Chapter 11
Remedy
There were several reliable ways to avoid thinking about a kiss that had lasted only a few seconds and somehow managed to rearrange the entire landscape of a man’s mind.
The most effective involved arriving at Harbor House before sunrise, opening the medical office while the rest of the farmhouse still slept, and burying yourself beneath enough charts, medication requests, and overdue paperwork that remembering the softness of a woman’s mouth became professionally irresponsible.
By six-thirty that morning, I had reorganized the supply cabinet, reviewed every resident’s medication schedule twice, submitted three insurance forms Melissa had been threatening to staple to my forehead, and checked on two veterans who had never asked to be checked on in the first place.
None of it helped. Sunshine’s kiss remained lodged in the back of my mind with maddening clarity, untouched by every distraction I threw at it.
I remembered the hesitation before it happened more than the kiss itself.
The way she had looked at me outside Charlie’s room, caught somewhere between uncertainty and courage while the farmhouse settled into its quiet nighttime rhythm around us.
I remembered asking whether she was alright, because asking had become instinct whenever her eyes carried too much.
Then her hand had rested lightly against my chest, her gaze had dropped to my mouth, and she had leaned forward before either of us could reconsider what the moment might change.
The kiss had been gentle and brief, almost cautious, yet there had been nothing uncertain about the way it affected me.
For a few suspended heartbeats, every responsibility I carried had gone silent.
There had been no clinic, no emergency phone, no fear about tomorrow, and no old memory warning me that people left when life became too difficult.
There had only been Sunshine, warm and trembling beneath my hands, offering me something neither of us had been ready to name.
Then we had stepped apart.
She had whispered goodnight.
I had watched her walk down the hallway toward the guest rooms while standing outside my daughter’s bedroom like a man who had forgotten how doors worked.
The memory should not have been capable of distracting me twelve hours later.
I was a grown man, a father, the chapter medic, and someone who had faced blood, bullets, and enough emergencies to understand the difference between a crisis and an unexpected kiss.
Unfortunately, none of that training had prepared me for Sunshine smiling at me afterward as though she was just as surprised by what she had done as I was.
It certainly had not prepared me for the realization that I wanted her to do it again.
I closed the chart in front of me harder than necessary.
“You know the paper didn’t offend you.”
Bishop’s voice came from the open doorway.
I looked up to find him leaning against the frame with a steaming mug in one hand and an expression that immediately confirmed he had already decided to become a problem.
“I’m working.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means Melissa says you’ve completed enough paperwork this morning to qualify as three separate employees.”
“I was behind.”
“You weren’t.”
“I could have been.”
Bishop took a slow drink of coffee while studying me over the rim. He wore faded jeans, an old Harbor House shirt, and the patient look of a man who believed silence would eventually irritate the truth out of me.
It nearly worked.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m observing.”
“That’s what you call interfering before breakfast.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “Interesting choice of words.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You don’t know anything.”
“I didn’t say I did.”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to ask whether you slept.”
“I slept.”
“How long?”
“Enough.”
“That isn’t a number.”
“It doesn’t need to be.”
His smile widened as he walked into the office and placed another cup beside my elbow.
One splash of cream, no sugar. The fact that he remembered should not have made me think of Sunshine, yet my mind immediately returned to the first lunch she had quietly left on my desk and the realization that she had learned how I drank my coffee without ever asking.
Bishop lowered himself into the chair across from me. “You left the clubhouse before five.”
“I had work.”
“You always have work.”
“Exactly.”
“That usually doesn’t stop you from making dinosaur pancakes.”
I looked down at the chart in front of me, though I had already read the same line three times without absorbing a single word. “Daisy stayed over. Charlie wasn’t alone.”
“I didn’t say she was.”
“She wanted to sleep another hour.”
“I didn’t say she didn’t.”
I exhaled slowly. “Are you going to make your point?”
“I’m waiting for you to make it.”
“There isn’t one.”
“Then we can sit here quietly.”
“I have patients.”
“Your first appointment is in twenty-three minutes.”
I looked toward the clock and immediately regretted it.
Bishop leaned back with the unmistakable satisfaction of a man whose ambush had succeeded. “You want to tell me why you’ve been avoiding the clubhouse since before sunrise?”
