Chapter 9
CATHERINE
The hospital was the one place where Catherine Harrington never faltered.
Here, precision was everything. There was no room for hesitation, no space for second-guessing.
Work had always been her refuge, the one thing she could control in a life that had taught her that emotions were weaknesses and attachment was dangerous.
So why the hell couldn’t she focus?
She tapped the end of her pen against the thick glass of her desk, her eyes flicking to her phone for what had to be the fifth time in as many minutes. It remained dark and silent, offering no distractions, at least not physical ones. Her mind, however, was another matter.
This was ridiculous. She didn’t wait for messages. She certainly didn’t expect them. And yet, some part of her had spent the last few days anticipating a text from Sloane that never came.
Catherine exhaled sharply, pushing the thought away as she pulled up a patient’s file on her computer. There were test results to review, upcoming surgeries to prepare for, and an entire department to run. She didn’t have time for distractions.
She refused to be distracted.
A knock at the door interrupted her silent battle with herself. Before she could answer, Olivia slipped inside, closing the door behind her with a casual ease that only a sibling would dare.
"Wow, you’re lost in your mind," Olivia said, her tone matter-of-fact as she perched on the edge of Catherine’s desk.
Catherine didn’t look up. "I’m focused."
"Focused on what? Because it sure as hell isn’t that file."
Catherine let out a slow breath, forcing herself to relax as she leveled a cool gaze at her sister. "Do you need something, Olivia, or did you just come in here to psychoanalyze me?"
Olivia crossed her arms, tilting her head. "I don’t need to analyze anything. You’re off, Catherine."
Catherine’s jaw tightened. "I don’t get ‘off.’"
"Right. And yet, you’ve been on edge for days. Your usual brand of iciness is…slipping."
Catherine rolled her eyes, reaching for her coffee and taking a drawn-out sip before responding. "That’s absurd."
Olivia smirked. "Is it?"
Catherine hated the way her younger sister could see through her and read between the lines of her silence. She was the only one in the family who had ever really tried to.
"Is this about work?" Olivia continued, studying her. "Because you only get this tense when you’re either overthinking a case or—" She paused, and then her expression shifted into something dangerously perceptive. "Or when someone gets under your skin."
Catherine stilled, just for a fraction of a second, but it was enough.
Olivia’s smirk widened. "Ah. So that’s what this is about."
Catherine exhaled slowly, setting her coffee cup down with a measured calm. "You’re imagining things."
Olivia shook her head. "Nope. You are. And let me guess, you keep telling yourself you’re not thinking about her, but that’s all you’ve been doing, isn’t it?"
Catherine picked up a pen, tapping it against the desk. "Do you need something, Olivia?"
Her sister grinned. "No, but you do."
Catherine sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Go away."
Olivia laughed, standing. "Fine, fine. Just…maybe don’t fight whatever this is so hard, Catherine. You might actually like it if you let yourself."
Catherine didn’t respond as Olivia left, but her words echoed long after the door clicked shut.
The procedure had been a success, but Catherine’s irritation simmered just beneath the surface as she stripped off her gloves and surgical gown, tossing them into the bin with more force than necessary.
The new robotic surgical system had been touted as the latest and greatest in precision technology, an investment Evelyn Harrington had personally pushed through the board, but it wasn’t functioning as seamlessly as it should have.
There had been a delay mid-operation, a glitch in the robotic arm’s calibration, and though Catherine had course-corrected with her own steady hands, the moment had been enough to send her blood pressure spiking. The hospital prided itself on excellence, and anything short of that was unacceptable.
Worse, she could already imagine the conversation with her mother.
A malfunction, a slight hesitation, a minor complication—none of it would be acceptable in Evelyn’s eyes.
With a controlled exhale, Catherine rolled her shoulders back, releasing some of the tension that had coiled there, and stepped out of the operating room.
The hallway was quiet, late enough that most of the staff had either left or were tucked away in their respective departmental wings.
The weight of the day pressed on her as she made her way back to her office, running a hand through her hair, mentally preparing herself for the emails she would have to send and the reports she needed to review before she could even consider going home.
But the moment she stepped inside, something made her pause.
There, on her desk, was a single folded piece of paper.
