Page 11 of Doctored Vows

“I get it. I just…” When she realizes she is no better off than me, she tells me she loves me again before thanking me for always being there for her.

“Always. See you tonight.”

“You will. Bye.”

After storing my phone, I lift my eyes from the icy ground, startling when I spot Mr. Ivanov standing only a few feet across from me. He’s dressed in far more clothing than the last time I saw him. His impeccably tailored suit and crisp business shirt combination adds to his commanding authority. It doesn’t helm it.

He looks as in charge now as he did when he aided in my campaign to conduct Mrs. Ivanov’s diagnosis without her going under a scalpel, like a business mogul who could hand over tens of millions of millions as easily as he did the accolades that saw me offered a new position.

I shouldn’t say Dr. Sidorov’s offer was a new position. If I had accepted it, I would have done the same things I’ve always done. I would have just been paid more to do it.

After checking the time and noticing I still have ten minutes left on my lunch break, I dump the cold coffees into the trash before storing the donuts purchased to go with them in my oversized purse.

Once I’m sure my hair isn’t a mess and my lipstick isn’t smeared, I approach Mr. Ivanov. “Mr. Ivanov.”

When he spins to face me, the frantic beat of my heart drops several inches lower.

Between my legs, to be precise.

He looks angry, and his unexpected response to being accosted has me blubbering out the first excuse that pops into my head. “Sorry. I won’t take a minute of your time. I just wanted to?—”

“Who is your friend, dear?”

Surprise blisters through me when Mrs. Ivanov’s svelte frame clears the wide girth of Mr. Ivanov’s shoulders. Then guilt settles in. With her coloring back to healthy and her eyes wide and bright, she is even more beautiful than first perceived. She could get any man she wants—even the one I’ve had numerous naughty dreams about over the past two weeks.

“This is Dr. Hoffman,” Mr. Ivanov introduces, his tone far smoother than mine. “The doctor I told you about.” His eyes are on me, hot and heavy. “Dr. Hoffman, this is my mother, Irina.”

“Your mother?” I curse myself to hell when I vocalize my question instead of keeping it inside my head. When two pairs of identical eyes stare at me in shock, I blubber out, “I wasn’t sure if she was your sister or your wife.” Mother! I meant to say mother.

I’m saved from throwing myself into the trench I just dug when Mrs. Ivanov laughs. “I’ve been accused of being their sister many times, but this is the first time I’ve ever been mistaken for their wife.”

She speaks as if more than just her son and me are standing across from her.

“Sorry,” she apologizes when she spots the bewilderment on my face. My bedside manner is exemplary, but I need to work on schooling my expressions while trying to work out if a patient’s quirks are neurological or part of their personality. “There was a time I could never get them apart. Now they’re rarely together.” Her eyes soften as they drift to her son. “Speaking of Matvei, you should probably give him an update. This development is no doubt interesting to all involved.”

Dark hair falls into her son’s eyes when he nods before he pulls a cell phone out of his pocket.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, too curious for my own good. “I tried to check up on you after you were discharged, but your contact information was as scarce as your admission paperwork.”

I laugh like it’s funny to lose a patient’s admission.

Thankfully it makes me appear more caring than stalkerish.

“You checked up on me?” Mrs. Ivanov asks, her tone piqued.

I nod. “I organized your discharge plan and forwarded it to the GP cited on your online medical records. It was full of information on managing and living with a B12 deficiency.” A frown crosses my face. “He wasn’t overly interested when I spoke with him, but I was hopeful he’d pass on the information to you.” I touch her arm before giving her the reassurance all practitioners should give their patients. “Your condition is manageable with the right management plan.”

“He passed on some information,” Mrs. Ivanov replies. “Although he failed to mention it came from you.”

I want to act surprised by her admission, but I am not. Her confession is one reason I turned down Dr. Sidorov’s promotion. I don’t think the private sector is the right fit for me. I got into medicine to help people. Profits should never come into it—not even when you’re struggling to rub two pennies together.

After looping her arm around my elbow, Mrs. Ivanov meanders us toward a taxi rank. “Come. Walk with me while Maksim takes care of business. We have much to discuss.”

Her perfume is as powerful as the silent warning her son hits her with when he eyes her peculiarly. He doesn’t exactly glare at her. He more gives her a look like the one I hit Zoya with whenever we went out drinking in college.

Once we’re at a safe distance, Mrs. Ivanov says, “You’ll have to excuse Maksim. He has a hard shell, but it is only to stop his gooey insides from spilling out.”

Maksim proves he has supersonic hearing by scoffing.

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