Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Maxwell strolled into the reception area, his head bent over a chart. “Hey, Renee, I have a question for you,” he said to one of the medical assistants. He had started seeing patients on Monday and was still getting up to speed.
Renee was helpful in that regard. She was the quieter of the two medical assistants but the most efficient, and she was the one who tended to thoroughly answer his questions. He’d learned this and much more in the three weeks since he started.
For instance, all of Dr. Park’s nutrition consultations took place in the afternoon, leaving the mornings free for routine well visits. Keisha kept a stash of protein bars and chocolate bars in the second drawer of her desk for the days when she skipped lunch or worked late.
Patricia in billing took her lunch at exactly twelve-ten each day because she chatted with her three-year-old grandson for the first ten minutes of her break, returning to the office exactly fifty minutes later.
Jasmine did a walk-through of the facility each morning, greeting the staff like a politician running for re-election.
He and Jasmine continued to tease each other, and once or twice she’d subtracted a point from her mythical tab for some infraction or another. The topic of their night together was carefully avoided, buried under teasing conversations, pleasantries, and “Good morning” greetings.
Not that Maxwell had forgotten that night.
Maybe it was the fact that they worked together, but every so often the memories came back in a rush.
Sometimes at inopportune moments, such as the other night when he’d been in the arms of another woman.
Out of the blue, he’d wished, intensely, that the woman he was with had golden skin instead of pale and hazel eyes instead of blue.
“How can I help you, Dr. Santana?” Renee asked, rising to her feet. She was petite with light brown skin, her coily hair cut in a fade, freckles sprinkled across her nose and cheeks.
“I have an appointment this afternoon with this patient, and I’m a little concerned about the symptoms I’m reading here. What can you tell me about him?”
“Oh, Trevor Thompson. Cute kid, but since he’s been coming to us, he’s become more irritable and Dr. Roberson noticed a mild developmental slowdown.
During the last visit, his mother said he’s barely eating.
We’ve run tests but haven’t been able to find anything wrong.
As you can see, his labs are all clear.”
Maxwell nodded slowly. “Possibility of a viral infection?” he asked.
Renee shook her head. “Dr. Roberson already eliminated that possibility, but he wanted you to examine Trevor to see if he missed anything.”
“Okay. I’ll—”
“Oh.” The single word spoken by Keisha was said with reverence and prompted Renee and Maxwell to swing their heads in her direction.
A delivery man was making his way through the sliding glass door, gripping an extravagant flower arrangement made up of white roses, gardenias, blush-colored Persian buttercups, and vibrant greenery all arranged in a huge vase that the driver was struggling to keep level.
The whole thing was the size of a small coffee table.
With all of them looking, including the patients in the waiting room, he walked up to the glass enclosure and rested the flowers on the edge of the counter with what looked like considerable relief. “I have a delivery for Miss Jasmine Roberson?”
Maxwell stiffened, eyes pinned on the delivery man.
“You’re in the right place.” Keisha jumped to her feet and slid open the window to sign the tablet.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
The driver helped her carefully place the flowers down on the desk and then left.
“Those are for Jasmine?” Renee asked.
“That’s what the man said,” Keisha replied, placing a hand on her hip as she eyed the bouquet.
“Someone spent a lot of money,” Renee said in awe.
“They sure did.” Keisha turned to Maxwell. “Aren’t these gorgeous?”
He took in the arrangement. “Yeah. They’re nice,” he said in the same voice he might use to convey a diagnosis.
Keisha wrinkled her nose, apparently not satisfied with his less than enthusiastic response. But she didn’t spend a lot of time on him. She picked up the phone. “Jasmine, could you come to the front please? You have a delivery,” she sang, practically vibrating with excitement.
Renee was smiling, as if the arrangement had been sent to her. Patricia had appeared in the doorway of the billing office, hand to her mouth. How had she known about the flowers? Did a flower delivery send up a silent alarm to all the women in the vicinity? Like the Bat-Signal?
“Who sent her flowers? Valentine’s Day isn’t until Saturday,” Patricia said.
“I have an idea who sent them, but we’ll have to wait to see if she confirms,” Keisha said with the relish of someone who knew a secret that others weren’t privy to.
