Shy Girls Can’t Date Bad Boys (Shy Girls Sweet Romances #4)

Chapter 1

One

Despite the good I’m doing, nothing prepared me for that encounter. As I near the patient’s door with a copy of ‘Wuthering Heights,’ the memory hits me like a freight train.

For three weeks, I’ve volunteered at St. Mark’s Hospital in Logan’s Point.

I spend my time reading to patients and helping the nursing staff with admin tasks.

During my last shift, while holding this book, I heard a woman gasping in this room.

Adrenaline hurried me to her bedside. She was clutching her chest and choking as if something was stuck in her throat.

In shock, I blurted, “Ma’am? Are you okay?”

Her eyes locked onto mine, but swiftly rolled and became vacant. Dark bags hung below her dull eyes, and her skin grew paler by the second.

“Ma’am!” I yelped, tugging the woman’s arm.

Her gasps became violent, and as my hand lifted, her body convulsed.

I dashed to the door. “Help! Anyone? She needs help!”

A nurse appeared in the corridor, and I sucked in a much-needed breath.

“In here,” I called. “She can’t breathe.”

The nurse raced into the room, finding the woman struggling for life. She gasped and wheezed, while clutching and scrunching at the bedsheets.

As the machines by the bed beeped frantically, two more nurses rushed into the room. I backed out as Dr. Harris made his way in, steading the stethoscope around his neck.

Dr. Harris got the lowdown from the nurses, and in the chaos, I couldn’t keep track of what was said. My eyes stayed locked on the woman as they placed an oxygen mask over her face.

A curtain was drawn around her bed, and my knees grew weak. I dragged myself into the hallway, collapsed on the nearest chair, and sat rigid as I stared at the scuffed vinyl floor. My hands were wound in tight fists, and my feet bounced against the chair legs.

I jolted when Dr. Harris touched my shoulder.

I stood quickly. “Is she okay?”

“Yes, she is,” Dr. Harris said with a smile. He held out my copy of ‘Wuthering Heights.’

I took the book, saying, “Oh, thanks. I must’ve dropped it.”

“That was some quick thinking in there,” Dr. Harris said. “The nurses said you sounded the alarm.”

“It was nothing,” I brushed it off. “I was just walking by.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” he replied. “Some people clam up at the sight of danger. What you did helped save that patient’s life.”

“I wouldn’t call it lifesaving,” I insisted. “You and the nurses are the heroes.”

Dr. Harris smiled. “I’m glad you’re here, Miss Ashworth. You do more good than you realize.”

Dr. Harris moved up the hallway, and I took a long breath out.

Now, as I stand by her door, I take another exaggerated exhale. With my hands clasped around my book, my thumb stretches to flick at my bracelet. The fidgety movement helps settle the fizzing nerves inside me.

Okay, Vanessa. Game face on. No one needs to see you get flustered.

I peer into the room, and the woman is soundly sleeping in her bed.

Phew.

I really hate that I’m relieved about not visiting her. It’s just I’ve never seen anyone gasp for breath before. It really rattled me.

I hug the book closer, and move into the next room. My sparkle comes back as I knock on the open doorframe of my favorite patient.

“Mr. Raymond?” I step into his hospital room. “Would you like some company?”

From his reclined bed, Mr. Raymond’s smile spreads and reveals his discolored teeth. His gray, thinning hair and mustache are highlighted against his aged, dark skin. He is a joyous man despite the tough years weathering his appearance.

“Well, sure,” Mr. Raymond says. “But what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

I give him my sweetest smile and sit by his bed. “Where else would I be? If I’m not here, I can’t see your dazzling eyes.”

The old man chuckles, nodding away like he’s heard the best joke of his lifetime.

“Aren’t you a sweetie-pie,” Mr. Raymond replies. “What was your name again?”

“Vanessa.”

“That’s right. Gosh, my memory keeps slipping. Sorry, dear.”

“Don’t apologize,” I say, resting my hand on his arm. “I’ve only visited you a few times. It’s better you remember the doctors and nurses instead.”

“I have rocks in my head if I ever forget your face.”

I sit back and lift the book. “Care to hear a chapter from ‘Wuthering Heights’?”

“I’d be delighted.”

I sit forward on the chair by Mr. Raymond’s bed, and he watches the ceiling as I read. I heard one of the nurses say he’s living on borrowed time. He is such a lovely man, and I want to do anything to brighten his days. Even if it’s just reading aloud a few pages from a classic novel.

Halfway through a chapter, Mr. Raymond drifts to sleep with a happy smile.

“Sweet dreams, Mr. Raymond,” I whisper, standing from my chair.

After reading, I make my way back to the nurses’ station. A few days ago, I found myself a side project of organizing the stationery cupboard. I get such a thrill from things being orderly and color-coordinated.

Things are in such disarray at the Logan’s Point hospital.

Or, dare I say, chaotic. Not exactly the vibe you want for a functioning hospital.

Although, can you really call this place functioning?

It is severely understaffed and in desperate need of new medical gear.

There’s no emergency department, just one wing that functions as a catch-all for patients.

If the people from Logan’s Point are lucky, they can travel to Victoria Falls for better treatment. Sadly, most people in this community can’t afford that luxury. But they shouldn’t need the option. They should be able to seek treatment in their own town.

Contrary to public opinion, I’m not perfect.

I have a bad habit of lashing out at people who don’t deserve it.

After my last transgression, I want to be better.

Firstly, I can easily raise funds for this hospital.

I come from the wealthiest family in Victoria Falls and have successfully choreographed many high-society events.

Secondly, I’m well aware of how red tape creates delays in funds getting to a cause.

This is why I chose the instant reward of giving over my time.

