Doctor’s Bossy Match (Pulse Point #2)

Chapter 1

Regan

“I’m here. Wish me luck,” I say into my phone to my friend Liz.

“You’ll be fine. Call me later, after you’re settled in.”

“Okay. I’ll call you soon.”

Hanging up, I climb the ten cracked concrete steps up to my father's house, hesitant and uncertain.

The nauseating feeling of dread of what I'm about to encounter washes over me as I take in the arched white doors with their peeling paint and brass knockers.

His small two-story Victorian in Pulse Point, with its faded blue paint and white wraparound porch, brings back a flood of bittersweet memories that I've tried so hard to suppress.

I haven't seen my father, with his scowl and demanding presence, since I fled for college in New York nearly eight years ago.

I press the worn brass bell with a trembling finger and wait for him to answer, my heart hammering loudly in my ears.

The imposing white wood opens with a creak that seems to warn me to turn back.

With his dark hair now streaked with silver at the temples, deep frown lines etched into his forehead, and thin lips pursed in that familiar expression of disappointment, he stands rigidly next to the door, widening it just enough for me to enter.

I pull my black suitcase inside. “Dad. How are you?” I ask out of politeness.

“I'm good.” He peers down at his watch. “I thought you were coming an hour ago.” There it is, already bossing me around, hating that I'm late.

“Sorry. I decided to take my time since I don’t start my residency until tomorrow.”

“I guess that's nice.” But his tone isn't light; it's heavy, and awkwardness settles around us.

His tailored casual clothes of khaki pants and a button-down shirt make it clear he's made an effort, though the warmth stops at his attire.

“You're not working?” I ask.

He closes the door with a loud thump. “No, I thought I would take the day off to welcome you.”

Guilt prickles at the base of my spine for not planning to hang out with him all day, but I push through anyway. “Well, I was actually planning to head out and pick up a few things after I settle in,” I say carefully, not wanting to seem ungrateful. “I hope that's okay.”

“No, I could always take you,” he says insincerely. It makes me instantly resist.

I shake my head. “No, no, I'd like to go alone,” I say as I squeeze the handle of my luggage tighter. Him following me in the store, directing which product to buy, and lecturing me on it sounds like a nightmare. Because he won’t treat me like a competent adult; he’ll treat me like a work project that needs managing.

I’m twenty-six. I don’t need a babysitter.

“Maybe some other day,” I say with a soft smile, trying to ease the tension between us.

I’m going to have to live here for a year. I need to make it comfortable.

“Sure. Well, let's get you settled.”

I catch the tightness in his body as I follow him down the hallway. He’s never been much for home maintenance; work always came first. The house feels generic, like anyone could live here. No family photos. No knick-knacks. Just old, basic furniture that's seen better days.

Dragging my suitcase behind me, I take a deep breath and step into my old bedroom.

Nothing has changed.

It’s like stepping back in time. Part of me expected him to box up my things and redecorate it into a guest room. Something to prove we’d both grown up and moved on.

The faded peach walls are still covered with the same teenage posters. Dusty high school soccer trophies line the shelf in perfect order. My old stuffed teddies sit neatly on the bed, untouched. It’s like he sealed the room off, keeping it frozen in time.

“I’ll let you get unpacked,” he says, before turning and walking away.

Leaving my luggage on the floor, I sink onto the bed. The old frame squeaks loudly beneath me. As I run my fingers over the faded floral duvet, my gaze drifts toward the window, where white lace curtains hang. Rising, I tug them open, staring out at the large garden filled with spring blooms.

Some days, I do miss the open spaces with greenery stretching as far as the eye can see.

But I like my life in the city more. I like the buzz, the people, the sense of belonging I never felt here.

I don't want miles of garden; I want noise and laughter and faces that light up when they see me… like my mom’s.

Not this feeling of being a shadow in someone else’s home.

Turning back toward the room, I take in the quiet, empty space. No TV. The air thick with stillness. Sighing, I lift my case onto the bed and unzip it.

I definitely need to make some updates. But is it worth it if I’m only here for twelve months? Yes, I tell myself. I have to. I can't wake up every day surrounded by who I used to be. I'm not that girl anymore. I've grown, and my life should reflect that.