Something else Maxwell had learned in his short time there: Keisha and Jasmine were friends outside of the office. He’d overheard them joking once about a double date a while back with Keisha, her husband, Jasmine, and a friend of Keisha’s husband. From what he heard, the date had been a disaster.
Maxwell couldn’t explain why he stuck around right now since Renee had adequately answered his questions. Yet he couldn’t move. He wanted to see Jasmine’s reaction.
He heard her approaching footsteps before he saw her. She had a very distinctive walk. In the doorway, she stopped suddenly when she saw the huge bouquet. Focusing on her expression, Maxwell noticed it went from surprise to something softer.
“Those flowers are my delivery?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am. Read the card.” Keisha thrust the envelope toward her.
Jasmine read the message, and the corners of her mouth curled into a private, pleased smile. Afterward, she tucked the card into the pocket of her red blazer.
“Well? Don’t keep us waiting,” Keisha said.
“There’s nothing to tell. I got some flowers,” Jasmine said, obviously fighting a smile.
“Who did you get flowers from?” Keisha asked.
Jasmine stared at her. “Keisha.”
“Jasmine.”
After a beat, they both laughed.
“Tell us,” Renee begged.
Jasmine looked past Maxwell—as if he wasn’t there—to Renee. “Nicholas sent the flowers.”
Patricia let out a wistful sigh.
“Yay,” Keisha said in a low voice, quietly clapping.
“How romantic,” Renee murmured.
Who the hell was Nicholas?
Right then, Dr. Roberson came from the other hallway, reading something on his phone. As he approached the desk, he looked up, his gaze landing on the arrangement. A warm, satisfied expression crossed his face.
“Dare I ask who sent these?”
“You know who sent them,” Jasmine said.
“Nicholas?”
“Yes.”
Maxwell listened to his boss make a low sound of approval, and his skin crawled, like a bunch of ants were running from his neck into his hair.
“Very nice,” Dr. Roberson said. “I’m on my way to my meeting. I’ll see you all later.”
Maxwell took that as his cue to leave while the women continued quietly chatting.
He had work to do, which included preparing for his next patient.
Before he left, he caught Jasmine looking at him, her eyes darting away as she was pulled into conversation by Keisha and Renee.
Patricia had already returned to her office.
Walking out of the reception area, he heard Keisha say, “Girl, you’re so lucky. He’s such a nice guy.”
A nice guy.
Exactly the kind of man Jasmine had said she preferred.
But how long had she and this nice guy been seeing each other? Three weeks ago, Maxwell had been pounding her through the goddamn mattress in her apartment, yet Nicholas was well known. They all knew his name. He was definitely more than a one-night stand.
Her relationship was none of his business, but he couldn’t help wondering about this Nicholas guy. What makes him so special? Maxwell thought.
He sank onto the chair behind his desk and went over his notes before the next patient arrived, compartmentalizing whatever he was feeling to focus on the work.
His eleven-thirty appointment was a seven-year-old named Maddie, who’d had a persistent cough for ten days. After the exam, he wrote a prescription for her mother and told her to do a follow-up in two weeks.
On the way back to his office, he glanced at Jasmine’s closed door, which meant she had probably left for lunch already.
As he was deciding where he wanted to go to eat himself, he removed his white coat and hung it on the coat tree inside his office, when movement in the parking lot caught his eye.
Through the blinds he saw a tall Black man dressed in a suit, with Jasmine walking beside him. Was that Nicholas?
The man said something that made her laugh, and she playfully slapped his arm. They seemed comfortable with each other. As if they had known each other a long time.
Maxwell hung back from the window in case Jasmine looked in his direction. He didn’t want her to see him watching them.
The stranger opened the passenger door of his black Mercedes, placing a hand in the small of her back as he helped her into the car. After he closed the door, he did a little jog around the front of the vehicle, giving Maxwell a good look at him.
Brown-skinned, clean-shaven, wearing a slim-cut blue suit. Frankly, his pants were kind of tight. His tailor sucked.
The man climbed behind the wheel, and Maxwell watched them pull out of the parking lot, a strange burning in his chest. This feeling was unfamiliar. So unfamiliar it took him a while to realize what it was.
“No way,” he muttered to himself. He checked for his keys and headed out of his office, locking it behind him.
Hell no, he insisted, fighting against the thought that plagued him. He was in the parking lot before he finally admitted the ugly truth.
He was jealous.