Chapter 18
Regan
The Dr. Whisperer bulletin is gossip over coffee the next morning.
Dr. Harrison: Certified Heartthrob AND Hero?
It features a sketch of Brant in a suit with a red cape, wearing a stethoscope, and a speech bubble that reads: “Saving lives and breaking hearts, one shift at a time.”
Dr. Zac Sterling walks into the staff lounge with a printed copy. “Think I can get you to sign this, Harrison?”
Brant scowls. “Throw that away.”
“Sorry, man. I can’t hear you over the sound of your cape flapping in the wind.”
I snort into my mug. “Come on, it’s cute. You saved a life and made a meme. That’s rare.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “You’re in on this.”
“Oh, I didn’t draw the cartoon,” I say, trying to hold a straight face. “But I may have suggested the drawing.”
“I knew it.”
I raise my mug. “Paging Dr. Hero.”
He groans and rubs his face. “I swear, if there are more printed—”
Zac holds a pile up to Brant with a cocky smirk.
I almost choke on my drink.
“Unbelievable,” Brant mutters, grabbing the mug to make a coffee, like the world isn’t laughing around him. But I don’t miss the way his mouth twitches, just a little. Maybe he secretly doesn’t hate it or hate me for teasing him.
“I need to see you and Dr. Harrison in my office.”
I read the page from my dad. I’m at the nurses' station with Brant, standing at the med cart, busy adjusting medication orders and Brant’s scribbling changes to imaging requests for out-of-town scans, just as the morning handover wraps up.
Great. Just what we need before a full clinic day.
Dad and I have been finding our flow lately. But being summoned to his office? That feels different.
I glance sideways at Brant as we fall into step, walking the long corridor toward my dad’s office. “Do you have any idea what this is about?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Nope. Not a clue.” But the way his thumb taps against the top of his pen, faster than usual, tells me he’s not as relaxed as he sounds.
My heart thuds anxiously. We pass the waiting room, turn right at the vending machine, and I slow as we reach the office door. I lift my fist to knock, but pause to quickly inhale.
Behind me, Brant hovers like a silent wall of tension.
Knock knock.
“Come in,” booms Dad’s voice.
The door creaks open, and just like that, I’m back inside the room where he chewed me out last time. As we approach his desk, he doesn’t look up, just flips through a file like it’s any other morning.
Brant and I both move for the same chair. When his hand grazes mine, he jerks it back. “Sorry,” he mutters, already sliding into the other seat.
I sit slowly, hyper-aware of everything, my heartbeat, my posture, the way my knee bounces slightly. Dad still hasn’t looked at us.
Brant leans back like it’s nothing. Of course he does.
Me? I feel like I’m trying to find a way to sit that doesn’t scream What did I do wrong this time?
Finally, Dad speaks. “I called you both in because I want you to work together on the hospital protocol committee.”
My stomach drops.
Brant wipes his brow with the back of his hand. “I… I don’t know if—” He shakes his head. “I’m running out of time on my current caseload. I’ve been trying to handle everything in peds and—” His eyes slide toward me. “You sure someone like Dr. Gould can’t do this?”
I stiffen. “Yeah, Dad. I’m a lot of work, remember?” I say, trying not to flinch. “Might be good to give this to someone who isn't also juggling a mentorship.”
That familiar hollow ache settles in my chest. I really thought I’d been pulling my weight lately, especially with Brant, but I guess I’ve been more of a burden than a help. I can’t stand how that feels. And yet, deep down, I care.
“No,” Dad says firmly, eyes still on the file. “I want you two to do this. You’ll take it seriously and do it properly. It doesn’t need to take forever. Just stay late, and it’s done.”
“When’s the committee meeting?” I ask,
“Friday.”
Perfect. So we have three days to slap together a whole protocol submission. No pressure.
“Well…” Harrison says, drawing out the word as he rubs the back of his neck, “I guess we’ll get started on it.”
Dad finally looks up and slides a folder across the desk. “Here’s all the information you’ll need. Meeting minutes, existing drafts, a list of departmental reps you’ll need to consult.”
His gaze flicks to me, and something changes in his tone. A little softer, but still cool. “Make sure you help here.”
The words sting, even though they’re not mean. Just… expectation. Like he has to say it to keep up appearances.
But why always me? Why not tell Brant to help me? How does he know Brant won’t just dump the whole thing in my lap while he pretends to be too busy?
I bite the inside of my cheek.
Dad continues. “You’ll need to address the post-op medication delays and the discharge communication gaps flagged last quarter. I read the last two performance reports. The board will expect you to propose fixes, not just note problems.”
