3. Athena
ATHENA
I called in a sick day to recover from the text, yet the next day when I walk into the hospital, I’m already regretting not calling in sick again. I sent Nathan Clarke my apologies, but I’m not sure it’s enough.
I slept badly, my head still aches, and the memory of the text message I accidentally sent sits in the back of my mind like a bomb waiting for someone to notice it.
My scrubs feel slightly wrinkled, my hair refuses to cooperate with the elastic band I forced it into, and I’m fairly sure my dignity stayed on the floor of that bar bathroom where I made the worst decision of my adult life.
Still.
Children are waiting upstairs.
So I clock in.
The pediatric wing wakes slowly in the morning, and I spend the first hour moving between rooms while my brain runs on autopilot.
A little girl in Room 212 is terrified of her IV line, so I sit beside her bed and explain that it’s a superhero straw that gives her extra power. Her mother laughs quietly while I draw a cartoon cape around the IV pump on the whiteboard.
“See?” I say, handing the marker to the girl. “Now the machine is part of your team.”
She studies the drawing carefully then nods with the deep seriousness only children can produce. “Okay,” she says, between two tiny breaths.
Moments like that usually steady me. Today they barely make a dent.
By the time I leave the room, two nurses give me the kind of sympathetic look people reserve for funerals and bad breakups. Apparently the gossip network of Hawthorne Children’s & Trauma Medical Center has been operating at full speed.
Word travels fast when doctors date hospital staff.
Word travels even faster when cheating is involved.
I keep my head down and continue moving through the floor. In Room 215 I help a seven-year-old boy practice breathing exercises before his appendectomy, and in the hallway outside the surgical prep area I pass two residents who immediately stop talking when they see me.
Great.
Exactly what I wanted.
I duck into the staff kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee that tastes like regret and burned beans. The caffeine barely touches the dull pressure behind my eyes.
My phone vibrates in the pocket of my scrubs.
I already know who it is before I pull it out. Veronica Hale, aka my mother. For a moment I consider letting it ring, but years of conditioning kick in before my better judgment can intervene. I swipe to answer and press the phone to my ear while leaning against the counter.
“Hello.”
Her voice arrives instantly, overwhelmingly sweet and perfectly composed. “Athena, I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”
“I’m at work.”
“Well obviously,” she replies. “But that doesn’t explain why half the hospital seems to know that your boyfriend left you.”
I close my eyes briefly. This is unsurprising considering she worked at this hospital before and has friends everywhere who report to her. I think she keeps them around just so she can know more about my life.
“It’s handled,” I say.
“That’s not what I heard.”
My fingers curl around the coffee cup while she continues talking in that bright tone she uses when delivering criticism disguised as concern.
“I spoke with Marjorie from the board this morning,” she says. “Her niece works in administration, and apparently Nate has been quite upset.”
I stare at the floor tiles.
“Upset,” I repeat.
“Yes,” mom says briskly. “Which makes me wonder what you did this time. Honestly Athena, men don’t just cheat without provocation.”
Something hot flares in my chest.
“He slept with my best friend.”
“Well,” she replies calmly, “that suggests the relationship had problems long before this.”
My hand trembles slightly. “I’m hanging up.”
“You always run away from conversations that might help you grow,” she counters, and I can almost hear her frowning. “And if I’m being honest, darling, you’ve never been particularly good at maintaining yourself. Men notice those things.”
I grip the counter with my free hand while the old familiar shame rises up from somewhere deep and ugly. “You’re blaming me,” I say quietly.
She tsks. “Don’t be so emotional. I’m simply encouraging reflection.”
I breathe in slowly through my nose then hang up. My hands shake slightly while I stare at the dark screen of my phone, and it takes a moment before I realize I’m gripping the edge of the counter hard enough to make my knuckles ache.
Sixteen years of therapy and distance from that voice and she can still find the exact pressure points that make my chest feel like it’s collapsing inward.
I shove the phone back into my pocket and walk out of the kitchen before anyone notices the look on my face.
The hallway outside the pediatric wing feels too bright.
I round the corner near the surgical elevators without paying attention to where I’m going, and my shoulder collides with something solid enough to stop me in my tracks.
“Sorry,” I say automatically.
Then I look up.
Nathan Clarke stands directly in front of me, and he looks so handsome it makes me wince. “Athena,” he says.
