Chapter 3 #2
I hadn’t realized how much time had passed. “For now, yes. Thank you for your time.” I closed my laptop and stacked my notepad and iPad. “If I have questions, I’d like to reach out to you directly. Not through Dr. Webb.”
He pulled out his phone, swiped to contacts, and handed it across the table. “Put your number in. I’ll text you so you’ve got mine.”
I keyed in my personal number, already feeling like some of our discussions would not be welcome on the official record. Then I saved it and slid the phone back to him.
“Thank you for being straight with me,” he said, getting to his feet. “I appreciate being treated like a professional. Most administrators try to manage me.”
“Well…” I smiled and started gathering the papers, the folders, the pens I’d scattered across the table like breadcrumbs. “I try hard not to be most people in administration.”
“I feel that.” The undercurrent in his tone made me look up. “Keep that up.” He swung his bag onto his shoulder and left.
A few minutes later, I followed, noting three problems I hadn’t had when I walked in:
First, Cole Vaughn was going to be impossible to protect because he was too angry to play the game Risk Management wanted him to play.
Next, RMC wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice him if that’s what it came to, and I was going to have to decide how far I’d go to stop them.
Last…I was already looking forward to seeing Dr. Vaughn again.
When I returned to the office suite, Rowan was hunched at their desk, glasses sliding down their nose.
“How’d it go?”
I crossed to my office, depositing my laptop and files on my desk, and collapsed into my chair. “About as well as you can imagine it would go if you accused a well-regarded surgeon of fucking up.”
Rowan took up their usual place in the door frame, arms folded, lips bent in a half-smile. “So he won’t just crawl under the bus for RMC? Damn.”
I flipped open my laptop, the file and my notes waiting for me. “Nope.”
“At least he’s smart. Some of these MDs…” They clicked their tongue and shook their head at the thought.
“Which is almost worse,” I said, glancing up at them. “He knows the hospital is setting him up and he’s not about to play along with that narrative.”
I averted my eyes before I added, “And I don’t blame him.”
“Oh, Lord,” they replied, laughing a little. “You like Dr. Vaughn.”
I didn’t look up again. “I respect his position. I’m a woman with a job to do.”
“Mmmhmmm.”
I laughed, albeit nervously. “Don’t start, Rowan.”
“You don’t start.” The grin was impossible to ignore. They eased themselves away from the doorway, strolling over to my desk, leaning on the edge. “You know how you get.”
“Wait, how do I get?” I arched a brow, already knowing this script too well.
“You are about to go to war over this man.”
I closed my laptop, pushing out an exasperated sigh “I’m supposed to let them sacrifice a good surgeon because rich people need a scapegoat?”
“You’re supposed to do exactly what you’re doing. Just be careful. This case has money and politics all over it, and that means it won’t be fair. If you get too close to the blast radius—”
“I know, Rowan.”
“I know you know, Harper. And yet, you see someone getting railroaded and you become their personal defender.”
I wanted to argue. I couldn’t. “I hear you. I’ll be careful.”
After they left, I went back through the facts, stacking them up in my head. The more I worked, the clearer it became—the Hart family wanted someone to pay for the death of their loved one. The hospital wanted to protect itself. Those two wants didn’t fit together unless someone took the fall.
My phone vibrated against the polished wood of my desk. I snatched it up, flipping it over to check the screen.
Unknown number:
This is Cole Vaughn. You have my number now.
I stifled a smile, then saved his contact info and fired off a reply, thumbs quick on the glass.
Me:
Confirmed. I’ll reach out once I’ve met with the family, their attorney, and Dr. Rice.
Three dots appeared immediately. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Cole:
Appreciate the heads up. Let me know if you need anything else from my end.
Me:
Sure will. A word of advice: don’t answer any questions without a representative. If they’re trying to build a narrative, don’t give them ammunition.
His response came faster this time.
Cole:
Noted.
I set my phone down, but the screen lit up again before I could look away.
Cole:
I believe you meant what you said. About protecting me, not just the hospital.
My fingers hovered above the keys, stilled in midair. This was the moment I could and should draw a thick, bright line to keep a professional distance with Dr. Vaughn. To remind him—okay, myself—I had a job to do and I couldn’t let anything personal bleed into it.
But I didn’t do that.
