by Tracy March
“Dr. Anderson?”
He blinked open his eyes.
Alice, the lone nurse in the office, stood in the doorway looking concerned. Lane guessed her to be about the same age as his mom. The way she wore her wavy, graying hair pulled up in a big bun made her look older, but her kind expression was what Lane focused on. He could certainly use an ally, especially one with an easygoing manner like Alice’s. A flurry of swirling snow patterned her bright-blue scrubs, and she still had a stethoscope slung around her neck even though their last patient left a while ago. “Is everything all right?”
Lane nodded. “I’m just dictating these charts.”
She smiled sympathetically. “Getting used to doing things the old-fashioned way?”
Uncle Pete had insisted on telling Alice Lane’s story, and he’d assured Lane that she could be trusted not to blab it all over Maple Creek. Lane hoped his uncle was right.
“However my uncle wants things done.” Lane smiled despite himself.
“Let me know if you want to change anything,” she said conspiratorially. “Even if it’s only for a month.”
“Thanks, Alice.”
“We have a few requests for refills.” She pulled a prescription pad from her pocket, tore off the top three sheets, and handed them to him. “If you’ll sign these, I’ll walk them over to the drugstore before I head home.”
He hadn’t expected to have computerized script-writing capabilities in his uncle’s practice, but he had expected a process a little more advanced than the modified Pony Express. “Couldn’t you just call or fax them in?”
“Oh I do, if they’re urgent. But I enjoy stopping in at the drugstore most nights and catching up on what’s going on.”
Lane guessed that’s what passed for entertainment in tiny Maple Creek, and wondered if the incident in the barbershop this morning had been significant enough to make the rounds. He turned his attention to the prescriptions Alice had handed him. His chest tightened as he looked carefully at each one. Because of his association with Stephanie, every prescription he signed—every professional move he made, for that matter—would come under scrutiny for the next two years, even though he hadn’t been guilty. Today’s prescriptions included meds for blood pressure, hyperthyroidism, and acid reflux. He signed all three refill scripts and gave them back to Alice, comfortable that his uncle had prescribed them with good judgment. “Do any of these patients need to be seen?”
“Not for these refills,” she said lightly.
“Thanks, Alice. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Guess I don’t need to worry about you having a decent dinner while Carrie’s still in town.”
Lane smiled, thinking of the home-cooked meal that would be waiting for him tonight courtesy of his sister. She’d taken a few days off and come here from Virginia to visit and help him get settled—temporarily. “I’m hoping she’ll stock my freezer with something better than TV dinners before she leaves tomorrow.”
“Don’t you fret.” Alice patted his shoulder. “There are plenty of people around here who’ll make sure a hungry bachelor like you stays well-fed.” She pulled the stethoscope from around her neck. “That reminds me. Do you have any messages for Paige?” She looked at him as if there was something he should know.
Lane’s pulse rapid-fired at the mention of Paige. He lowered his eyebrows. “The girl who runs the bakery next door?” Who’s been messing with my head all day?
“That’s the one.”
“Should I have messages for her?”
Alice shook her head quickly. “Let’s…let’s not worry about that tonight.” An awkward moment passed. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.” She smiled and ducked out of the office, leaving Lane to his stack of charts.
“I’ll be here,” Lane said absently, worried what that sassy-mouthed Paige had to do with his uncle’s practice.
The only message he had for her was that magic and medicine definitely did not mix.
Chapter Two
Satisfied that the kitchen was spotless, Paige tossed the last towel into her tote. Every night after she went home, she threw a load of “bakery” laundry in the wash. She untied her white chef’s apron, glanced at the stains on it, then shoved it in the tote, too. It wasn’t a winner. Some days, the random stains on her apron had been so close to art that she’d taken pictures of the designs, framed them, and hung them over one of the prep tables in the kitchen. Her favorite was from the time she’d leaned over too close to a Superman cake and smooshed the logo onto her chest. She’d stood in front of a mirror to snap the picture so the S was facing the right way.
