Chapter 11
ELEVEN
LUKE
“You should go easy on the sit-ups, man,” Austin teases when he finds me in the gym in our condo building. “I heard your abs of steel gave some kid a nosebleed.”
A week has passed since the nosebleed incident, and I was starting to hope the story hadn’t spread. Clearly, I was overly optimistic.
“Where’d you hear that?” I ask, stepping onto the treadmill.
“Nick shared it to the residents’ WhatsApp group.” Austin grins as he takes the treadmill next to me. “Most of the department’s heard about it. Nick said the mom was hot.”
“Nick should learn to keep his mouth shut,” I growl.
Austin raises an eyebrow. “You liked her.”
“Austin, I operated on her kid!”
He shrugs as he punches buttons to start his treadmill. “So? You didn’t operate on the mom, so it wouldn’t be dating a patient. If you wait a few weeks, it’s probably fine. When’s she bringing the kid for follow-up?”
“I don’t know when she’s coming for follow-up!” I retort. It’s a lie, because I’m well aware that Claire’s booked for next Tuesday. “And I can’t date a patient’s mom.”
The morning after Claire ended up in the ICU, I looked up the Medical Board’s policy on relationships with patients. It’s frustratingly vague, and says it may be inappropriate for a doctor to have a sexual relationship with someone closely associated with a patient.
So. A sexual relationship with Melissa might be considered professional misconduct. Then again, it might not. Gotta love the Medical Board and their ambiguous rules.
And much as I hate the rule, I understand it.
Melissa’s just dealt with the stress of her daughter’s illness.
When she asked to meet for coffee, it wasn’t because she wanted to have coffee with Luke Carlton; it was because she wanted to thank the doctor who helped her daughter.
The problem is, there’s no way I could spend more time with Melissa without wanting to get in her pants.
So I have to back off. Fate has already determined that Melissa and I aren’t meant to be together, and only an idiot would go there again.
“I’m not sure it’s against the rules,” Austin says thoughtfully. “And according to Nick, the abs of steel joke came from her, so she hit on you first.”
“She wasn’t hitting on me.” Melissa had seen I was upset about Liam’s nosebleed, and had simply been trying to lighten the mood. “And it doesn’t matter, since she’s not my type.”
And I haven’t spent the past week dreaming of how her breasts would feel in my hands.
I jab at the treadmill display to push the pace, taking it to a speed I can barely maintain. My muscles are screaming in protest; I’ve been working out hard this week, trying to get my mind off Melissa.
As I expected, Austin increases his speed to match mine, and soon we’re both breathing too hard to talk. Austin’s my best friend, and there’s no reason I shouldn’t tell him the truth: that Melissa and I dated for over six years. And even though I thought I was over her, I was probably wrong.
I will my brain to think of other things, and I run down my mental list of things I need to do. Run a load of laundry. Buy a birthday card for my secretary. Write Nick a reference letter for his fellowship application.
But after hearing that Nick called Melissa hot, I’m in no frame of mind to write him a reference letter.
Austin finally hits the button to stop his treadmill, but I force myself to run for another minute before doing the same. As we towel off, I check my phone and find a message from Sloane, asking if she can call to talk about our research project.
I can’t hide a sigh, and Austin looks at me curiously.
“Sloane,” I explain. “She wants to talk about the research project.”
“Sure she does,” Austin says with a knowing smile. “She’s not over you, man.”
“No, she just wants to finish the project,” I insist, hoping that’s all it is. “She’ll be applying for fellowships next year, and she needs the publication.”
“What’s the project?”
“Whether doctors should include their first names when they introduce themselves to patients.”
Austin snorts with laughter. “Seriously?”
“Sure,” I say, although I secretly agree with him. It’s a stupid project, and I can’t believe I let Sloane rope me into it. “It’s an important question, Austin. Patients might pay more for their nose jobs if you introduce yourself as Dr. Austin Davenport instead of just Dr. Davenport.”
“I just say, ‘I’m the doctor who’s going to make you beautiful,’” he jokes. “That’s all most people need to hear.”
I roll my eyes, and my phone pings again. I move to set it down when I realize that this text came from Melissa, not from Sloane.
Melissa: Can stress cause appendicitis?
I immediately type a reply.
Me: Of course not.
The real answer’s probably more nuanced than that—some doctors believe stress plays a role in all kinds of illnesses—but if Melissa’s worrying about this, she doesn’t need a nuanced answer. She needs reassurance.
And I wonder why she needs reassurance.
Me: Claire okay?
Melissa: Yeah, she’s fine.
Me: Claire’s mom okay?
Three dots appear, then disappear.
“We doing free weights?” Austin asks. “Or do you need to talk to Sloane?”
“Nah, I’m tired, and I operate tomorrow,” I tell him, ignoring the question about Sloane. “I’m gonna head upstairs.”
Austin gives me a nod goodbye as he picks up a set of dumbbells.
I ride the elevator to my condo with my eyes glued to my phone, waiting for Melissa’s reply. It finally arrives as I’m unlocking my door.
Melissa: I’m fine.
And before I can second-guess the decision, I swipe the button to call her.
She answers right away. “Luke.”
“Hey, Milly,” I say, stretching out on my couch in my sweaty workout clothes.
“I didn’t mean to bother you,” she says, an apology in her voice. “I shouldn’t have texted, but—”
“You’re not bothering me,” I interrupt, and it’s true. I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing right now. “Tell me why you’re wondering about stress and appendicitis.”
