staying perfectly still and getting back to sleep.

  He tugged the thermometer out of her mouth and sighed. “Hundred and one point six. Looks like you’re sick.”

  “That’s the best you’ve got?” she mumbled, lifting her arm away from her eyes. “Great doctor you are.”

  His frowning unshaven face sent a flood of warmth coursing through her veins. In his hands were a damp cloth and a Ziploc bag full of ice, which he wrapped in the cloth and set the ice pack against her forehead, careful to brush her hair back first.

  “Thank you.” She pressed her hand over his, the warmth of his skin seeping into hers, as he smiled down at her before easing his hand away. Regan inhaled slowly and closed her eyes again. “Did my brain get rattled loose, or are you actually wearing scrubs?”

  “Yeah.” His laugh was low, quiet. Close. “I sort of got barfed on tonight.”

  “Ooooh,” she groaned. “That’s nasty.”

  “It happens.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “A lot.”

  When the mattress sagged again, she forced one eye open long enough to see he was sitting up against the headboard, his legs stretched out, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking after my patient.”

  “Hmmm.” She tried to fight off sleep, but it had a firm grip on her and wasn’t letting up even a little bit. “Carter?”

  She tried to open her eyes by lifting her eyebrows as high as she could, but to no avail.

  “Yeah.”

  “You don’t…have…to stay.”

  His fingers smoothed gently over her cheek, then across her forehead along the edge of the ice pack.

  “Go to sleep, Red. Doctor’s orders.”

  “Okay,” she murmured. “But just for a while.”

  If he was stupid enough to stay and risk getting sick, that was his fault. And truth be told, though she’d never admit it, she liked having him there, even if he was on top of the quilt instead of under it with her.

  When she woke up a couple hours later, he was flipping through last month’s copy of Martha Stewart Living she’d had on her nightstand; the time after that, he was playing Angry Birds on his phone, and so it continued through the night. The only time he left her side was when he went to fetch water or chicken broth, and the only time he spoke was when she repeatedly told him to go home, to which he repeatedly told her to shut up and go back to sleep.

  It was ridiculous and unnecessary. It was also really nice, but nice or not, she had no business being that disappointed when she woke up alone the next morning. She dragged herself out of bed, pulled on her robe, and wandered out of the bedroom to go brush—

  “Morning.” Carter sat at the breakfast bar, his voice low, his smile sexier than ever.

  “Oh…uh…what are you—” Regan stared back at him for second, looked down at her ratty old robe, and bolted for the bathroom. Three shades past pale, her head still ached, but not nearly as bad as before. She didn’t bother trying to fight the knots in her hair, just clipped it back, washed up, and grimaced at her reflection.

  If that didn’t send him running for the hills, she didn’t know what would.

  Carter was right where she’d left him, sipping coffee with the paper spread out in front of him. How could anyone look that good first thing in the morning? Wasn’t fair.

  He scrubbed his hands across his stubbled cheeks, then swung off the stool and made his way over to the coffeepot to pour her a cup. “How are you feeling?”

  “About as good as I look,” she said wryly, swiping a tissue under her nose.

  Carter slid the mug and a glass of water toward her, pulled the clip out of her hair, and stuck the thermometer back in her mouth.
“You look great.”

  “Sure,” she mumbled over the glass. “If you’re into the Freddy Krueger thing.” She made to step away, but Carter slipped his fingers through hers and tugged her over to the bar stools.

  “Sit down for a sec.” After a minute, he pulled out the thermometer, frowned, and set it on the counter. “Still over a hundred.”

  “It’s the flu, Carter, it’s not terminal. I’m fine.”

  Something flickered in his eye before he finally smiled slowly. “You’re so full of crap.”

  She didn’t know why that struck her as so funny, maybe because he was right, but laughing made her cough, which made her laugh more because she was only proving his point. When she finally stopped, she swiped the tissue under her nose again and groaned as she folded her arms over the island and rested her forehead on them.

  Why the hell he was still there? She looked like death, she sounded worse, and her left eye wouldn’t stop twitching. Bet that was attractive.

  She started to reach for her water, then froze halfway to the glass as it suddenly dawned on her what happened. He’d spent the night.

  Shiiiiiit.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” She shrugged as carelessly as she could, then rolled her eyes when he gave her one of his looks. “It’s just…well…don’t get me wrong, I really appreciate having my own personal physician at my beck and call, but, um, I don’t do sleepovers, Carter.”

  “Yeah, you mentioned that once before.” His grin started slow, tipping up the corner of his mouth. “But I stayed on top of the blankets and I didn’t sleep so it doesn’t count.”

  “You didn’t sleep? At all?” Images of him sitting up all night watching over her flashed through her mind. What a sweet—

  “Who could sleep?” he snorted. “Damn, woman, if I snored half as loud as you, I wouldn’t do sleepovers, either.”

  “It’s not that bad!” She tried to spin away, but he turned her back, his laughter, deep and rumbling, filling the apartment. Filling her.

  “I recorded it on my phone if you want to listen.”