Paige paused for a second to remind herself what day it was—they all ran together except Sundays, when Sweet Bee’s was closed. Tomorrow would be Tuesday, and her assistant, Cynthia, opened on Tuesdays and Fridays. Paige sighed blissfully, thinking about sleeping in without worrying about an early-morning muffin call.
She reached for the kitchen light switch just as a knock came on the glass front door. What the… No one ever came knocking after hours (before hours was a different story). Her regulars were early risers. But now it was six forty-five and dark outside. Most of her customers were home for the night, and they’d be in bed within hours.
Paige stepped into the doorway between the kitchen and the front counter of the bakery, squinting to see who stood beyond the glass.
Oh, no.
The exasperating new married doctor had come calling. Paige’s heart sank. Even if the guy was taken, she would’ve liked to look cute when she faced him again. Maybe he had come to apologize and they could start over on a positive note. Who knew? He might have a hot doctor friend or a fighter-pilot brother. She rounded the display cases, pulling the band from her ponytail and shaking her long hair loose during the few seconds she was out of his sight.
She unlocked the door and opened it, immediately sensing that he wasn’t there to apologize. He stood with his hands shoved in the pockets of his worn-out bomber jacket, his lower lip set in a pout. Or maybe that’s how it always looked, which was distracting. Paige couldn’t help but focus on it. And that was saying something, because he had so many sexy, distracting features. It was hard to take them in all at once, so she’d have to single them out one at a time. She decided she needed practice, since she wasn’t used to seeing this kind of man in Maple Creek.
He nodded curtly, and Paige’s attention shifted to his loosely curled hair that fell past his collar in the back. Super-casual and super-cool. “We didn’t officially meet this morning. I’m Dr. Anderson,” he said with that Southern-gentleman drawl that would work well for hypnosis. He held out his hand and she hesitated a second before shaking it firmly.
Tingles swirled through Paige, then settled like fairy dust. She pulled her hand away quickly. Was it legal for that to happen with a married man?
Suddenly Paige hoped she wouldn’t need a doctor for the next month. Him examining her would shoot her blood pressure so high they’d have to hospitalize her immediately. Besides, he was a jerk.
“You’re Paige, right?” he asked.
The way he said her name made her shiver in a say-that-again kind of way. Or maybe it was the bitter January wind that blew through the open doorway. “Come in before I catch pneumonia.” He stepped inside, and she closed the door and shrugged. “But that would be good for your business, right?”
He narrowed his green eyes at her, likely questioning her sanity, just as he’d probably done this morning. He wouldn’t be the first.
“I get the feeling this isn’t a neighborly visit,” she said. So much for getting a straight-up yes or no about those dimples she thought she saw when he smiled that morning.
“I’m here because I’m concerned about what I found in some of Dr. Hartley’s patients’ charts.”
Paige’s stomach knotted. She should’ve made sure that Dr. Hartley clued him in on the Special Recipe program. Clearly that was what this was about. “Oh?” she asked.
He lowered his eyebrows
and puckered his lips into more than a pout. “So I’m dictating charts, and in four of the eight in my stack, I see notes like Paige equals celiac, and Paige equals diabetes, and even Paige equals insomnia. I figured you were the Paige in question. Your father told me your name after you spouted off and left the barbershop this morning. Before she left tonight, Alice asked me if I had any messages for you, and I had no idea why,” he said, “but then I started to get it.”
Paige’s pulse pounded in her temples. “I’d say you were the one who ‘spouted off.’” She made quotation marks with her fingers.
He blew out a long breath. “My uncle gives you information about his patients’ medical conditions?”
“Yep. And I bake appropriate foods for them.”
“Well, that’s a hell of a business plan,” he said. “People get scared about their health issues and think they have to buy your…” He gestured toward the glass cases where a variety of pastries were displayed. “…whatever.”
She noticed fleetingly that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but she was too angry to even care about that now. “It’s not my business plan, thank you very much. Two years ago, I moved back here from a real life to take care of my mom, who died from cancer. I stayed and opened this bakery because I couldn’t bear to leave my dad alone. I’m trying to do what little I can to help keep other people from suffering like my mom did, but no one is forced to buy what I bake.”
