by Olivia Miles
No good would come from that. No good at all.
CHAPTER
7
Brett listened patiently to the octogenarian who had presented with chest pain as he went over everything he had eaten for lunch that day. He nodded and jotted notes on his chart and tried his damn best to avoid skirting his eyes over to the poor man’s wife, who was watching her husband with barely suppressed rage as he rattled off his daily food intake.
“You’re supposed to be watching your cholesterol!” she boomed when he came to the cheese fries and sloppy joe that had followed hot wings and a couple of beers. “You’re going to kill yourself eating like that!”
The patient turned to her with a ferocious look. “The only thing that’s going to kill me is your cookin’!” he growled.
The wife’s hand flew to her heart. “My cooking!”
“Men weren’t made to eat like rabbits, Ethel. I’m losing my will to live with that diet you have me on.”
“That diet is supposed to save your hide!” Ethel’s eyes blazed as they hooked on Brett’s. “He had a quadruple bypass last summer! Do your charts mention that? This man loves nothing more than a good stick of butter, I tell you.”
“I am aware of your husband’s medical history, but I can assure you, he is not having a heart attack.” Not today, at least. Brett scribbled a note on his pad and tore off the sheet. “Here’s the name of an over-the-counter antacid. And as much as you might not want to hear it, your wife is right. You can’t eat that way anymore.”
“What about my nachos?” the man grunted.
Brett handed the chart to the nurse, who was biting her lip as she unhooked the blood pressure cuff from the patient’s arm, and told her to start the discharge papers. His shift was nearly halfway over and so far he’d treated a spider bite, a sprained ankle, a broken arm, and, of course, heartburn.
Oddly enough, he was more tired than ever. Without the surge of adrenaline kicking through his veins, the hours ticked by slowly, and he’d spent entirely too much time thinking of Ivy Birch and the way he’d felt when he’d caught her fall yesterday. It had taken everything in him to finally let her go, and that was only once he’d come to his senses and realized he was holding on to her well past the point of her being in danger of falling. What had started out as a knee-jerk response to help had resulted in lingering thoughts of the kiss they’d shared, the softness of her skin, the way she’d sighed into his ear, sending a surge of heat straight to his groin.
It was pointless to be thinking this way. Even if he wanted to—and maybe he did—he couldn’t kiss Ivy again. Next time there wouldn’t be a party to get back to, or friends just around the corner—there would be nothing holding him back from taking it further. And oh, had he wanted to take it further. He’d thought she had, too. Now… He frowned. He wasn’t so sure.
Normally girls would be calling and leaving tearful voicemails after he’d given them “the talk,” but Ivy had been strangely detached. She’d almost seemed confused by his need to explain. If he didn’t know better, he’d almost say she was… uninterested.
It was better this way, he told himself. The last thing he needed was some girl getting all emotional on him, wanting more than he could give, and making things worse than they had to be. For both of them. It was for the best that she wasn’t interested in him. One hundred percent for the best.
His jaw tensed, and he squinted at the clock, trying to clear his head.
Right. Time for another coffee.
The chief of staff met him at the vending machine as he was retrieving a stale-looking premade sandwich in a sad plastic container. “Dr. Hastings, do you have a moment?”
Brett felt his pulse skip, and he mentally tallied up everything he might have done wrong that day, coming up blank. Still, his mouth went dry as he nodded. “Sure.”
“As you might be aware, each year Forest Ridge Hospital hosts a fundraiser. The proceeds go to one specific project of the board’s choosing.”
Brett inhaled. It was crazy, he knew, to assume the worst, to start replaying the morning, thinking of how he might have slipped, messed up. It had been happening ever since that night—even though he’d been more diligent than ever. He was shaky, off his game, and he didn’t like it. Even when he was fresh on the floor, a first-year resident, he’d been confident and eager. But then, no one had died on his watch yet.
“Dr. Kessler, who usually helps oversee the planning of the event, fell over the weekend and broke her knee.” The chief tutted under his breath. “Climbing a ladder to clean out her gutters. Don’t get me started.”
Brett popped the lid on the container and took out half of the sandwich. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yes, so am I. I depend on my staff to take care of themselves. Their patients do, too.” He shook his head. “I was thinking you might want to stand in her place.”
The stale bread lodged in his throat, and Brett pumped his fist to his chest to get it down. “Oversee the hospital fundraiser? I’m not really qualified for that sort of thing.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t need to do much. It’s the same venue each year, and Dr. Kessler already had most of the details in order. We’d need your help spreading the word about the silent auction, and cohosting the event, with me. A few hours a week of your time at most.”
Brett started to protest again, but the chief silenced him. “This year’s proceeds go to the new oncology wing. With you being back in the area, you were the first person I thought of.” The reason behind this didn’t need to be explained, and it underscored all of Brett’s trepidations about returning to Briar Creek. He didn’t want to think about that time in his life, and here… he couldn’t get away from it. “But if you’re not interested, I understand.”
Brett considered his options. There was no way he could turn down the request now, not when the only reason his mother was still alive was the very department the benefit was helping. And it wouldn’t hurt his résumé, either, he thought, thinking of the position in DC he was planning on applying to this week.
