8. Storms Brewing
Chapter eight
Storm's Brewing
Doc’s car is already in the lot when I pull in.
As I walk up to the building, the door opens and there he is.
No lab coat, pale pink button-down, shirtsleeves rolled up, and a smile that should be illegal this early in the morning.
He rests one shoulder against the doorframe and has one hand wrapped around a paper cup from the coffee place on the corner.
He lifts it when I get out of my car.
I stop beside his BMW and look at him over the roof. “Is that for me or are you just taunting me with caffeine?"
“Depends on how open-minded you’re feeling today.”
“Historically? Not very.”
“Then it’s definitely for you.”
I shut the car door and walk toward him. The morning sky is gray with rain clouds looming low. He looks too calm, and that gets my Spidey senses tingling.
When I reach the step, he hands me the cup.
Black. No sugar.
He pays attention.
I take it and narrow my eyes. “This feels suspiciously like a strategic bribe.”
“It is.”
“Well, at least you’re honest.”
“Usually, it’s the best policy.”
He pushes the door open wide and lets me step in first.
Inside, the lights are already on, the clinic is warm, and by all standards, up and running. The computer at the reception desk has been booted up, and there are two chairs suspiciously positioned in front of it.
Art’s photo hangs behind the reception desk, like it’s always been there. The ache is there when I look at it, but it doesn’t knock me sideways today.
Doc is watching me. At least he has the good sense not to comment on the humiliating amount of crying I did into his shirt yesterday. Not one word.
Thank God.
“I’d like to show you something,” he says, “And again, I’m going to need you to be open-minded.”
“That’s the second time you’ve said ‘open-minded’ and you’re being polite. This can’t be good.”
“It’s a new filing system I want to go over.”
I take a sip of coffee and stare at him. “You’re very brave for a man before eight in the morning.”
“I also have enough self-preservation to know we’ll keep the paper charts as well.”
I lower the cup. “Okay, you have my attention.”
“The paper charts stay. We’re going to start migrating them into electronic files. We’re both going to decide the naming convention and what we start with first.”
The man has an unsettling ability to be reasonable and make it harder to argue with.
“I set up a template. That way, you’re not walking into it blind.”
He pulls out the chair. “Shall we?”
I take the seat. There is a password field waiting on the screen. I look up at him. “Now what?”
He leans over my shoulder to reach the keyboard, one hand on the desk, the other typing in a temporary login. I’m suddenly too aware of the very inconvenient fact that Doc’s body is close enough now that I feel his body heat radiating against me.
Warmth spreads through me and I lower my head a bit so he can’t see the flush rush across my face.
Jesus Annie. Get a fucking grip.
I stare down at the keyboard like it’s a lifeline.
“Okay, so this is the dashboard,” he says.
“I see that.”
“You can add your password here in settings.”
“Okay. So far, I’m a believer,” I snark.
“Moving on.” He breathes out an exasperated sigh. “Appointments we’ll record here. Messages here. Patient flags are on this screen. I do have a lab interface built in, but I’m not turning that on until we’ve tested it.”
“We?”
“You and me.”
The words are ordinary, but they still settle deep.
You and me. It's suddenly very warm in this seat and my pulse starts to race.
Doc doesn’t seem to notice the sweat breaking out on my forehead and the small disaster blooming across my chest.
“So, this is where I’d like to start. I built a monthly calendar template,” he says.
I focus my attention on the screen and try not to think about his torso touching my shoulder now.
The calendar is full of colored blocks for office hours, admin time, patient slots, emergency holds.
And home visits.
“Let’s decide on standing days each month for your outreach.” He stands. “Those will be protected, and we won’t let anything get scheduled over you.
“As in, patients can’t just be booked over them because someone decides an ingrown toenail is more urgent than checking on someone stuck at home.”
“Correct.”
I close my eyes for a second and my throat tightens. I clear my throat and take another sip of coffee to cover the fact that I’m touched.
Doc leans his hip into the desk. “The clinic doesn’t end at the front door. You showed me that. So we’re going to treat those visits as normal clinic appointments. Today, you’re going to decide the frequency we schedule them at.”
“That’s great, and patients will be able to rely on knowing which days I’m out in the community.”
“Exactly. A win. Right?”
“Yes, but what about…” He cuts me off.
“Emergencies happen. Weather happens. Life happens. We’ll deal with that as it pops up. But the default is that these will be your days to go.”
I lean back in the chair and look up at him. “And you?”
“I cover here.”
I swivel the chair toward him slightly.
Bad idea.