Me:
I did mean it. Don’t trust me too much yet though, Dr. Vaughn. I still work for RMC, even if I don’t always agree with how they operate.
Cole:
Fair enough.
Cole:
And it’s Cole. I only make people call me Dr. Vaughn if I don’t like them.
This time, I didn’t fight a smile.
Me:
Fine, Cole. Then it’s Harper.
Cole:
Already was.
A laugh slipped out, louder than I’d intended, echoing across the empty office. My fingers were already tapping out a reply.
Me:
See, every MD is a little bit of an asshole. Might rethink my approach.
Cole:
No take-backs. You’re in too deep.
I was still smiling when I set the phone face-down on my desk and forced myself back to work.
By four o’clock, my eyes were tired and my coffee was cold again, but I’d built a preliminary strategy to protect Ridgeway Medical Center—and its staff—in our meeting with the Hart family. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start.
My phone rang. A glance at the screen made me groan aloud. I let it go for two rings before picking up.
“Hello, Liz. You’re working late tonight.”
“Harper, hi. Catch me up on your meeting with Dr. Vaughn.”
I leaned back in my chair, already anticipating where this was headed. “It was positive overall. Productive. He’s reasonable, and I don’t see any red flags from a liability perspective.”
I heard her soft exhale on the other end of the line. “That’s reassuring.” Papers shuffled, followed by the click of her office door. “And his attitude during the meeting? Did he seem receptive to the plan?”
The subtext was clear. She wanted to know if he’d roll over when the time came.
“He’s frustrated, to be honest,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “Which is understandable. But he’s willing to work with us to address the family’s concerns.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear.” Another pause, long and tense.
I picked up my pen, tapping it against my desk, waiting her out.
“Harper, you do realize the stakes here, how delicate this situation is, right? The Hart family has considerable influence, and if they decide to make this death an issue—”
“I understand, Liz.”
“Be sure you do. I need to know you’re approaching this the right way. Dr. Vaughn is an excellent surgeon, but surgeons don’t always see the bigger picture.”
The pen stilled in my hand. “You brought this to me, Liz. Dumped it right in my lap. Either you believe I can handle it properly or you don’t.”
“I wouldn’t have brought it to you otherwise, Harper,” she said, her tone cool as ice over the line. “I simply want to know if Vaughn is going to be a problem.”
“Only if you disagree that Dr. Vaughn is competent and his management of this case was above board. If we position this as his failure, we’re setting ourselves up for a situation that will hurt more than if the Hart family withdraws their support.”
“It’s not my goal to imply that Dr. Vaughn is incompetent.”
“Then what is the goal?”
“I just need you to manage the situation, to make sure that when that attorney starts asking questions, we have clear answers that protect RMC. We don’t need to give them any soft spots to target.”
“I can do that.” I kept my voice level even as my jaw tightened. “But I won’t do it by helping RMC sacrifice a good surgeon.”
“No one is asking you to.” But her tone said otherwise. “Keep me updated. And Harper? Remember whose side you’re on.”
She hung up before I could respond. My jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached.
Remember whose side I was on?
I was on the hospital’s side—and that included Dr. Vaughn.
The sun was starting to sink below the hills, casting long shadows across the parking lot. Somewhere in the building, Cole was finishing his day, talking to families, doing the work that had gotten him into this mess in the first place.
And somewhere in Administration, people were deciding how to protect themselves at his expense.
I slid behind the wheel of my car and turned Megan Thee Stallion up until the speakers vibrated, letting heavy bass lines drown out my thoughts for the slow crawl through rush hour traffic.
Forty minutes later, I pulled through the gates of my apartment complex, the sky a beautiful gradient of orange and pink.
Inside, I kicked off my heels, let my bag drop to the couch, and padded barefoot into the kitchen. I pulled a bottle of Malbec from the wine fridge and poured a glass, then carried it to the living room, settled onto the couch, and sat in the dark.
The day replayed in my mind like a film I couldn’t stop watching.
The betrayal in Cole’s eyes when I told him the hospital would always protect itself first.
The slight tremor in his voice when he talked about losing Mr. Greene.
The strong, capable surgeon’s hands with veins roped along the back that curled into fists while he fought to keep his composure.
The burnt umber hue of his skin.