A heavy sigh. “I was talking to my mother today,” she begins, then pauses.
“I can see how that would be stressful,” I tease. “But you can’t get appendicitis a second time, Melissa, regardless of how often you talk to your mother.”
She chuckles. “I know that.” Another pause. “But she sort of implied that the stress of the divorce might have made Claire sick. You know, with the move to Somerset and everything.”
“I hope you told her that’s ridiculous?” I can just imagine Melissa’s mother saying it; she’s always been great at tearing down Melissa’s confidence under the guise of being concerned.
“Did you point out that you got appendicitis in high school, despite a home situation straight out of a fifties sitcom?”
Melissa laughs again. “I did, actually. Without the fifties sitcom reference, though.”
“Good. Tell her to call me if she has any more theories about your kids’ health.”
“She’d probably take you up on that.”
“No problem. I’ll set her straight.” I’m not thrilled about the prospect of talking to Melissa’s mother, but I’d rather she bother me than Melissa.
“She’s just worried about Claire, Luke. And maybe she’s right. Everyone says divorce is awful on kids, so—”
“Melissa, I’m sure you had a good reason to divorce him.” I remember the girl who came to the hospital with Troy. “He cheated on you, didn’t he?”
A pause. “Yeah.”
I never liked Troy, but now I despise him. “Then of course you had to end it.”
“I guess so,” she says, but there’s no confidence in her voice. “But a lot of women stay, for their kids’ sake, and he promised to give her up . . .”
It’s Melissa’s voice but her mother’s ideas, and now I’m furious at Mrs. Lawrence as well as at Troy. “But what sort of message would that send your daughter? Or your son?”
“I wasn’t planning to tell them Troy cheated,” she says dryly.
“No, but chances are they’ll find out eventually. And then they’d know you stayed with a man who didn’t respect you enough to be faithful.”
“I guess.”
“This way, even if your kids never find out what happened, they’ll know their mom was strong enough to stand up for herself. They’ll sense it, even if they don’t know why.”
“You think?”
“I know. You’re too good for him, Melissa. Always were.”
“Thanks, Luke,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I say gruffly. “What are you up to?”
“I’m in bed, but I couldn’t sleep.”
“Ah,” I say inarticulately. My first instinct is to ask her what she’s wearing, but I bite it back. I picture her in a T-shirt and panties, which is what she used to sleep in when we were together.
“Liam’s usually up by six, so by ten o’clock, I’m about done,” she continues.
“Right. You think you’ll be able to sleep now?”
She sighs. “Probably. Thanks, Luke.”
“Do you want me to read to you again? We didn’t finish the book the other night.”
“The duke one?” she asks with a chuckle. “You still have it?”
“Sure. I told you, Milly, it’s a classic.” I brought it home with me after that night in the call room, and it’s hidden in the back of my bedroom closet.
“Have you been reading it without me?” she teases.
“Of course not. I’ve been waiting for you.” I walk across my condo to get the book. “Put your phone on speaker, and set a sleep timer.”
“Okay. But Luke, I’m sure you have other things to do—”
“I don’t.”
“Okay.”
I put my phone on speaker and set it on the couch next to me, then open the book and flip to a chapter that looks promising.
“The duke galloped across the meadow—”
“Did the duke really gallop?” Melissa interrupts. “Or did his horse gallop?”
“If you’d let me finish the sentence, Milly, it might become clear.
” I clear my throat. “The duke galloped across the meadow on his majestic black stallion, toward the stream where Prudence was swimming. As he reined in his horse and dismounted, he realized she was wearing nothing but her petticoat.”
“You skipped to a sex scene, didn’t you?” Melissa interrupts.
“Of course not,” I say, with feigned indignation. It’s a lie, because I absolutely did. There’s something erotic about reading a sex scene aloud to Melissa, even a completely ridiculous one. It’s as far as I can go and still convince myself I’m not crossing a line.
I’m not having an inappropriate relationship with a patient’s mother. I’m just reading her a little historical fiction to help her fall asleep.
“You’re telling me that a scene that opens with the heroine swimming in her petticoat won’t end in sex?” she asks with a laugh.
“I didn’t say that,” I protest. “I haven’t read the book, so I don’t know what’s going to happen. For all I know, the duke’s about to save the girl from drowning.”
“Or maybe she’ll save him,” Melissa suggests. “Maybe the duke falls into the river and doesn’t know how to swim. Prudence will have to tow him to the bank and do mouth-to-mouth. And then he’ll have a miraculous recovery, and they’ll make sweet love on the riverbank.”
“You have a one-track mind, Melissa Lawrence,” I say reproachfully.
“I’m sorry, Luke,” she says, in a tone that suggests she’s not sorry at all. “You can keep reading now.”
I clear my throat and pick up where I left off.
“ . . . he realized she was wearing only her petticoat, and the thin cotton was transparent in the bright sunlight.”
Melissa chuckles. I picture her on her bed, wearing only her T-shirt and panties, her face flushed from laughing. My cock twitches, and I reach down to stroke myself.
And then, in a supreme act of self-control, I stop, because there’s nothing innocent about this.
“I’m going to find a different scene,” I tell her brusquely. “If I read you something too exciting, you’ll never fall asleep.”
“Okay.”
As I flip to the next chapter, which opens with the heroine drinking tea with her great-aunt, I wonder if I’m imagining the disappointment in Melissa’s voice.