14. Logan
LOGAN
Kristen Portland kissed me last night and has been acting like I don't exist ever since.
She's good at it, too. Every time I round a corner, she's already gone.
I walk into the residents' lounge, and she walks out.
I catch her eye during rounds, and she looks away so fast you'd think I was a solar eclipse.
She's mastered the art of being in the same building as me without ever being in the same room, and it's driving me insane.
It shouldn't bother me this much. I'm a department head.
I have a surgical team to run, cases to oversee, and a formal complaint to prepare for.
I have better things to do than think about a three-second kiss in a parked car outside her house.
But I keep thinking about it anyway. The way her hand felt on my face, the way she tasted, even the way she pulled back and couldn't form a complete sentence, then practically fell out of my car.
I sat there for a full minute after she went inside, staring at the steering wheel like an idiot.
Today I saw her walking down the hallway, and the second she spotted me, she turned and walked the other direction so fast her lab coat flared out behind her. It would've been impressive if it weren't so infuriating.
The irony isn't lost on me. When she first showed up at this hospital, she was hiding from me because she was afraid I'd recognize her. Now she's hiding from me because she kissed me.
At least there's been some progress.
I'm having a late lunch with Mitchell, but I'm not eating. I'm watching the cafeteria entrance, and I know I look ridiculous, but I can't stop.
"You okay?" Mitchell says, glancing over his shoulder at the door. "You look like you're about to tackle someone coming through there."
"I'm fine. I'm just looking for someone."
Mitchell puts his fork down. "Is it the rival turned resident?"
"No."
"It's the rival turned resident."
"I said no."
"Your mouth said no, but you keep checking the door every eight seconds. I timed it." He takes a sip of his water. "So what happened? Last time we talked, you were 'addressing an institutional injustice.' Did the injustice get worse?"
I don't answer. Mitchell studies me.
"Oh." His eyebrows go up. "Something happened."
"Nothing happened."
"Something definitely happened. You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The look you get when a case doesn't go the way you planned, and you're recalculating. Except this isn't a case. This is a woman." He leans back. "Did she do something? Say something? Don't tell me you guys hooked up or something?"
His question catches me so off guard that I freeze, and that's all he needs.
His eyes go wide. "No way. You did?"
"No. Of course not."
"Really?"
"Yes, really. It's not that."
"Then what is it?" He leans forward. "Because the only reasons a woman avoids a man like she's dodging a missile are: she hooked up with him, she owes him money, or he did something unforgivable." He studies me. "You don't look guilty. She's not the type to borrow money, so that leaves option one."
"Mitchell, I'm telling you, nothing happened."
"And I'm telling you, your face is doing something your mouth disagrees with." He grins. "But fine. Nothing happened. You're just staring at the cafeteria door for no reason. Very normal behavior."
I rub my forehead. This man is exhausting.
"Well, whoever you're looking for isn't going to come near you when you look like that." He gestures at my face.
"What?"
"You look intense. More than usual, which is saying something. Maybe try not being so obvious that you're trying to catch them."
"I'm not trying to catch anyone. You're making me sound like a predator."
"You look like one right now."
I give him a look.
"Right." He takes a bite of his sandwich. "You're just casually staring at a door with the energy of a man who's been ghosted. Very subtle, Maxwell. Very cool."
My gaze still flicks to the door.
"Seriously, though, if she's avoiding you, chasing her is only going to make it worse. Back off. Let her come to you."
"Since when are you a relationship expert?"
"Since I've been watching you act like a lovesick intern for the past few days. Someone has to intervene." He stands up and picks up his tray. "Eat your food. Stop scaring people at the door. And for the love of God, fix your face."
He leaves. I eat my food. I stop watching the door. I don't know about my face though.
I hate that he's right.
For the rest of the afternoon, I don't look for her.
I do my rounds, run my department, handle consults, check on post-op patients, and sit in on a meeting about OR scheduling that I could not care less about.
I don't walk past the residents' lounge, hoping to accidentally run into her. It's excruciating.
By late afternoon, I'm in my office reviewing a stack of charts that need my signature, and I'm doing a terrible job of concentrating because my brain keeps circling back to the same three seconds in a parked car.
My phone rings. I look at the screen.
Dad.
Well. That'll definitely take my mind off things. I pick up.
"Logan. I heard you're involved in some kind of hearing."
"Where did you hear that?"
"It doesn't matter where I heard it from. What matters is that the news reached me, which means it's a big enough deal for people to talk about." Of course. The medical world is a small town with expensive degrees. "What's going on?"
I lean back in my chair and take off my glasses. "A resident on my service was being harassed by her ex. He showed up at the hospital and physically grabbed her in front of patients. I intervened. He didn't like being embarrassed, so he filed a complaint against her and named me in it."
"What kind of complaint?"
"That I threatened a visitor and that I'm in an inappropriate relationship with a resident on my service." I keep my voice even. "Both of which are false. He entered my department and was physically aggressive toward one of my residents. All I did was tell him to leave."
"And the relationship allegation?"
"Fabricated. He's trying to discredit me because I intervened."
My father is quiet for a moment. I can almost hear him calculating. He always calculates before he speaks. "And the board is proceeding with this?"
"There's going to be a hearing. I've agreed to cooperate."
Another pause. "Logan, I want to be direct with you. Getting involved in someone else's personal situation is not like you. Our name is clean. Our family has built a reputation in this field over decades. Getting pulled into a hearing over a resident's domestic issues—"
"It wasn't about her domestic issues. A man assaulted someone in my department. I stepped in. That's not careless, Dad. That's the Maxwell name doing exactly what it should. Standing up for what's right."