“Got it.” I nod, though my stomach churns. This isn’t about writing the report; it’s if I mess this up, it won’t just reflect badly on me. It will look bad on Dad for giving me the opportunity and on Brant for supposedly mentoring me through it. “Is that all?”
“That’s all,” Dad confirms. “You two can go.”
But before I can rise, Brant shifts forward in his seat.
“Do you mind if I talk to you first?” His eyes lock on my dad.
My eyebrows lift slightly, but I keep my mouth shut. Whatever this is, it’s between them.
I stand, my hands brushing the sides of my scrub pants. I glance between them, a little uncertain, but Brant gives me a small, reassuring I’ve got this look.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah. I’ll come find you,” he says.
I glance at my dad, but he’s already focused back on the folder. No goodbye. So I don’t offer one either. I step out, closing the door behind me as softly as I can.
A long breath escapes me. I linger, ear facing the door, but I can’t hear much. Whatever they're saying, it's not loud enough for eavesdropping.
I pivot and head toward the ward, but falter when I remember I left the committee prep file in the consult room. He’ll grab it. Maybe if I help Brant knock out the rest of the ward work, we can dive straight into the committee stuff.
I still can’t believe we’re presenting together. Just the two of us.
“There you are,” Brant says, a little breathless, like he’s been looking for a while. “I checked our office.”
I glance up from the file I’m reading on the ward.
“I figured if I finished off as much of this round as I could, we could dive straight into the committee stuff.”
I close the chart. “No offense, but I kind of want to get it over with. I’m not a bit-by-bit-each-day person. Never was. College taught me to power through and be done.”
He chuckles softly, arms crossed against his chest. “Same. Once I start something, I can’t stop until it’s finished.”
Our eyes catch for just a second, a flicker of recognition passing between us.
His lips curve into a smile, and I feel myself smile back, taking in the soft lines surrounding his eyes when he lets his walls down, even for just a small moment.
I look away first. “All right,” I say, shifting into business mode. “What’s left on your end?”
He gestures down the hall. “Bed two probably needs a full MRI. I flagged it earlier. You might want to take a look.”
I nod. “And the kid in bed six?”
“Needs a follow-up plan. He’s got a specialist appointment out of town tomorrow. We need to figure out after-care.”
We walk and talk, the rhythm easy now. We go over labs, scans, the never-ending to-dos, both of us falling into that quiet but efficient flow. It takes another hour to finish up, but we manage it just before clinic starts.
I’d been hoping to leave on time today. I wanted to call Liz, but I can see that’s not happening, so I’ll have to try tomorrow.
Unfortunately, that means no time to start the committee report. Brant checks his watch. I catch the faint crease of frustration at the corner of his eyes. My bingo card flashes through my brain. Watch check? That’s definitely on there.
“You want me to make us a coffee?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
His shoulders lift with a grateful breath. “Would you? I could definitely use one.”
“I kind of need it too,” I say. “But I’m stealing your creamer.”
He laughs. “At least you’re honest about it this time.”
“I’ll be back,” I say, turning to leave, but I can feel his gaze lingering on me.
I don’t dare look over my shoulder, not when I can still feel the heat of it on my back.
If I turn around now, if our eyes meet, I’m not sure I’ll be able to play it cool.
And I need to, so I focus on getting us coffee.
When I return, I notice the chairs have moved. Mine’s no longer tucked awkwardly at the side like a visitor. It’s now positioned right beside his behind his large desk, close enough that our arms might brush if we both lean back.
It makes something in my chest tighten. Like maybe he sees me as part of this now.
I set both mugs down, and he grins. “Well, that makes two things we agree on.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Coffee?”
“Same order. Same creamer. Same ratio.” His eyes twinkle.
I take a sip. “Yeah, except I’m not weird about it. You ever notice how all the other doctors drink theirs black, like they’re above dairy?”
He fake-gasps. “Sorry to disappoint you. My coffee may be basic, but I make up for it in my suits.”
I glance at his choice of suit: light gray with a subtle pale-yellow tie. The color shouldn’t work, but it does. It brings out his eyes. “Well, creamer seems to be working fine for you,” I blurt before I can stop myself.
His eyes flick to mine. A slow, knowing smile curves his lips.
I want to hide, embarrassed by openly saying that. This isn’t like the patio at the King’s house. This is the hospital, where the lines are drawn, eyes are everywhere, and consequences await. “I meant… the tailoring’s nice.”
“Mm-hmm.”