“Happy to help,” he said.
“Good! Excellent. One of the vendors is on her way in now to go over some plans. If you have a minute—”
A minute? Unless something that required more than a nurse’s skills presented itself soon, he had all day. He had his phone and pager. And talking about a fundraiser was slightly less depressing than listening to Ethel reprimand her husband about his inhalation of fried mozzarella sticks.
“That new Dr. Hastings is so cute. When he smiles…” The nurse pushed out her lips and wiggled her hips.
“Hey, I saw him first,” another woman in scrubs said as she approached the receptionist’s desk. “But then, you’d have to be blind not to see a man like that.”
“Oh, the sound of that voice would be music enough,” the first nurse replied.
A third nurse appeared and set her files on the desk with a sense of purpose. “He doesn’t have a girlfriend. Not yet anyway.”
A round of giggles erupted. Ivy rolled her eyes. Honestly, to hear these women talk, you’d think Brett was Adonis or something!
She wondered what they would say if she told them that she had had the unique—well, maybe not so unique, she realized with a start—pleasure of having kissed Dr. Hastings. That his hand had grazed her breast, that his teeth had teased her earlobe. That she could tell them in vivid detail exactly what his hair smelled like (wood and spice), what his mouth tasted like (mint and scotch), and that it was probably even better than they dared to imagine.
They’d be riveted, she knew. Or more determined than ever.
And she didn’t like the idea of one of them catching Brett’s eye. The possibility of it depressed her.
She suddenly felt a stab of jealousy that these women had the pleasure of seeing Brett for hours on end, day after day, that they were innocent to his easy charm and loose laughter. Then she remembered just how difficult it had been seeing Brett the past two days and told herself it
was for the best. He might make good eye candy, but keeping her wits together around him was too exhausting. And deflating. It was better to keep her distance until this ridiculous crush had passed.
“Can I help you?” The receptionist, who had been happily joining in the love fest over Brett, finally noticed her standing there.
“I’m here for a meeting about the fundraiser. I’m Ivy Birch, the florist,” she added.
“Oh. Certainly.” The woman picked up the phone and made a quick call before setting back the receiver. “Room one twelve. Just down the hall and to your right.” She smiled warmly and then quickly pivoted her chair to join in the gossip once again.
Ivy began walking in the direction she had been told. Her eyes darted to the sides, daring for a glance of Brett, but then she squared her shoulders and huffed out a breath. The emergency room was in the opposite direction—she knew from past experience—and Brett was probably hard at work saving a life at this very minute, not roaming the halls or standing around to chat with the ladies at the nursing station. If she wanted to make a good impression on Dr. Kessler, she’d have to stay focused. Too much was at stake here, given the amount of income and exposure an event like this could bring her. She was a strong, assertive businesswoman on a professional errand. Now wasn’t the time to be getting all weak-kneed and starry-eyed over what was simply a good-looking man who wasn’t available.
She thought of the designs she’d come up with and carried in her tote and felt her spirits lift. She could only hope Dr. Kessler would be as happy with them as she was, but if past experience had taught her anything, it was that working with Dr. Kessler wasn’t going to be any trouble at all.
She stopped outside room 112 and tapped her knuckles on the slightly open door. Poking her head in, she had opened her mouth to voice a greeting when her breath stalled in her lungs. His back was to her, but she would know that hair anywhere. She’d memorized it, staring at the back of his head in honors English both junior and senior year. The silky brown waves, the way they curled slightly at the nape of his neck. Those shoulders…
Quickly, she snatched her head back, checked the room number again, and began power-walking back to the receptionist desk. That darn girl had been so enraptured by Brett’s beauty that she had clearly given Ivy the number to the exact room he was sitting in, not the room she should be going to.
“Excuse me?” a man’s voice boomed down the hall, and Ivy stopped and turned.
She tipped her head at the older doctor in the business shirt, tie, and white coat who was standing with one foot outside the door she’d just fled. “Sorry. I had the wrong room. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Are you the florist?”
She paused. “Well, yes, actually. I’m looking for Dr. Kessler.”
He gave her a wan smile. “Dr. Kessler wasn’t able to make it today.”
“Oh.” Ivy felt her shoulders slump. She’d had to ask Jane to come in an hour early so she could make this appointment. She had eight orders to fill and deliver before the end of the day, and with every minute that went by, she was falling that much further behind. “Well, thank you for letting me know.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t been clear. Dr. Kessler is on medical leave. She broke her knee over the weekend.” He held up his hand when he heard her gasp. “She’ll be fine but she needs surgery. Anyway, she won’t be overseeing the fundraiser this year, but, please, come in. I’d like to go over everything.”
Ivy didn’t move from her place. She glanced at the open door. “Come in… there?”
The doctor nodded with impatience and Ivy hesitated. Finally, on a sigh, she began the short walk back to room 112, where Brett sat waiting. It was the first time she’d seen him in scrubs, looking casual and capable and irresistible all at once. Just another image she’d now have to work hard to banish.
“Ivy.” Shock registered on his face, pulling his thick brows to a point over his hawklike eyes.
She gave him a casual smile. “Brett. I wondered if I’d see you here.”