Catherine frowned. She had locked her office before heading to surgery. No one should have been able to get in here.
She stepped forward cautiously, her heels clicking softly against the floor as she reached for the note. The paper was thick, textured beneath her fingertips, and when she unfolded it, a familiar scrawl met her eyes.
Dr. Harrington,
I figured you’d need another distraction by now. Meet me at the gallery tonight.
If you’re not too busy being important.
– Sloane
Catherine forcefully exhaled, equal parts amused and annoyed.
Her fingers traced over the ink, running absently along the loops of Sloane’s handwriting.
A distraction.
She should toss it in the trash. She should ignore it entirely, go home, get some sleep, and pretend like this wasn’t happening.
But she didn’t move.
Instead, she let herself read the note again, slower this time, letting the familiar warmth settle in her chest.
Sloane had somehow gotten inside her office. The woman was infuriatingly persistent, impossible to ignore, and slipping into her life as easily as if she belonged there.
And the worst part? Catherine wasn’t sure she minded.
She sank into her chair, the exhaustion from the day catching up with her, but for the first time in hours, she felt something other than frustration.
She felt…lighter.
The realization made her grip tighten on the note, like holding onto it might keep that feeling in place.
The day had been nothing but back-to-back deadlines and expectations. And then, in the middle of it all, this. A piece of Sloane left behind for her to find.
A challenge. An invitation.
She knew she shouldn’t go.
She knew she would.
Catherine let out a breath, shaking her head at herself.
Finally, for the first time, she let herself admit the truth.
She wanted to see her.
The gallery was dimly lit, the warm glow from scattered spotlights casting long shadows against the exposed brick walls.
The scent of paint and varnish lingered in the air, mingling with something distinctly Sloane, a mix of jasmine, ink, and that wild, untamed energy she carried everywhere she went.
Catherine stepped inside, her footsteps nearly silent against the polished concrete floor. The space was quiet and intimate, the usual buzz of patrons and art lovers absent.
And then she saw her.
Sloane stood near the center of the gallery, her back turned, stretching a fresh canvas onto a large frame.
The fabric tensed beneath her hands, her movements slow and smooth.
A streak of charcoal smudged her forearm, and the way her dark rust colored curls tumbled loosely over her shoulders gave her an almost untouchable quality, like something out of a painting herself.
Catherine inhaled deeply before speaking. “I assume you’re not breaking into your own gallery.”
Sloane stilled for only a fraction of a second before turning, that familiar, slow-burning grin creeping across her lips.
“Dr. Harrington,” she drawled, as if Catherine’s presence wasn’t the exact thing she had been waiting for. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Catherine lifted the note from her pocket, unfolding it carefully. “Your invitation was rather…insistent.”
Sloane wiped her hands on a rag, watching her with an unreadable expression. “I like to think of it as encouragement.”
Catherine hummed, stepping further into the space, her eyes flickering over the canvases leaning against the walls. The colors were bold, reckless, and full of movement. They looked like emotions had been poured onto them.
And then she spotted a piece set apart from the others, barely illuminated by the golden glow of the nearest light.
It wasn’t a portrait, not exactly. But it was her.
The long, sweeping lines of the figure were unmistakable. She recognized the curve of her own jaw, the arch of her neck, the tension in her hands that had spent a lifetime holding onto control. It was the feeling of herself, captured in brushstrokes and smudged charcoal.
Catherine swallowed, her pulse a steady thrum against her ribs.
Sloane stepped beside her, quiet for a moment before saying softly, “I didn’t mean to paint you.”
Catherine turned, eyes searching hers.
Sloane tilted her head, lips curving into something softer, something almost vulnerable. “But there you were, in every brushstroke.”
Catherine’s breath hitched. It was too much, too exposed, the truth of it pressing against the edges of everything she had spent years fortifying.
And yet, she didn’t walk away.
Sloane’s gaze held hers, steady, waiting. “Tell me you don’t feel it, Catherine.”
Catherine’s fingers curled into fists at her sides, every muscle wound tight.
There was no escape from this, not when Sloane was standing so close, not when her words were wrapping around Catherine like silk, not when her own body was betraying her with the need to close the last inch of space between them.
Sloane wasn’t going to move first. Not this time.