His voice is low, but the concern in it feels painfully real. “Are you alright?”
For a second I can’t answer.
Seeing him now sends a shock of fresh embarrassment through my body as last night’s memory flashes in my head. The photo. The message. The fact that my naked chest currently exists somewhere on his phone.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly.
He studies my face in silence. “You don’t look fine.”
“I’m just tired.”
I try to step around him, but his hand closes lightly around my wrist.
His hand on me cuts the thought off so fast I almost forget how to breathe, which feels fair, considering my brain has been making a complete mess of him all day. I look up, and that doesn’t help.
The man is all hard lines and impossible self-control, broad shoulders under a dress shirt, strong arms flexing as he reaches for me, gray eyes dark as a storm rolling in, and that mouth—God, that mouth—set beneath a scruff of stubble that only makes him look more unfair.
Even the veins in his forearms are distracting, the kind of detail I absolutely should not notice on my boss and somehow always do.
He says my name, and I blush like I’ve been caught doing something illegal.
Meanwhile his son, the one I actually dated, can barely return a text message with the urgency of a sloth on sedatives.
Nathan Clarke saves people for a living.
He walks into trauma cases and drags people back from the edge with those same capable hands, then turns around and asks if I’ve eaten lunch in that calm, clipped voice that makes it sound like an order.
There are moments—brief, traitorous, awful moments—when I wonder whether I ever stayed with Nate as long as I did because some part of me liked having a reason to orbit his father, and the thought is so wildly inappropriate I want to throw it out a window and pretend it never crossed my mind.
The worst part is this is ancient. Embarrassingly ancient.
I had a crush on him long before I had a name for what to do with it, the kind that lived in the back of my throat every time he walked into a room in a dark suit looking composed enough to make self-restraint feel like a religion.
Then, at some glossy charity event, he introduced me to his son with one hand at the small of my back and a distracted smile that I misread for disinterest.
After that, I did what any supposedly rational woman would do: I shoved every reckless thought into a locked box, told myself he was my boss, told myself the age gap alone was enough to make this a terrible idea, and told myself that mixing work with pleasure—especially when the work belonged to Dr. Nathan Clarke—was a mistake.
“Athena.”
The way he says my name makes my stomach drop.
“I said I’m fine.”
He doesn’t move.
Instead he glances down the hallway briefly then back at me.
“Come with me.”
Before I can protest, he guides me a few steps toward a nearby door marked ON CALL STAFF ONLY. He opens it, ushers me inside, and closes it behind us.
A narrow bed sits against one wall. A chair and a locker take up the remaining space. Nathan turns the lock on the door before narrowing all his focus on me.
Up close, the exhaustion from surgery still clings to him, but the focus in his eyes is something else entirely.
“Athena,” he says quietly. “Talk to me.”
I would, but I’ve pretty much lost the ability to produce speech.
Nathan stands between me and the door with his arms folded loosely across his chest, and the quiet intensity in his gaze makes it hard to look anywhere else.
My pulse is still uneven from the phone call with my mother, and now that picture sits in the space between us like a secret neither of us can ignore.
“I told you I’m fine.” My voice sounds thin, almost like a male character from one of my favorite sitcoms.
“You’re not,” he replies calmly.
The certainty in his tone irritates me immediately. “You don’t get to diagnose me,” I snap. “You’re not that kind of doctor.”
His mouth moves slightly, the faintest hint of amusement touching the corner of it. “I’m very good at reading people.”
I scowl up at him. “That’s convenient.”
Since I can’t find another argument, I move toward the bed and plop down on it, more to put distance between us than anything else. Nathan doesn’t sit.
He leans one shoulder against the wall and studies me with a level of attention that makes my skin feel hot. I can feel his gaze traveling over my face, noticing the red around my eyes and the tension I’ve been trying to hide all morning.
“Did something happen?” he asks.
“My ex-boyfriend cheated on me,” I reply flatly. “You probably heard already. The hospital grapevine is very efficient.”
His expression changes slightly. “Ex…”
I look down at my hands. “Yes.”
Nathan exhales slowly, and the sound carries something controlled and restrained that makes my chest tighten.
“He’s a fool,” he says.
I chuckle half-heartedly. “That’s generous.”
“He doesn’t understand the value of the things he’s given or realize how stupid he had to be to lose someone this gorgeous and good.”