He’s closer than I thought. Or maybe I’m more aware than I want to be. The ease of his body leaning against the desk, his hand braced beside the keyboard, the thought and care he has put into this system to make the clinic work better.
I’m softening. And I’m getting turned on.
I’m having a fucking Grinch moment. But it’s not my heart getting warm and swelling.
I cross my legs and lean farther over the keyboard, trying to regain my composure before he notices the arousal under my blouse.
“You’ll cover the clinic while I’m out?”
“Yes. That way we can take care of twice the people.”
I look back at the screen. “This is really useful, Doc.”
He smiles and puts his hand over his heart. “Careful. That bordered on praise.”
“You have a very vivid imagination,” I say gruffly, but don’t think I pull it off entirely.
“I’ll try to restrain myself.” He leans back and winks.
How can five innocent little words make me want him not to?
“There’s one other section.” He leans back over me again and pulls up another screen.
“A work schedule?”
“Yeah, that way you’ll know exactly when I’m planning to be here.”
“You put your hours on here.”
“Yes, with everything I can predict at the moment.”
“And if you can’t?”
“If anything deviates, I’ll text you and let you know. This is an app as well, so you can access it on your phone or tablet. I’ll update it there as well. But texting deviations to you will be my standard practice.”
He says it as if this is about productivity, but it feels like yesterday’s conversation has influenced this. He doesn’t say it, but I feel it.
His voice is low and close, continuing to explain the calendar and how I interact with it. But all my body is interested in is him.
My brain continues to betray me and I start thinking about yesterday, his hand at my back, his body against me.
Damn it. I’m a grown-ass woman. Why can’t I focus?
“Annie,” he says. “You with me?”
My face warms. “Yes. Of course. Just trying to take it all in.”
He looks at me for one long second, and his gaze drops to my mouth.
Not imagined.
I bite my lip just as the front door opens, saving me from embarrassing myself.
Mr. Gillespie limps in wearing one boot. “I may have made a poor choice with a ladder.”
Doc straightens and walks over to him.
Thankfully, the day begins.
By ten, the clouds have fully committed to becoming a storm. Rain lashes the windows. Wind sends loose branches skittering across the sidewalk. The waiting room begins to fill with people who all thought they knew better than the storm.
Mr. Gillespie’s ankle is sprained, not broken. A teenager has a cut along his forearm from thinking he could haul three trash cans out of the street at once.
Mrs. Cox arrives with her daughter helping her stay upright. She insisted she could take down her hanging flowers on the front porch, but the ladder slipped on the wet boards and she hit her head.
We move through all of it with coordinated control. We assist each other where necessary and fly solo when we have to. He lets me work without second-guessing or commentary.
By noon, I’m wet at the cuffs, hungry, irritated with six separate people, and painfully aware of Doc being so near.
A weather alert shrieks from both our phones while he’s listening to Mrs. Cox’s lungs.
“School closure,” I say from the doorway a minute later, phone in hand.
“I need to call Ellie.” He steps into the hall.
“Hey, sweetheart. I got the alert.”
The word sweetheart is warm and gentle and reminds me he’s a father first.
I turn back to the supply tray and make myself useful.
“Yes, I know it's a big, creaky house,” he says. “El, if you’re scared, just tell me.”
A pause. His shoulders lower.
“Ellie.”
Whatever she says makes him close his eyes for a second.
“Yes, sweetheart, you can go to Erin’s. I don’t want you being scared and alone either.”
Another pause.
“I don’t like being here instead of with you either.”
That tugs at my heart.
“You’re safe,” he says. “Have Rhea call me before she drives over, okay?”
Rhea.
I hate that my first reaction isn’t gratitude.
Rhea is responsible, kind, has a house above the flood zone, and a daughter Ellie is friends with. And apparently she has the ability to be in the right place at the right time when Doc needs someone.
I set a roll of gauze in the wrong drawer and have to move it.
Doc’s tone changes when Rhea calls. “Thank you for offering to get Ellie.”
He listens.
“Good. And if the roads get worse, you all stay put.” His voice is calm, but not cold. The worry is there under the practical conversation.
That bothers me, too.
Not because she does anything wrong.
Because she doesn’t.
“I really appreciate this, Rhea,” he says.
My skin crawls.
“Can you put her back on?”
A moment later, his voice softens again.
“Hey. You text me every thirty minutes. If you get scared, you call. I don’t care what I’m doing, I’ll answer.”
He pauses.
“I love you too.” When he comes back into the triage station, he pockets the phone and reaches for the next chart.
“Everything okay?” I ask.