He looked a little chastised, but not enough to satisfy her. She could tell he still had issues.
“Nothing I’m doing is underhanded,” she said.
“But you have access to protected information. I can’t believe my uncle facilitated that.”
“We’re not doing anything wrong. If I’m mentioned in their charts, I’m listed on their HIPAA forms,” she said.
He scrubbed his hand through his hair, looking exasperated. “What do you know about HIPAA forms?”
If he meant to distract her with the sexy hair-ruffling thing, it worked—but only for a second. She clenched her teeth until her jaws started to ache. “I may not be a highly educated and extremely uptight doctor like you, but I’m not an idiot. HIPAA forms legally authorize others to access confidential patient information.”
“So my uncle feeds you patient information on a daily basis?”
“Dr. Hartley and I are just trying to make it easier for people to eat healthier.” She sighed heavily. “What is so wrong with that? Most of my Special Recipe clients are older, and they might not understand exactly what I need to know so I can bake the right foods for them.”
“Let me get this straight. You bake sugar-free, gluten-free, fat-free—whatever their conditions dictate?”
She nodded. “Special recipes. And oftentimes they get better. Like Mrs. Jordan, who you saw this morning.”
His eyes flashed as if he were surprised that she knew he’d seen Mrs. Jordan. “Your name may be on their HIPAA forms, and you may legally have access to their information, but I can’t give it to you anymore.”
Paige blinked deliberately. What a contradiction this guy was—so laid-back-looking on the outside but wound way too tight on the inside. “Why not?”
“Because the forms authorize my uncle to release the information to you, not me.”
Paige’s heart sank. “Then we can get people to redo their forms.”
“No, we can’t. What you and my uncle are doing isn’t illegal, but it’s kind of unorthodox. As it is, I’m not in a position to get involved. I’m here for a month. Consider things on hold until he gets back, then you two can pick up where you left off. With the information you already have, I’m sure you can manage until then.”
She sank onto a nearby chair and hung her head. “Maybe not. The bakery is struggling; every sale is crucial. In a town like this, I lose customers every month. Customers that are like family to me, just so you know. They move away to be taken care of by their children, they go to retirement or nursing homes.” Paige’s eyes welled as she thought of her mom. “They die.”
She blinked back tears, refusing to get overly emotional in front of him. “A lot of them are on fixed incomes and the price of their medicine goes up, or their taxes, and they just don’t have the money to spend here anymore.” She shrugged weakly. “I wish I could afford to give them their orders for free, but I can’t do that and stay open. It’s month-to-month right now, just like my dad’s barbershop. I desperately need every bit of business, and I desperately want to keep helping the people who depend on me.” She gazed up at him. “Would you rather they just eat Twinkies? They’re back, you know.”
His mouth quirked up at one corner. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
“But you don’t understand. Maple Creek is a small town. Most of my Special Recipe customers are seniors who talk to one another a lot. Word will get around fast that you’re not on board with the program, and they’ll stop coming.” Paige took a deep breath and blew it out loudly. “I mean, they like me just fine, but at their age and with their health issues, they trust doctors.”
His expression turned serious. “I hear what you’re saying, and I’m sorry. But I really can’t get in the middle of this—even for a month.” He headed for the door.
She stood and followed him. “But it’s working.”
“Not the way it used to.” He opened the door and stepped outside.
“Is it the magic thing that bothers you so much?” she asked. “So what if that’s what they want to believe? People I care about are eating what’s right for them, feeling good, and getting better.”
“They’d do best not to believe in magic.” He scowled. “Yours or anyone else’s.”
A gust of freezing wind blew into Paige’s face. “That’s quite a positive outlook you have there, Doctor.” She shrugged. “Despite that, I hope you and your wife will be really happy here.” Her tone implied just the opposite. She hoped they’d hate it and leave quickly. Then a reasonable doctor might show up.
He raised one of his eyebrows. “Where’d you get the idea that I’m married? Because I’m not.” He turned and walked away…
Treating Paige to a pretty awesome view of his butt.
