I knew we’d be best buds for life when she’d made it her secret mission to help me achieve my goals in landing him. In return, I had promised her a spot in our wedding.
“Well, you know that bar right down the street, The Bartlett?” Sarah’s copper eyes widened with delight. “I know for a fact that your man and a bunch of other good-looking residents are meeting there tomorrow night.”
She gripped my forearm a little harder than expected, startling me. “So are you going with me?”
“Uh, yeah, hello?” I absently rubbed at my arms, lifting an eyebrow at the silly question. “You did say my doctor would be going.”
She chuckled and let out a hushed squeal.
Why hadn’t I thought to track him down outside of work? I’m surprised I hadn’t stalked him sooner. This would be the first time I’d see him out of the hospital.
Now what would I wear? My brain started going off on a tangent. I’d been working on getting him to ask me out on a date, purely by being my charming self, but now I had the chance to dress to impress. “Let me know the time and I’m there. I’ll be bringing sexy back.”
We gave each other a grinning high-five before discussing the plan.
My phone buzzed in my pocket interrupting our giddy session and indicating a new patient. “Hey, I’ll check you later. Let me know a time tomorrow.”
She reached over and gave me a hug, practically killing me with her squeeze. It was obvious she was excited to play cupid, a role she played often. “See you later,” she sang, turning to head down the hall.
I picked up the phone, the nurse informing me that my next patient was a kid with a busted knee. “Room one-oh-three? Okay, I’m on it.” I slipped the phone back into my pocket and rushed down the hall.
When I heard the high-pitched wails of a young child, I charged toward the room, ready to spring into action. “Hi, I’m Kendall Miller,” I said in my professional but warm nurse tone.
I stuck out my hand, automatically introducing myself to the child’s mother. But then I reeled back when I saw a familiar redhead—Clary Clensen, Bowlesville’s biggest skank.
My blood pressure rose. Had I straight up died and gone to Hell? I searched frantically around the room. Maybe I could run out and get her another nurse before she recognized me.
“Oh my goodness, Kendy!” Clary clasped her hands together as her son, no more than four, continued to wail in front of her. An older woman was cradling the boy in her arms as Clary’s protruding eyes scrutinized me.
She was wearing four-inch Louboutins designer shoes, and sitting at the edge of the bed was her Chanel purse, chilling like there was no tomorrow.
Funny how she acted with forced excitement, happy to see me, when we both knew we hated each other’s guts.
“Kendall,” I corrected her, adding under my breath, “Only my friends call me Kendy.” Even though everyone in my small town called me Kendy, I refused to be called a beloved nickname by this hooch.
I would never forgive her for what she’d done. Never. Ever. Even when I was ten feet under dirt.
“You’re a . . . nurse?” There it was—the condescending edge to her tone.
It took all my self-control to force a smile. “Yep.” I moved past her to wash my hands and slip on gloves. Regardless of how much we despised each other, there was a hurt child in front of me, and I had a job to do.
I advanced toward the cute child with a full head of short brown curls. “Shhh. It’s okay, buddy,” I told the little boy. He cowered inward, now sobbing quietly, but I couldn’t get a direct look at his knee. “I need to see your owie, bud. So I can make it better.”
I gave him a small smile, though he paid no attention since the pain consumed him.
I turned to Clary. “What happened?”
“I’m not too sure. I wasn’t there.” She turned to the older woman. “Anne?”
“He slipped and fell against a glass table.” Anne rocked the boy, held him against her chest and continually rubbed his arms to calm him.
My smile turned sympathetic. This was not going to be fun. Even being a nurse, I still hated watching people in pain, but seeing kids hurting tore at my insides. Each and every time, I’d wish it was me instead. Or even better—some other mean bitch, like Clary. Why couldn’t she have fallen on the glass table?
“We’re going to have him lay down,” I said firmly.
The little boy started to scream, and Clary narrowed her eyes at him, propping one hand on her hip. “Billy Bob, you need to quiet it down.”
My eyebrows shot to the ceiling.
Billy Bob? What the hell? We’re not in Bowlesville anymore.
Sighing, I turned to Clary. “Can you hold him still? I’ll need to examine his wound and get a better look to see if he’ll need stitches.”
Clary just stood stoic in her spot.
I quirked an eyebrow at her and waited for her to react. Do something. Anything. In the next second, I was about to cross the professional line and smack her on the side of her head.
“Anne will lay him down. She’s his nanny.”
I rolled my eyes as I moved toward the poor child.
Focus on the task at hand.
Billy Bob started to flail his arms as Anne tried to restrain him against the hospital bed. Blood trickled from his wound, spilling over to the white linen. The scent of iron, a familiar scent in my line of business, hit my nostrils.
I shot Clary an impatient look. “You’ll need to hold his lower body.”
Anne continued to kiss the boy’s forehead while his own freaking mother stood there, fidgeting with her bracelet, looking like she was afraid to break a nail.
I shot daggers at her. Any moment now I was about to let her have it, but finally Clary removed her jacket, rolled up her sleeves in slow motion, and held his sides, as if her child wasn’t wailing and his knee wasn’t oozing blood.
I leaned in to get a better look. When I swiped the infected area with an alcohol swab, he flinched and his cries heightened.
“It’s okay, buddy. We’ll get you better.”
I stepped back, reached into my pocket, and paged Dr. Klein. A few minutes later, he entered our room and Chlamydia Clary—as I had nicknamed her way back when—suddenly and mysteriously brightened up.
Surprise, surprise.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Klein.” He gave Clary his professional smile before his eyes focused on the boy, assessing him from across the room. His voice softened as he approached the hospital bed. “It’s okay. I’m here to fix you all up.”
Clary straightened her shirt and displayed her winning smile as she stepped away from the child. I stood there, frozen, and gawked as they shook hands.
Oh, hell no.
I stood taller, my bones tensing like a cat ready to spring in between them.
“It’s okay, Billy Bob,” Clary cooed as she replaced Anne and held her son.
Unbelievable. A minute ago, she’d wanted nothing to do with him.
In my periphery, I saw Dr. Klein’s mouth twitch at the boy’s name. Though Clary’s fakeness raked on my nerves, I released a dry cynical chuckle. Being fake was my biggest pet peeve. You should never be fake, unless a man was lying on top of you and you wanted to spare his feelings.
Dr. Klein continued with protocol, asking the questions he needed to ask before he continued with the stitches. The laceration stretched deep enough you could see the child’s muscle. His wound spanned more than one-fourth of an inch deep, verifying the need for stitches. I assisted and held the boy down, watching Dr. Klein’s hands administer a numbing shot and steadily mend the boy’s wounds. His fingers moved slowly and deliberately, and my imagination went wild, visualizing how his hands would feel on me. With the same precision, I was sure.
“So, Billy, are you into any sports?” Dr. Klein’s head peeked up as he continued to suture the cut. “Are you a Mets or Yankees fan?”
The diversion was working as the boy mouthed Mets through his tear-filled eyes.