“You two know each other?” asked the older doctor, whose name badge read Dr. Feldman.
“Brett and I grew up together,” Ivy explained before Brett had the chance to say anything that would further humiliate her. He’d already told her he didn’t want to pursue things; she didn’t need him reminding her of it on every occasion they happened to see each other.
“Great. Well, Dr. Hastings is taking over the fundraiser in Dr. Kessler’s absence. Seeing as you’re already acquainted, I’ll leave you to it.”
Ivy felt her mouth gape but no sound came out. She watched with a pounding heart as Dr. Feldman left the room, leaving her alone with the one person she was hoping to avoid for at least a week, or a month, or, if there was any chance of getting over this crush again, until she was happily married with a baby on the way.
She glanced at Brett. Nope. Not awkward. Not in the slightest.
“I hadn’t realized you were overseeing this,” she said, pulling out a chair across the table.
He ran a hand over his square jaw, and in the otherwise quiet room, she made out the crackle of stubble. “I hadn’t either until five minutes ago.”
Ivy unzipped her bag. The sooner she got to work, the sooner she could get out of here, away from him and this endless reminder of how foolish she’d been to think there was any hope of a future with this man.
“Well, I have a few examples for the centerpieces. I can change the scale for bar tables or—”
“I don’t care what the flowers look like.”
Ivy stilled. She thought of the hours she’d put into making her presentation just right. The consideration she’d put into the color scheme, careful to include the right touch of elegance, set the right tone for the audience. Some of the neighboring towns’ most successful businesspeople and benefactors would be in attendance. It was her chance to shine.
“Still, you should give me your opinion.” This wasn’t going to be all on her if she got it wrong. Dr. Kessler would have had something to say about the options, and she would have been happy to hear it. Ignoring his protests, she reached into her bag and pulled out the folder full of designs and photographs from previous events.
She slid them across the table to Brett, who studied them with a bored expression and then shrugged.
“Whatever you think is best. Do you think we even need flowers?”
Ivy managed not to roll her eyes. “It’s a black-tie affair. Yes.”
“What about candles instead?”
Wait? Was he trying to push her out of the job? Or just cut costs? She stared at him, trying to judge his position. “We could do candles, too,” she said carefully.
Brett made a face as he leaned back in his chair. “I don’t really like flowers.”
Ivy blinked. “I’m sorry; did I just hear you say that you don’t like flowers? Who doesn’t like flowers?”
Brett jutted his lower lip. “I don’t.”
Ivy’s shoulders sagged as she continued to stare at him, incredulous. “I just… I mean… flowers. What’s not to like?”
A shadow crossed his face. “You wouldn’t understand.”
She resented that assumption. She may look like someone who’d enjoyed the simple pleasures of small-town life, but she knew all about the dark underbelly, and something in Brett’s tone told her that, like herself, he had a few demons. “Try me.”
Brett dragged out a sigh and tented his fingers on the table as he leaned forward. “When you see flowers, you see something pretty. Something cheerful and uplifting. Am I right?”
She widened her eyes. As if that much wasn’t obvious. “Yes.”
“Well, when I see flowers, I see something else. They, well… I guess you could say they feel like a bad omen.”
“You must see plenty of flowers around the hospital,” Ivy considered. She personally delivered several bouquets here a week, never to the actual patients, but to the front desk.
“Exactly.” Brett’s to
ne was firm, and there was an edge of something she couldn’t quite place. Sadness, she realized. Of course. She hadn’t stopped to consider what he must see every day in his job.
Still… “So you’re telling me you’ve never sent a girl flowers?”
A knowing smile played on his lips. “Well, I never said that…”
Ivy’s eyes narrowed. She shouldn’t have asked if she didn’t want to hear the answer. And she shouldn’t be feeling jealous over the thought of some woman she would never know receiving flowers from Brett. Would she really want flowers from a man who had no intention of investing in her?
She stole a glance at that square jaw and the perfect slope of his nose and realized, sadly, she just might.
But then she would be right back here again. Right back here without a hope or a prayer of him actually caring about her on a deeper level.
“Well, I’m not here to discuss your seduction tactics,” she huffed, gathering her folder. “Do I have the job or not?”
He looked startled. “Excuse me?”
She stood, shoving the folder back into her bag. “Do you want me to do the flowers or not?” He liked to tell it straight, and she didn’t have time to sit around, hinging on his whims anymore.
He was his feet now, too, towering a good six inches above her, and even from across the table she could see the laugh lines around his eyes, the squint of confusion as he stumbled on his words. At first glance, they looked like such kind eyes. Sincere and warm, with just the right amount of depth. Except Brett wasn’t looking for anything deep, was he?
And she wasn’t looking for anything surface level.
Brett had nothing to offer her in this moment. Except this job.
“If you think flowers are really needed—”
“I do.” For the love of God! She opened her eyes wider, lest she roll them in front of him. The man might be able to charm a woman with a flash of that smile, but he had a lot to learn when it came to appealing to female sensibilities. What was he going to tell her next, that he didn’t like chocolate?
“Then great. Thanks for the help. I know where to find you if I have any questions.”
