Chapter 5
Chapter Five
HARPER
I slid into my usual booth in the back of Rafferty’s. The place was busier than I’d expected it to be, which was fine. I liked a crowd thick enough that two colleagues having drinks wouldn’t draw a glance, but not so loud that we’d have to shout to be heard.
Rafferty’s didn’t pretend to be anything it wasn’t.
It had an urban edge but was upscale, a perfect balance of grit and polish.
Concrete floors gleamed underfoot and exposed ductwork ran overhead.
The tables were thick slabs of reclaimed wood, each one catching the glow of Edison bulbs dangling above.
The bar itself stretched long, a fusion of steel and wood, the shelves behind it crowded with small-batch spirits and local brews. Flat screens were generously hung and looped sports highlights with the sound dialed way down.
A waiter materialized at my table, order pad already in hand. “Welcome to Rafferty’s. What can I get started for you tonight?”
“I’ll take a whiskey sour.”
I pulled out my personal phone while I waited.
Three texts from Alicia—random chitchat and asking me how I was doing.
One from Mom about Sunday dinner and if I could pick up a bottle of wine on my way.
And one from my brother, Aaron. He was the only boy, so though he was divorced and had a child, he was spoiled, even at thirty-one.
I opened the text, curious. He rarely reached out unless he needed something.
Aaron:
Hey Harpy.
Mia has a school dance coming up and I agreed to take her shopping. Any chance you could tag along? You got a style that I like and she’ll listen to you about what she should get.
I grinned at his crass nickname for me, then at the thought of shopping with my niece. I happily texted that I would join them on their shopping trip—just name the date and the place; Auntie will be on the way.
My shattered work phone sat in the bottom of my bag, a small disaster that I wasn’t looking forward to reporting. I pulled it out, examining the destroyed screen. The IT department was going to have a field day.
So was Rowan. This was the second phone I’d had to replace lately.
My drink arrived, condensation already beading on the glass.
I thanked the waiter and took a sip, tartness making me wince slightly before the warmth of the bourbon spread through my chest. I sighed, trying to remember the last time I’d done this.
Just gone out for drinks on a weeknight, no agenda, and enjoyed myself.
The door swung open, spilling a chill into the room. Cole stepped inside, his gaze moving over the crowd. It only took a second for him to spot me. His lips curled into a smile as he made his way toward the booth.
“Wasn’t sure you’d actually show,” I said as he slid in across from me.
“Wasn’t sure you actually wanted me to.” He settled in, comfortable. “You did drive off pretty fast.”
“I was giving you time to decide.”
“Appreciate it.” He lifted a hand, caught the waiter’s eye. “Bourbon. Neat.”
When we were alone again, I gestured at my destroyed phone on the table. “Exhibit A in why my brother, the tech pro, calls me a walking disaster.”
Cole picked it up, turned it over. “It only took you three days to kill it, huh? Didn’t IT give you a case?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “I don’t know where I put it. I’ve been busy.”
“Too busy to order one? Don’t you have an assistant that could get one for you?”
I scowled, becoming overly concerned with my whiskey sour. “They’re also very busy. They’ve got important things to do.”
“Do I want to ask how you destroyed the last one?”
I laughed despite myself. “Uh, I dropped it in a pot of chili?”
“Oh. Oh shit.” Cole’s laugh was deep and rich, even at my expense. “How does someone even do that? Were you cooking and texting?”
“So what if I was?”
Cole raised an eyebrow, leaning back in the booth. “I’m just picturing you in an apron, stirring chili with one hand, negotiating with the other, and then…”
“It was less dramatic than that. It fell right through my fingers. By the time Aaron fished it out of the pot, it was gone.”
The server set his drink down in front of him; he took a sip, then relaxed, sinking into the supple brown leather. His gaze flicked over the room, taking it all in.
“Sounds like we’ve had the same week,” he said after a long pause.
“Not quite. I’m not a surgeon. But pretty much.”
“So, how does this roll out from your side?”
I filled him in, from Dr. Rice gearing up for a fight to the careful language everyone was using, to trying to stay ahead of a situation that kept shifting under my feet. He listened, nodding like he was interested, not just waiting for his turn to talk.
“The way I see it? They’re scared,” he said when I finished.
“Terrified,” I agreed. “Which makes them dangerous. Are you?”
“No. But yes. If that makes sense.”
My head tilted at that. I understood, actually. But I wanted him to say more.
“Off the record, right?” he asked.
When I nodded, he continued.