…
So much for sleeping in. Paige had hoped to fall into a long, deep sleep for a change, where she didn’t dream about what her life might be like if she could move back to DC. Her heart told her to stay in Maple Creek with her father, to keep fighting for Sweet Bee’s, and to try to make herself happy even though the town was practically a retirement community.
Something else had made her restless last night—or, more specifically, someone. She hadn’t been able to get I’m-not-married Dr. Lane Anderson out of her mind. Not because of his serious green eyes or the angles of his face that had looked even sharper as he’d insisted that he wouldn’t help her with her Special Recipe program. Wouldn’t, or couldn’t?
I’m not in a position to get involved.
What did that even mean? The guy was a doctor. Didn’t he want to help people? Paige hadn’t seen their patient charts or been privy to their lab results, but Dr. Hartley assured her that some of his patients’ health had improved thanks to her. Sweet Bee’s business had improved, too, but that hadn’t been Paige’s primary motivation. Even so, she’d tossed and turned, wondering how her sales might suffer courtesy of the temperamental Dr. Anderson. He was a dreamy doctor in a worn leather bomber jacket, but he was definitely bad news for Paige and Sweet Bee’s—maybe for his patients, too. But what could she do about it?
Paige had gotten up early, worked out with a Pilates DVD—the closest thing she’d get to a real Pilates class in Maple Creek—showered, and made it to Sweet Bee’s just thirty minutes after Cynthia had opened shop. Her commute was short, since she lived in the apartment above the bakery.
She chatted with a couple of customers who relaxed at tables in front of the sunny windows, enjoying coffee and pastries—full-throttle recipes made with sugar, butter, flour, and whole milk—then headed into t
he kitchen.
“What the heck are you doing here?” Cynthia never minced words. She even had Paige beaten when it came to blurting out what was on her mind, and that was saying something. Cynthia had grown up with overly strict parents—her father was the pastor at the local Methodist church, and her mom had been the head librarian at Maple Creek’s tiny library since before Cynthia and her brother were born. The silent rebellion Cynthia had staged while she was growing up had become loud and clear after she’d gone to college and adopted the nickname Cyn, much to the chagrin of her parents. Like Paige, Cyn had never planned to return. But here they both were in sleepy old-ville, happy that they at least had each other.
“Good morning to you, too,” Paige teased, heading straight for the espresso machine and guessing what was in the oven simply from the smell. “Lemon-almond poppy seed loaves?”
Cynthia nodded, a section of her glossy, nearly black hair escaping from her ponytail. “Some sugar-free”—she lifted her chin, her nose high, her pretty face pinched primly—“for the Queen.”
The Queen happened to be Mrs. Fairleigh Hawthorne, the matriarch of Maple Creek and Cynthia’s primary employer. Located on the edge of town, her sprawling estate was Maple Creek’s scaled-down version of Downton Abbey. Cyn lived in a restored outbuilding on the grounds and served as the Queen’s personal assistant.
“Want me to take them to her when I go over there tonight?” Paige asked. “That way you won’t have to see her on your day off.”
Cyn lowered her eyebrows for a moment, then raised them quickly. “Tonight’s the dinner—with the pies!”
Paige rolled her eyes. “Nothing like getting in on the action after it’s all over.”
Despite her efforts to keep up with the times, the Queen always managed to stay a bit behind them. Several months ago, Paige had been featured in both the Washington Post and the Baltimore Sun because of the baseball-team-themed pie war that had taken place at Sweet Bee’s between her best friend, Liza, and Liza’s now-fiancé, Cole Collins—the super-hot first baseman for the Washington Nationals. Since Liza’s parents co-owned the Orioles, the pie war had made for an entertaining story, and the publicity had boosted Paige’s business, if only temporarily. The Nationals had beaten the Orioles in the World Series a couple months ago, and people had turned their attention to football, yet the Queen wanted to host Paige for dinner and she’d asked her to bring replicas of the Nationals and Orioles pies from the event.
