CHAPTER 11
The doors to Brew’s vascular practice didn't just open; they whispered, parting on quiet hinges to reveal an entrance that felt more like a boutique hotel lounge than a medical practice.
The air was cool, scented faintly of white tea and something expensive, perhaps leather, calming the frantic heartbeats that often accompanied a visit to a vascular surgeon.
The reception area was a masterclass in plush, tranquil design. Soft charcoal velvet chairs, designed with deep, comforting curves, were arranged in intimate clusters, separated by low tables topped with polished white marble.
The floor was covered in a thick, sound-absorbing grey carpet that swallowed the sound of footsteps, ensuring absolute quiet.
Instead of harsh fluorescent lights, custom LED lighting was layered—recessed in the ceiling, glowing behind panels of calming beige frosted glass—casting a warm, serene glow that highlighted fine art on the walls rather than medical posters.
A custom, curved reception desk, backlit by a soft golden hue, immediately anchored the room in high-end sophistication, reassuring patients that they were in the hands of a meticulous specialist.
From the lounge, a polished, minimalist hallway led to the vascular examining rooms. Here, the plush atmosphere transitioned seamlessly into, and disguised, state-of-the-art medical technology.
The examination room was deceptively spacious, dominated by a luxurious leather treatment chair that appeared more like a premium recliner than an exam table.
This motorized table was designed with adjustable positioning for optimal patient comfort, with a rich chocolate-brown leather that seemed designed to put patients at ease.
The walls were a neutral, calming tone, adorned with large, serene nature-inspired art that aimed to lower anxiety.
However, the "plush" feel was not at the expense of precision.
In the corner sat the foundation of the suite: the advanced vascular ultrasound, its monitor and articulated arms appearing highly ergonomic and well-integrated into the design.
Instead of harsh metal trolleys, the instruments were concealed behind custom, warm-toned woodwork cabinets, maintaining the clean, non-institutional aesthetic.
Lighting over the exam chair was adjustable, capable of transforming from a soft ambiance to high-intensity, focused LED beams for deep-tissue examination, ensuring that beneath the luxurious veneer was a fully equipped, high-tech diagnostic environment.
It was an atmosphere she did not expect and a sharp contrast of the hospital’s antiseptic-and-fear smell that had dominated Randi’s life for longer than she wanted to remember.
Randi brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead, her gaze moving from the examining table she propped herself upon entering with some difficulty.
Her feelings were mixed about seeing him, being alone with him in the confines of this compact, yet impressive room.
She heard muffled voices outside the examining room, and her heart began to thump wildly in her chest.
Her feelings were mixed in seeing him. She enjoyed his playfulness and the way he made her feel – special, worthy, connected. They were emotional pleasures she desired most but afraid to accept as genuine and lasting as a woman.
A slight knock on the door before it swung open still made her jump nervously.
He noticed but didn’t draw attention to it.
“So, Randi, I mean, Miss Coleb,” he quickly corrected, his tone shaky and uncertain. “That week went by fast. Here you are.”
“We had lunch, remember, just a short while ago.” she joked. “I think we’re past formalities to calling me Randi.”
"Only if you call me Brew here on in,” his tone relaxed with a blend of professional warmth and relief. “Tell me, how has the right hand been behaving? Still need a zipper-upper?"
Randi looked down at her hand. The scar—a meticulous, jagged line running from her wrist up toward the palm—was fading from an ugly red to a pale, thin silver.
"It’s... it's strange, " she admitted. "Better. But strange."
"Strange good, or strange bad?" Brew smiled, pulling a handheld Doppler probe from his lab coat pocket.
"Strange good," Randi said, testing the flexion of her fingers.
"The cold, stabbing pain I was constantly feeling is gone. The blue tint in the mornings is gone. It feels... alive. But it still feels numb and my grasp is terribly weak. I … just don’t have the strength."
"That’s entirely expected after an ulnar-radial artery bypass and reconstruction," Brew explained, applying cool ultrasound gel to her wrist. He pressed a probe against her skin. A rhythmic, rushing sound filled the quiet room—whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—like a distant, roaring river.
He smiled, nodding at the sound.