Pulling out my clothes, I fold them into the dresser drawers and hang a few things in the closet. I stack a couple of books on the small bedside table, already planning to spend my free time reading, working out, or exploring. Anything but staying trapped in this house with him.

Once I’m finished, I slide my empty suitcase into the closet and dust off my hands.

It’s not much, but it feels good to at least get that part done.

I step out into the hallway, heart thudding a little too fast as I go looking for Dad.

I should probably spend some time with him before I head out.

He did take the day off, after all. Maybe if I sit with him a bit, then I can leave without feeling like a complete bitch.

I find him at the kitchen table, the morning paper spread out in front of him, reading glasses perched low on his nose. His head stays bowed, eyes moving steadily across the page. For a second, I just stand there, unsure how to approach him, unsure how to be here again after so long.

Feeling a little awkward, I clear my throat. “Did you want a cup of tea?”

It’s a pathetic icebreaker, but it’s the only thing I can think of.

Eight years of near silence doesn’t exactly pave the way for easy conversation.

We were always busy, that’s what we told ourselves, but the truth is, we both avoided making an effort.

I guess he resented that I moved away to live with Mom, and I hated the way every conversation with him left me feeling like I wasn’t enough.

He grunts without looking up. “Sure. Black. No sugar.”

Of course. Still closed off. His eyes stay glued to the paper, like I’m not even standing here.

I turn toward the kitchen, where everything looks exactly the same.

Same floral tea towels, same rusty toaster, same chipped fruit bowl on the counter.

Grabbing two mugs, I set the kettle to boil and pull down the sad box of generic tea bags he keeps in the cabinet.

No vanilla cream for me, only plain old cream.

The fridge is practically empty, and there’s no way we’ll survive the week without actual groceries. He must eat at the hospital cafeteria.

When the tea’s ready, I carry the mugs back to the table and slide into the seat beside him. He finally lowers the paper, but doesn’t say anything. Just lifts his mug and takes a slow sip.

I stare around the room, desperate for something to latch onto. The living room beyond looks untouched, with the TV blank and a thin layer of dust on the coffee table. At least we still have one thing in common: neither of us watches much TV.

The silence is brutal. I have to physically stop myself from gulping down the tea just to have an excuse to get up.

I remind myself why I’m here, why I have to try.

This is temporary, a chance to help get the new ward off the ground while building experience for when I return to the city hospital. It’s a stepping stone, nothing more.

I set the mug down carefully. “I’m looking forward to starting tomorrow.”

Dad hums into his tea. “Me too. Just don’t be late.”

Of course. Not a That’s great or a Glad you’re here. Just a jab. Same old Dad.

I press my lips together, forcing a small smile. He picks up the paper again, the barrier between us restored. The only sound in the room is the soft rustling as he turns the page.

So, I finish my tea in silence, the sweet taste lingering on my tongue. Taking my mug to the sink, I rinse it out, heart sinking a little heavier in my chest. So much for new beginnings.

Without a word, I retreat to my room, strip out of my travel-worn sweats, and pull on some clean activewear.

Stepping into the hall, my footsteps echo in the silence. I adjust the strap of my leather bag over my shoulder, keys hanging loosely in my hand.

“I'm heading out now,” I call out, forcing a brightness into my voice I don't feel. I just want to escape before the awkwardness can thicken again.

Dad looks up from the kitchen table, lowering his newspaper just enough for me to see the familiar V-shaped pinch between his eyebrows. His brown eyes sweep over my outfit with a slow, critical scan. His jaw tightens, muscle ticking beneath his clean-shaven cheek.

“You're wearing that?”

I blink, thrown, glancing down at myself… A pair of workout shorts and a matching tank. Pretty standard for leisure, last time I checked. “What’s wrong with this?”

He shakes his head, muttering under his breath, “Nothing. Just thought for a Thomas, you'd know how to dress better. It’s too revealing.”

I swallow the comeback that burns the back of my throat. How exactly does he expect me to dress to shop?

I force another tiny smile. “Anyway,” I say, pushing past it, reaching for the door. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

“What time?” he asks, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

I stop with my hand on the doorknob. “I don't know,” I tell him honestly, shrugging. The truth is, I’m not in a rush to return to this.