“I haven’t been avoiding anything.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Sunshine stayed there last night.”
The name alone brought the memory back with enough force that my fingers tightened around the pen.
Bishop noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“I had work,” I repeated.
He nodded thoughtfully. “At five in the morning.”
“People get sick early.”
“Convenient.”
“Bishop.”
“Remedy.”
We stared at each other across the desk until the corner of his mouth twitched.
I hated that smile.
“You’re enjoying this,” I said.
“More than I should.”
“Get out.”
“Gladly.”
He stood but paused before reaching the doorway. “Family dinner tonight.”
“I know.”
“Six-thirty.”
“I know.”
“Charlie says Sunshine’s coming.”
The pen slipped slightly between my fingers before I caught it.
Bishop’s expression softened, the teasing fading beneath something more thoughtful. “Whatever happened, don’t punish yourself for wanting something that makes you happy.”
My gaze lifted to his.
He offered no knowing grin this time, no clever observation delivered like a riddle. Bishop simply gave me the kind of understanding that came from surviving his own darkness and learning that healing could become another thing a man resisted if he had grown too comfortable with pain.
“I’m not punishing myself,” I said quietly.
“Good.”
He stepped into the hallway.
“Because it would be a damn shame if you started now.”
The office felt too quiet after he left.
I reached for the coffee he had brought and took a slow drink, allowing the heat to settle through me while I stared at the empty chair.
I knew what Bishop believed was happening, and perhaps that was the problem.
Everyone seemed to notice the way Sunshine had become woven through Charlie’s life and mine before either of us had decided what it meant.
Daisy saw it in shared breakfasts. Lark saw it in Charlie’s drawings.
Steel and Mace saw it every time my daughter physically dragged Sunshine into the seat beside me.
Even Bishop had begun watching us with the calm patience of a man waiting for two particularly stubborn people to catch up with what the rest of the clubhouse already understood.
They made it sound simple.
It was not.
Wanting Sunshine was simple enough. Wanting another kiss required no complicated analysis, especially when my mind had spent the entire morning replaying the first one.
What frightened me was everything surrounding that desire.
Sunshine was no longer someone I could imagine entering my life without touching Charlie’s.
My daughter had already opened the door, carried Sunshine through it, and begun rearranging the furniture before either adult realized we had crossed the threshold.
Charlie did not merely enjoy Sunshine’s company.
She trusted her. She searched for her in every room, included her in every drawing, and spoke about her with the possessive certainty of a child who had already decided love was enough to make someone family.
I had spent three years ensuring Charlie never had to wonder whether the people she loved would stay.
One kiss did not give me the right to gamble with that promise.
A knock against the door interrupted the thought before it could deepen.
Melissa stepped into the office carrying a chart and a paper bag that smelled suspiciously like cinnamon.
“Mrs. Henderson is early.”
“How early?”
“Forty-five minutes.”
“That’s impressive even for her.”
“She said waiting rooms are where people go to catch illnesses.”
“She isn’t entirely wrong.”
Melissa handed me the chart before placing the bag beside my coffee. “She also brought muffins.”
“For the staff?”
“For you.”
I frowned. “Why me?”
“Apparently Charlie told her you forget breakfast.”
I closed my eyes briefly.
Melissa laughed. “The campaign is expanding.”
“She needs less access to the community.”
“She’s three.”
“Exactly. No respect for medical confidentiality.”
Melissa started toward the door, then glanced back. “Sunshine called.”
Every muscle in my body went still with enough precision that I could almost hear Bishop laughing from somewhere in the building.
I kept my attention on the chart. “About what?”
“Charlie.”
That forced me to look up.
“Is she alright?”
“She’s fine. She wanted Sunshine to ask whether Pancake the dragon could come to dinner.”
I stared at her.
Melissa’s mouth trembled with the effort of holding back laughter. “Apparently Pancake has become lonely.”
“Pancake is a drawing.”
“I’m aware.”
“Charlie knows that.”
“Does she?”
I rubbed one hand across my beard. “What did Sunshine say?”
“That she thought dragons were welcome as long as they didn’t burn the tablecloth.”
Despite every effort to remain irritated, a smile escaped me.
Melissa noticed that too.
Everybody noticed everything around here.