Beth Andrews - Small-Town Redemption

She blanched. “It was reflex, okay?”

His grin turned absolutely wicked. “Sure. Some people just can’t handle certain smells. Or sounds. Or stomach contents being—”

“I get it,” she said. “Jeez, you lose your cool one time and you never hear the end of it.”

Most cases she handled without a problem. Blood, even copious amounts squirting from one of the main arteries? Keep pressure on it. Broken bone sticking through the skin? Make the patient as comfortable as possible and send them up to X-Ray. Mangled flesh, infected cuts, snotty noses, puss-oozing polyps? No problem.

But no matter how hard she tried, her stomach rebelled each and every time a patient puked. Oh, she did her job. Made sure the patient was taken care of, called janitorial to clean up the mess.

Then she’d head to the nearest bathroom and promptly lose whatever she had in her stomach.

It was annoying. Interfered with her doing her job. But mostly, it was humiliating.

“Nurse!”

At the sharp bark, Char jumped and whirled around. She saw Dr. Stockdale—with her linebacker’s build and coarse gray hair pulled back in a severe bun—bearing down on her and Leo. The physician’s high-stepping, arm-pumping walk clearly said, I move at this incredible speed because I am superior to you in every way.

A belief she never let the people who worked with her forget.

“You need to give her your best De Niro,” Leo whispered out of the side of his mouth.

Char didn’t take her eyes off the older lady. Kept her own voice low. “I think by this time in her life she has plenty of money of her own.”

He laughed. “Not dinero. De. Niro. As in Robert. You know. You talkin’ to me?”

Char snorted out a laugh, then quickly schooled her features into a calm, expectant expression. “I bet she’d just love that.”

Dr. Stockdale got closer and closer, making it pretty darn obvious she was, indeed, talking to Charlotte. Char leaned back, realized what she was doing and that it could be construed as intimidation, and straightened. “Yes, Doctor?” she asked, all pleasant and professional.

Ha. Take that, you old biddy.

Dr. Stockdale, clearly not grasping the concept of personal space, didn’t stop until the toes of her ugly brown pumps bumped Char’s sneakers. “Why hasn’t my patient been taken up for a CT scan?”

“And which patient would that be?” Char asked, sounding quite reasonable. Easy enough to do when compared with the doctor’s strident tone.

Dr. Stockdale waved her hand vaguely in the direction of the west hallway. “My patient in room 9.”

“I’m not actually the nurse for that patient,” Char said. “But I’d be happy to find out who is and they can check on the delay for you.”

“Oh, never mind,” Dr. Stockdale snapped, already whirling around, the hem of her mid-calf-length skirt hitting Char’s legs. “I’ll do it myself.” She searched the empty hallway and, despite there being no other people around, bellowed, “Nurse!” as she stormed off.

“I’m not sure which one is worse,” Leo said. “Her or Hamilton.”

Dr. Nathan Hamilton’s resignation from the hospital—due to an icky and completely perverted incident involving a consenting twenty-two-year-old certified nursing assistant, three silk ties and a few chairs from the X-ray wing’s waiting room—had led to Dr. Stockdale being hired.

It still ticked Charlotte off. Not that Hamilton had quit—she thanked God for that. But that, despite the numerous complaints filed against him, he hadn’t been fired.

“You only say that because Dr. Hamilton—” also known as Hands-On Hamilton, as in he-got-his-hands-on-everyone “—didn’t try to grope you on a regular basis,” Charlotte told Leo.

“Don’t be too sure about that.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Oh, really? Do tell.”

“Sorry,” he said as his partner, Forrest Young, stepped up to them. “I don’t spill sordid details with a woman unless she buys me dinner first.”

“You want to know something about this joker?” Forrest asked her, wrapping his arm around Leo’s neck. Forrest, as homely as Leo was handsome, was a favorite among the E.R. staff due to his laid-back disposition and sense of humor. “You just ask me.” He grinned and squeezed Leo’s neck, causing Leo’s head to bob. “I know all his secrets.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she told him as Jocelyn came out of the room. Leo untangled himself from Forrest’s grip and they left with a wave. Char turned to her coworker.

“He’s all yours,” Jocelyn said. “Though I wish I didn’t have to pick up Michael from the sitter’s.” She nodded toward the room. “That is one seriously yummy man.”

As if to make her words more believable, Jocelyn gave an exaggerated shiver of delight that had everything, breasts and ample hips especially, shimmying. Four inches shorter than Char, her friend was curvy with dark hair, red lips and nails, and a penchant for bad boys and one-night stands.

She also had a three-year-old son she adored who wasn’t feeling well, forcing Jocelyn to leave work early.

“You said that about the appendectomy two weeks ago, remember? The one with the porno mustache?”

“I’m telling you, under that furry thing was a handsome man. And did you see his six-pack?”

It would have been unprofessional to point out she’d seen pretty much every inch of him. “I think I’ll stick with clean-shaven men just the same.”

“He—” Jocelyn jerked her thumb at the door behind Char “—has that stubbly thing going on. Plus I saw ink. You know how much I love tattoos on a man. If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll get to see his body art up close and personal.”

“There’s not much personal about helping a patient get undressed or examining them.”

“Please,” Jocelyn said, handing Char the patient’s chart, “it’s the only reason I busted my very cute butt at nursing school.”

Smiling, Char shook her head and knocked on the door as Jocelyn flipped her hair and sauntered off, the very cute butt she was so proud of wiggling.

Char was still smiling as she opened the door, scanning the patient’s chart. Her smile slid away when she read the name at the top of the form, written in Jocelyn’s neat handwriting.

No. It couldn’t be.

“If it isn’t Little Red,” a husky, male voice said. Her head snapped up as Kane’s gaze drifted lazily over her, from the top of her hair to her sensible shoes. She had a feeling if he could have, he would have raised one eyebrow in scorn. As it was, both brows were lowered, probably due to pain. “Cute PJs.”

She strangled the doorknob. Pretended it was his neck. Kept her lips pressed tightly together. It was better than informing him of the difference between sleepwear and her favorite scrubs—purple pants, lighter purple long-sleeved tee under a floral top.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but when she opened them, Kane remained. No figment of her imagination, no hallucination brought on by a strong resemblance and bad lighting. He was here.

He was also her patient. Hers to take care of.

Fan-freaking-tastic.

Damn it. She should have known it was him from the way she’d reacted to the sight of his legs. It was as if every time she was around him, her body went haywire. Hot. Then cold. Then hot again.

And that was just from getting a glance at his legs and feet. His feet, for God’s sake.

He shifted. Winced and blew out a breath from between his teeth. “Speechless?”

Maybe it was the pain she saw in his eyes, the way he went white with it. Or maybe it was the decidedly missing mocking tone from his voice. Or, she thought as she took in his appearance, it could be his torn clothes and the many bloody gashes on his person. Whatever it was, she snapped out of her reverie. She had a job to do and she’d lick the bottom of his stupid, scarred boots before she’d let him get to her. Even for a moment.