My parents prefer I don’t get my hands dirty, and work on projects that serve the Ashworth family image. But once I pointed out how this community directly benefits our family, I got their approval. My father’s manufacturing plants provide the majority of income in this working-class town.

Sadly, I didn’t anticipate how my philanthropy would be twisted into a marketing stunt. When benefactors became interested in my venture, a lightbulb shone over my mother’s head. Now she’s adamant that my friends sign-up to volunteer as well.

My friends are beneficial to my school reputation, but I don’t want their vibe in this hospital. Having them here, complaining about the smell of bleach, or a patient’s cough, will ruin my soul-cleansing experience.

Thankfully, a sense of ease washes over me from standing in front of the stationery cupboard. As I zone in on the placement of items, making labels, and the overall aesthetic of the shelves, the surrounding noises dull.

“Wow, Vanessa,” Nurse Cindy says, mesmerized by the open cupboard. “You’ve done a fantastic job. The pens and highlighters look so pretty arranged in jars, and all the paper supplies look so orderly with their labels. Gosh, it’s shameful how we had it before.”

I close the cupboard and give her a bright smile. “No, it isn’t. You need to spend your time looking after the patients. There’s only so many hours in a day.”

Cindy looks over at the computer and sighs. “I can’t wait until you finish organizing the patient files. I know it’s taking forever, but it’ll be so worth it in the end.”

“I’m just sorry I can’t spend more time here.”

“You haven’t graduated high school yet. I’m sure you have much more important and, let’s face it, fun things to be doing.” Cindy grabs an extra patient file from the desk and moves around the counter. “Thanks for everything you’re doing.”

“No problem,” I say, as she leaves down the hall.

As I sit at the computer and take a sip of water, something grabs my attention.

From the corner of my eye, a boy enters the floor.

I creep the wheeled desk chair forward and peer over the counter.

The boy is tall with scruffy, coffee-colored hair.

His broad frame is accentuated by a black leather jacket, commando-style trousers, and large, heavy boots.

His head hangs low in an attempt to go unnoticed.

He snoops in rooms and scuffs his way to an unmarked closet.

What is he looking for? Is he hoping to find something worth stealing?

I leave the desk to approach him. If he’s here to visit someone, at least I can point him toward the nurses’ station where I can look up the patient’s room number. He’d appear less suspicious that way.

But he purposefully avoided the desk.

“Excuse me?” I call out as he opens the janitor’s closet. “Can I help you find something?”

He has slipped off his leather jacket and let it fall to the floor as he wipes his brow.

Slowly, he closes the door and turns to me. My mouth falls open as I gaze into his dark gray-blue eyes. They remind me of a stormy sea. His tanned complexion softens the angles of his face, and his full lips press into a line.

My heart flutters, and I take a step back. I lift my hand, and it trembles in an exciting way. I swiftly lower it, clasping both hands behind my back.

He tilts his head with a questioning stare. He opens his mouth to speak, but then his head slumps forward and then back.

“Whoa,” I say, stepping in close. “Are you okay?”

Again, he tries to speak, but this time his shoulders slump forward.

My hands lift toward him, worried he’ll fall. “Hey, it’s okay,” I say. “Let’s take a seat.”

Before he can respond, his body gives way. I dip my knees, pulling my arms around his waist as he faints.

“Help!” I call out. “Help!”

Behind me, stomps hurry into the hall. Two nurses get on either side of us, lifting him off me.

“Vanessa, are you okay?” Cindy asks.

“Yeah,” I say, puffing.

I step aside as Nurse Trisha races a gurney toward us.

“I have no idea what happened,” I say, watching them attempt to wake him up. “He tried to speak and then collapsed.”

While Dr. Harris paces the hall to reach us, Trisha checks my shoulder and neck.

“Any tension when I touch here?” she asks, pressing on my muscles.

“No. No, I’m fine,” I reply. “You should check on him.”

“Okay,” Trisha says, backing away. “But you tell someone if it becomes painful.”

“Will do,” I say, standing as they lift the boy onto the gurney.

“Oh no,” it tumbles out of Dr. Harris as he examines the boy’s arm.

“What is it?” I ask, my heart pounding hard.

Dr. Harris makes eye contact with the nurses and then motions to the boy’s lower arm. “You all know what this means. Tread lightly.”

My anxiety ruptures, and I fling myself toward Dr. Harris. “What is it? What’s wrong with him?”

“It’s okay, Vanessa,” he says soothingly. “We don’t know yet. We need to get him checked in.”

I pan around at the worried nurses’ faces and stamp my foot. “What is it?”

Nurse Cindy motions to the inside of his lower arm. “It’s this. Do you recognize it?”

My eyes lock onto the scorpion tattoo, and I shake my head.

“It’s the symbol of a local motorcycle club,” Dr. Harris explains. “This is Vic Malone’s son, Dax.”

“They’re thugs,” Trisha says less tactfully. “I’d call it a gang, not a club.”

“We still have a duty of care,” Dr. Harris says to his staff. “No matter who this is, we must treat him with the same level of care we do everyone else.”

“We’re understaffed,” Nurse Cindy counters. “We can’t look after everyone.”

My eyes grow itchy, threatening to tear up. “But he collapsed. You need to help him.”

“Come on,” Dr. Harris says. “Let’s get him into room one-twelve.”

“But that’s Mrs. Gibson’s room,” the nurses protest in unison.

Dr. Harris nods. “Yes, and there’s a vacant bed in that room.”

The nurses relent and whisk him away on the gurney, leaving me standing motionless and dumbfounded.

Three days ago during my last shift, they aided the choking woman, and praised me for sounding the alarm. Now their contempt is plain to see. They wish I’d let this patient go unnoticed, lying by the janitor’s closet.

But how could I do that?