“I’m confident in my skills. I wouldn’t have an MD, I wouldn’t make people call me doctor, I wouldn’t be cutting people open if I wasn’t. I’m also confident I did everything right. I gotta be, you know?”
My head bobbed in a deep nod. Because if anything went wrong, he would be the first person under scrutiny.
“So, if I’m Dr. Stephens, this is getting swept under the rug, I’m sure. As a Black American surgeon?” He paused, lifted and lowered his shoulders in a shrug, then picked up his bourbon and took a slow sip, curling his tongue out to lick his lip afterward.
God, that was hot.
“That’s got to be annoying. I mean, I know it’s annoying.”
“I was warned about it, on my way up.” He smiled without humor. “I always expect lots of questions phrased as concern. So yeah, I’m not scared about my actions. I’m scared about how I’ll be perceived.”
“You’ve seen this before.”
“Enough times to know how it can end.”
Bar noise filled the space between our lapses in conversation—laughter from the corner booth, sports commentary from the TVs, the clink of glasses.
“So, how long have you been at Ridgeway?” Cole asked.
“Nine years. You?”
“Three. I came from a trauma fellowship in Baltimore.”
“Baltimore. Big Fun.” I grinned, hoping he’d catch the joke. He smiled, so he did. “So what brought you to Ridgeway? We’re considerably smaller.”
“A good program trumps working at a big, busy hospital. Level one trauma center, solid teaching opportunities. I wanted to build something in a spot where I could get comfortable.”
He took another sip before asking, “What about you? Where were you before?”
“I worked in case management at a smaller hospital. I was recruited for a patient advocacy role, then promoted to risk management, then director over both since they often cross over.”
“You like it? I mean…you’re good at it.”
I thought about that. “You’re right. I’m good at it.”
“But…?”
I smiled. “But nothing. Most days, I like being able to help families navigate the system. I like fixing problems before they become lawsuits. I like making things work.”
“And the other days?”
“The other days I realize I’m just making the machine run the same way it’s always run, instead of changing how it runs.” I caught myself. “Sorry. Shop talk can get ranty.”
“I mean, it’s all relative. It got honest.” He leaned forward, drawing his arms around his glass, clasping his long, well-manicured fingers together. “You really think you don’t bring change?”
“I think I can change small things. Communication. Process. How we talk to families.” I met his eyes. “But the big stuff? The things that make the small stuff necessary in the first place? Those don’t change.”
“That’s why you’re good at your job. You see the system clearly. You don’t waste your time on shit you can’t do anything about.”
“Or maybe I’m just cynical.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
I snorted—a real, undignified laugh. He had a point. No lies detected.
“Harper?”
I looked up slowly, as if surfacing from deep water. Jeremiah stood next to the booth, a black sweater stretching across broad shoulders. My stomach did a neat little free fall, the drop you get when the elevator starts to move before you’re ready.
I pasted a smile on my lips. “Jeremiah. Nice to see you.”
He smiled back, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You were going to text me about that supper club thing.”
“I’m sorry, I meant to update you. It has been a busy week.”
“Yeah. Uh…” He slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans. His gaze shifted to Cole, curious but cautious. “I figured work was kicking your ass. Saw you over here and wanted to make sure you were good.”
“I am.”
His eyes flicked to Cole again, then back to me. The question was obvious even if he didn’t ask it.
“Oh! This is Dr. Vaughn,” I said. “He’s a surgeon at RMC. Cole, this is Jeremiah. He’s a project manager for a tech firm downtown.”
Cole nodded. “What’s up?”
“‘Sup.” Jeremiah’s tone was cool. He looked at me again. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your drinks.”
“Jeremiah—”
“No, it’s cool. Really.” He stepped back. “Just, you know. Maybe give me a heads-up next time if you’re going dark. So I know you’re alive.”
“Excuse me?” My brows shot nearly to my hairline. “A heads-up? On going dark?”
“Next thing I know, you’re hugged up wit’ a surgeon nigga from your job—”
“Whoa, Jeremiah…” I held up a hand because what in the Fatal Attraction was happening here? “Could we chat later instead of doing this right here? Right now? Because I promise you will not get the result you desire if you keep going down this track.”
After a few moments of a tense standoff, his shoulders dropped and his chin lifted. “Nah,” he bit out. “I see where I stand. Don’t worry about calling me about shit.”
I watched him go, then glanced over at Cole, who hadn’t said a word. His lips pressed together, his eyes tracking mine, full of unspoken questions.