The silk of his deep tenor and how it wrapped around each word.
The distinguished silver threads weaving through the hair at his temples, tracing a path down to frame his jawline.
The shoulders that strained against his shirt, a hint of rippling muscle as he moved.
The truth hit me like a slap: I wanted Cole Vaughn. Not his medical expertise or professional guidance. I wanted his hands on me, his tongue dueling with mine, his body pressed to every inch of me.
I carried my wine to the bedroom, where city lights filtered through the curtains in thin stripes. After setting the glass on my nightstand, I shed my suit jacket, then the pencil skirt, followed by the blouse, lace bra, and finally my panties.
The overhead fan sent cool currents across my bare skin, raising goosebumps.
From my bedside drawer, I retrieved my favorite toy, my most reliable companion for nights when my mind needed emptying and I needed to get off without having to call Jeremiah. I didn’t want his voice or his hands or his…anything crowding out what I actually wanted to picture.
I settled into the familiar hollow of my mattress, parting my thighs. With my eyes shut against the darkness, I switched on the rose vibrator and pressed its silicone petals against my clit.
The low hum filled the quiet room as I let my mind drift back to earlier in the day when it was just him and me and a closed door.
My breathing deepened as the vibrations sent waves through me.
In my fantasy, it wasn’t the rose toy against my skin.
It was Cole’s mouth, his stubble rough on my inner thighs.
I imagined his dark eyes locked on mine as he licked and sucked, my fingers twisting the sheets as waves of heat pulsed through my core.
The fantasy shifted. Now it was his hands gripping my hips, positioning me exactly where he wanted me.
Those surgeon’s hands that had tried to save lives today now focused entirely on driving me wild.
I pressed the toy harder, my free hand sliding up to cup my breast, fingers rolling my nipple as I pictured Cole’s mouth replacing my touch.
“Unnnhhh…yes,” I breathed, words dissolving into a whimper. “Cole, please.”
I turned the toy up, adding pressure. My body responded instantly, hips rolling, heat and lightning twisting low in my belly.
I imagined him whispering filthy things against my skin, his mouth everywhere, kissing my face, my neck, my breasts, sucking my nipples into taut buds like he couldn’t get enough.
“What do you want?” I heard in my mind, his tone husky, rough, possessive.
“I want you to fuck me,” I whispered aloud. “Fuck me hard. Fuck me deep. Fuck me slow.”
The fluttering, sucking pulse of the rose sent a full-body shudder coursing up my spine, so intense I had to bite my lip to keep my neighbors from hearing me scream as I mentally begged for his hands, his mouth, his body pinning me between him and the firmest of mattresses.
I arched high, imagining my nails digging into his skin, making him smile and nudge my knees wider, my legs higher, then bury himself inside me with a steady, relentless rhythm.
I matched the imagined cadence of his thrusts, panting his name into the darkness, desperate for the release I could feel coiling inside me like a spring.
“Oh, God! Fuck…oh! God! Yes! Yes! Yes!”
The words tumbled out, rough and wild, my head thrown back as I lost control. The syllables hit the ceiling and rained down on me with every pulse. Suddenly I was neither in the room nor in my own skin but unraveling from the inside out.
The rose was relentless against my clit, but it was thinking about him, his chest pressed to mine, hips pounding our bodies together, rolling his pelvic bone against my clit that dragged the climax out, made me gasp his name again and again.
Fantasy layered over reality, blurring the line until I didn’t know which was silicone-inspired and which was my own fevered imagination.
As the high faded, smaller waves rolled and I sought them out in greedy fashion. My hips jerked against the toy, whimpers caught behind clenched teeth, leaving nothing behind.
When I was boneless and wrecked, watching the ceiling fan rotate, I managed to switch the toy off and drop it beside me with a shaky hand.
Whew.
This was bad.
I mean, it was so good, so fucking good.
But bad that all I wanted was to be with that man for real. The ache of that wanting burned hotter than anything else.
The last of my wine was gone in two hard swallows. The fantasy kept looping—his hands, his body, his mouth sucking the ever-loving shit out of my pussy lips.
I set the empty glass down, dragged my body up, and headed to the shower, telling myself that despite the lingering aftershocks and mental images, I wasn’t going for round two.
But then I turned around and grabbed the rose anyway.
Just in case.