"That, right there - that is the sound of success. The graft is completely patent. Excellent blood flow returning through the bypass, even bypassing that stubborn scar tissue from the injury."
He moved the probe higher up the arm, checking the brachial artery, then down towards the fingertips. The whoosh followed, strong and rhythmic in every sector.
"Yeah … pure joy,” he gushed, making her smile.
“You’re rather pleased with yourself.”
“Not in a pompous way. I guess you could equate it to that feeling an expectant mother has hearing the heartbeat of the child growing inside of her the very first time.”
She had no reply. It was miraculous what he accomplished – a miracle. She read up on the surgery and in awe of his expertise and skill. It was a complex repair. Hand vascularization was delicate work—tiny vessels, high pressure.
“Your circulation is back to near-normal levels," he continued, tapping the tablet to log in the Doppler readings.
He put the device down and gently picked up her hand, feeling the skin.
The contact was electrifying, sending a current up her arm prickling her skin.
She shivered.
He noticed.
She noticed he noticed.
He smiled warmly in return and massaged the area – not that he needed to but, wanted just to touch her.
"The numbness in your fingertips, he continued massaging, is likely just the peripheral nerves taking their time to wake back up after the vascular crisis. Nerve regeneration is slow, but given how the blood flow looks, I expect it to continue to improve."
"No more turning blue?" Randi asked, a vestige of anxiety in her voice, as she slipped her hand from his.
"No more turning blue," Brew affirmed. "You can put away the heavy winter gloves in the house. Your hand is warm, the blood is flowing."
He handed her a pamphlet on hand therapy.
"The surgeon repairs the pipes, but the hand therapist brings the function back. This is what Trinity will switch up during your next sessions as a heads up. Start focusing on those grip-strengthening exercises. Gentle at first, of course. No heavy lifting for another three weeks. You’re home free. "
“No more office appointments?”
“Not unless you miss me and want to stop by.”
She blushed.
He smiled and lifted his hand to tuck a loose golden tendril behind her right ear.
He offered a hand to help her down.
She hesitated briefly before accepting it.
She stood closely facing him and couldn’t help feeling a profound sense of gratitude. The hand that had been on the verge of needing emergency intervention, that had been cold and silent for far too long, was now warm and pulsing with life.
"You've given me my life back, Doc – I mean, Brew," she corrected, reaching to shake his hand—with her left, then cautiously with her right. “I … I wish there was some way to thank you for saving my hand.”
He tenderly palmed her right hand between his and gazed deeply into her amber eyes.
They held the rich, warm color of aged brandy, a striking, rare amber that seemed to vibrate in the low light. She wasn't just looking at him; she was studying him with a slow, deliberate intensity, a "wolf-eyed" gaze that suggested she was measuring the depth of her own attraction.
The soft light in the room caught the golden flecks in her irises, creating a warm shimmer that made her gaze steady and captivating.
When she smiled, her eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, revealing a genuine kindness beneath the focused attention.
As she returned his gaze, not wanting to leave, the ambient glow of the room seemed to reflect within them, suggesting she was fully present and captivated by his presence.
He took both her hands in his, drawn in by her attention and her amber eyes conveying a blend of admiration and gentle affection, bridging the space between them.
“Agree to have dinner with me. Please. Let me have the chance to learn more – spend more time with Randi Caleb, the artist, the woman.”
She chewed at her bottom lip, wanting to say yes, afraid of taking the chance, missing him already.”
He playfully raised his right hand three fingers extended, mimicking the Boy Scout salute and vowed.
“On my honor, I will do my best to –“
She nudged him and stepped to the side, chuckling as she spoke.
“Boy Scout oath, really!”
“Wait, there’s more – to be morally straight and help other people at –“
She couldn’t contain her laughter and remarked.
“That’s not how it goes.”
“Give a guy a break. It’s been twenty some years.”
He deserved every break she could possibly muster. He lightened her world when he entered, treated her like she was worthy, looked at her like she was treasured, made her feel emotions that had lain buried since she was twelve years old.
How can I say no to him?
She heard her mother’s voice in her head.
“Take the chance, honey.”
She nodded slowly and happy that she did, as his smile was electric enough to light up a Christmas tree.