"Standing up for what's right doesn't usually come with a formal hearing, Logan."
"It does when the other party is a CEO with resources and a grudge. The man has money and connections, and he's using them to settle a personal vendetta."
He's quiet again. I can hear my mother in the background saying something I can't make out. My father covers the phone, responds to her, then comes back.
"Your mother wants to know if you're eating properly."
"Tell her I'm fine."
"She also wants to know if this complaint is the reason you haven't been calling us."
"No. I haven't been calling because I've been busy."
"Mhm." He doesn't believe me. He never does when I use that excuse. "If you need me to make a call or talk to the board, I still know people there."
"No. I'm going through the hearing because my actions were justified, and the complaints are baseless. Both of them. I don't need anyone pulling strings."
"Logan—"
"Dad, I appreciate the concern, but I've got this."
He sighs. The long, heavy sigh of a father who knows his son has made a decision and isn't going to change it. "Be careful."
He's not asking me to be careful for myself. He's asking me to be careful with the name. So I answer.
"I will." And I mean it.
"Your mother says to call more often."
"I will." This time, I don't entirely mean it.
He hangs up. I sit there and stare at the wall.
He's not wrong. He's never wrong about the practical stuff. The Maxwell name does hold power, and getting pulled into a hearing is a risk. The Maxwells before me spent their entire careers building something, and here I am putting it on the line.
But if I'd walked away when Miguel grabbed her, if I'd let it happen, if I'd protected the name instead of protecting her, what would that name even be worth?
My mother would understand. She'd never say it in front of my father, but she would. She became a surgeon in an era when women in operating rooms were treated like temporary visitors. She knows what it means to have someone stand up for you when the system is designed to look the other way.
My father sees the risk. My mother would see the person.
I put my glasses back on. I need coffee. And I need to stop thinking about my parents' approval like I'm still a twenty-year-old trying to make the honors list.
I head to the break room. I'm stirring my coffee and staring at nothing when the door opens and Kristen walks in.
She sees me and freezes, one foot in, one foot out, calculating whether she can back out without it being obvious.
I don't move. I don't chase. I just look at her and smile. Small and easy, like her being here is the most normal thing in the world. Because it is, and she's the one who's been acting like us in a room together would cause the world to explode.
She stands there for a second, weighing it.
Then she steps in and lets the door close behind her.
She grabs a mug from the shelf, fills it with coffee from the pot, and leans against the counter across from me.
She won't look at me directly. Her eyes are fixed on her coffee like it contains the answers to every question she's ever had.
"I thought you were going to run again," I say.
"I considered it."
"What stopped you?"
"The coffee here is better than the one on the third floor."
I almost smile.
She takes a breath, then faces me. "I'm sorry about the other night. It was inappropriate. I don't know why I did that. I think with everything going on it's just getting to me, and I wasn't thinking clearly, and it was a moment of, I don't know, temporary insanity probably, and I shouldn't have—"
"Portland."
She stops.
"It's fine."
She blinks. "It's fine?"
"It's fine." I take a sip of my coffee and try to look calm, because one of us has to be, and she clearly isn't. "You've got a lot on your mind. I get it."
She exhales, then wraps both hands around her mug, even though the coffee is too hot to drink. She stares into it, processing, trying to figure out if 'it's fine' means I'm brushing it off or if it means something else entirely.
It means something else entirely, but she doesn't need to know that right now.
The silence stretches. She's gripping her mug like it's the only thing keeping her grounded.
"For the record," I say, "you don't have to avoid me. I'm not going to make it weird."
"I was the one who made it weird."
"Do my ears deceive me? Kristen Portland, self-aware?"
"I've always been self-aware, Maxwell. Don't push it."
"There she is." I take a sip of my coffee. "See, this is more fun. When you fight back instead of running away."
The defensiveness drops, and she smiles. Small, but real.
"You're right." She nods, and when she speaks again, her voice is steadier. "And speaking of fighting back, I've been thinking about starting my rebuttal against Miguel. There's no final date for the hearing yet, but I want to be ready."
"Agreed. We should prepare thoroughly." I set my coffee down. "When's your next day off?"
Kristen looks at me, curious. "Why?"
"Clear the day. I know a place we can go. Somewhere private and quiet. Away from the hospital, away from any distractions." I pause. "We can concentrate. You can relax, think clearly. Would that be alright?"
I ask because she spent three years with a man who never did, and I'm not going to be the second person who makes decisions for her.
She searches my face for a second. Whatever she finds there must be enough because she nods.
"Alright."
"I'll pick you up at nine."
She nods again, takes a sip of her coffee, then winces because it's still too hot. And for a second, the corner of her mouth pulls up. She looks at me over the rim of the mug with those dark brown eyes, and again, I think about the way she kissed me.
I might be in serious trouble.
"Thursday," she says.
"Thursday."
She pushes off the counter and walks out. I stand there with my coffee getting cold in my hand, and I watch her go.
Mitchell would be proud of me for approximately five seconds before he'd start laughing.
I take a sip of my cold coffee.
Thursday. A whole day with Kristen Portland away from the hospital. Away from the residents, the gossip, the investigation, and every reason we're supposed to keep our distance. Just two people in a room, building a case, preparing for a fight.
That's all it is. Strategy. Preparation. Work.
This is either going to be a really good idea.
Or a really bad one.