“You can’t just come and go whenever you want,” he snaps, like I’m fifteen again and sneaking out past curfew.

I turn back toward him, holding on to my patience with both hands. “What would you like then?” I ask, keeping my voice as even as I can.

He hesitates, then says stiffly, “Just... keep me updated. Let me know where you’ll be.”

I stare at him, my heart sinking a little lower. “I did tell you.”

He exhales hard through his nose and snaps the newspaper back open between us like a wall. “Very well. I’ll cook dinner.”

I shift my bag higher on my shoulder. “You don’t have to. I can cook when I get back.”

“I have the time today,” he says shortly, not meeting my eyes.

This is exactly what I was afraid of. Not yelling, not anger, just this cold, controlled disappointment that makes me feel like I’m failing at being the daughter he wanted. I have to survive twelve months of this.

“Okay,” I say quietly. “I’ll see you later.”

He doesn’t answer, just flips another page.

For a second, I stand there, the sound of the rustling paper filling the space where a goodbye should be. Then I turn and walk out, my chest tight, the door creaking behind me as I head toward my car, texting my friend Scarlet.

Me: I made it. I can’t wait to see you. Let me know when you’re free, and I’ll come over. We’re long overdue for an in-person catch up.

Scarlet: You’re telling me. How about tomorrow?

Me: Perfect. I’ll come by after work.

I drop my phone into my purse and hop into my silver Honda Civic, which feels more like home than my father’s house ever will.

Inside, I roll down the windows, letting the warm spring air flood in.

With trembling fingers, I connect my phone to the car's Bluetooth and call Mom.

“So, on a scale of one to ten, how bad is it?” Her voice fills the car before I even say hello.

I let out a surprised laugh as the tight knot in my chest eases. “You didn’t even let me say hi.”

“I’ve been waiting by the phone for you to call.”

“Mom, it’s only a three-hour drive. You’re making it sound like I left and moved to Australia.” My frustration slowly disappears with her calm voice.

“Sorry. I’ll always want to make sure you’re safe.”

“Well, I’m safe and in a time capsule.” I shiver at the memory. “He’s kept the house, including my bedroom, exactly the same.”

“Oh, God. Everything?”

“Everything,” I say. “I just want to get this year over and done with.” My fingers tap restlessly against the steering wheel. “So I can come back to the city. With you.”

“I know,” she says, understanding laced into her tone. “But it'll go fast. Try to enjoy it.”

I snort. “For someone who didn’t like this place and ran as fast as she could, you're very optimistic.”

She chuckles. “Maybe it’s changed. Different time, different people. It might be better now.”

“Then why didn’t you come back too?”

I don’t mean for it to come out so harsh, but my bedroom looked like I’ve never left, and my father’s already treating me like I need permission to buy groceries.

Nothing’s changed. Not the house, not him, probably not this town.

Mom’s optimism is sweet, but she got out and stayed away for a reason.

“It’s not my life anymore,” she says gently. “You’re there for something different. Something you need.”

“I know, I know.” I rest my head back against the seat, closing my eyes briefly. “Okay, I should probably go buy some cream and pretend to be a functioning adult now.”

“Call me if you need me,” she says, sounding more serious. “But really… good luck tomorrow. You’ll be fine on your first day.”

“I will,” I promise. “I’ll keep you posted.”

Reluctantly, I hang up. I adjust my rear-view mirror and catch my reflection… Tired eyes staring back, blue like my mother’s, but carrying the same fierce intensity as my father’s.

Before I can change my mind, I shift the car into drive. I cruise down the familiar streets, rows of large trees lining either side, passing the old ice cream parlor where I had my first awkward date, the park where I fell off my bike at eight, the corner where I had my first kiss at sixteen.

The radio plays something unfamiliar as my hands tighten on the steering wheel, the weight of an entire year here settling like a stone in my stomach.

When I spot the store, I pull into the lot without thinking. I slam the door behind me and stride inside. The second I step inside, I breathe again as loud conversations fill my ears. The murmurs bring my first real smile since crossing the town line.

Here, at least, I can lose myself and let the noise drown out the silence.