Page 29 of Doctor Charmer

“What time does that thing start again?” Griffin asks for the third time, and I catch his not-so-subtle glance at Chelsea. He can’t wait for me to leave the two of them alone. And I know for a fact she feels the same way.

On my tour of the hospital with her earlier, she beamed, saying how Aces Up has become her favorite card game of all time. She and Griffin have played it over a dozen times. Each time, she learns something new about him, something she’s sure few others know. Something that makes him even more attractive to her.

I’m ridiculously happy for her and picked up my pom-poms to root her on. I reminded her to be brave and stay true to herself. Words I should have directed to myself.

“He needs time to network with his colleagues.” I deflect their concerns, reasons I didn’t rush upstairs at the start of the mixer. “I’ll be going shortly.”

Griffin twists back toward Chelsea with a whisper I don’t hear.

Her bashful smile and quick glance in my direction let me know his words were about me. Chelsea’s eyes meet mine, and the smile falls from her face. She’s torn between her growing relationship with Griffin and her loyalty to me. Before I can tell her it’s okay not to share, she speaks. “He said looks like Coach Flirt-a-lot has caught her roadrunner and doesn’t know what to do next.” She gives Griffin anI’m sorry, but it’s Coach look, while I burst out in laughter.

My legs hang over the armrests of the chair. I swing them to the floor and paint a plastic smile on my face to hide the fact that this is exactly how I feel.

Last evening, Reggie and I sat in his car until one in the morning. We spoke about anything and everything. I learned what inspired him to go into medicine. How unbelievably smart and driven he is with patient care. But even non-earth-shattering things, such as his preference for light, misty spring days to summer sunshine. That he cranks up YouTube videos of NASCAR races for background noise when he calls his brother in Nashville just to irritate him.

He even floored me with one admission. That he once was handcuffed in his own ER when he attacked a patient’s husband when she showed up for the third time in a month with bruises from a quote-unquoteaccident.

“I’m nobody’s coyote.” I give them false bravado, hopping to my feet and walking to the door. I grab the travel garment bag containing the outfit I had packed just in case a fancy New Year’s Eve party invite showed up from nowhere. I pull the bag down from the back of their door. “I am now and will always be the roadrunner. Men chase after me. Not the other way around.”

I hold the garment bag by the three hangers and toss it over my shoulder, posing, half expecting Chelsea to clap. She doesn’t. She doesn’t react at all.

The air of confidence I projected disperses like a leaky kids’ birthday party balloon. Deflated, I walk to their bathroom. “I’m going to get ready.”

“For your date.” Griffin’s smart-aleck remark causes me to pause my hand reaching for the handle of the bathroom door.

I freeze and tell myself not to react. I wait, my heart thumping loudly in my chest. “Hospital Holiday Reception.” I say the insincere words, knowing I’m not fooling a soul.

“Which requires him to have some arm candy.” Griffin doesn’t let up.Read the room, dude.I chalk up his behavior to the pain meds, the fact that he’s been locked in this room for two days, and because he wants me out of his space as quickly as possible.

I whip open the door and slam it shut behind me. Hanging the bag on the hook on the back of the door, my hands find the edge of the sink, and I lower my head. He hit the nail directly on the head.

This looks and feels like a date. Because it is. Everything about this night screams date. The closeness we shared last night. Hiscan’t wait to see you againexcitement of him dropping in here while I was out with Chelsea, even if it was for onlythirty seconds, knowing he might be needed for a life-or-death emergency in the ER any moment. The way he asked me out last night, a desperate plea to get to know me better.

Things are moving Lightning McQueen fast. A memory from my college years leaps to the front of my mind, and I force it away. This is different. I am different.

I should be floating on air from all of this. And in many ways, I am. That I could come into his very controlled world where he is the master of his domain and upset it so quickly is incredibly heady. But it’s also scary.

I do feel like I’ve reached the peak of the mountaintop that everyone told me I’d never scale. What now?

This started as a game for me. A reactive flirtation to hide how much I was freaking out from the accident. I never expected to have my doctor flirt back. To fully embrace the challenge where we made a bet to see who would kiss the other first, like middle school kids with no impulse control.

But somewhere along the way this became serious. For me, it was during our snowball fight that I realized I was one hundred percent comfortable in my skin. That I could be the concerned coach one second and just a silly girl who wanted to play in the snow the next. How I can crack an inappropriate wisecrack one minute and be wrapped in his arms in tears five minutes later.

He doesn’t look at me like men have in the past. I’m more than what they see when they look at me. He sees me. He makes me feel safe. With him, I don’t have to run every thought I have in my mind through six sets of filters before speaking. I can follow my instinct. I can say the first thing on my mind, knowing he’ll understand. That even if it comes out wrong, he’ll show me grace and understanding.

How is it possible that it took me meeting a doctor in charge of emergency medicine to find a man who gets me and goesalong with each of my crazy stunts? Someone who you’d imagine would be rigid, inflexible, and judgmental.

It’s obvious he’s a prize. If any of this is real, that is.

I stare into the hospital mirror. There’s only one way I’ll find out the answer—stop hiding and go see. Find out if this is still a game for him or if his words, his actions, are true. Could the man who has only known success in everything he’s ever pursued, including having a line of admirers a mile long, ever choose the girl who can no longer fly?

My history warns me of the answer.

A light tap on the bathroom door pulls me back to reality in front of me. “Do you need a hand with your makeup?” Chelsea.

I grab a tissue and wipe the water from my eye before cracking open the door. “Sure, that’ll be nice.” I point to my makeup case on the shelf, and she gives me her back while digging through it.

I remind myself that I’m a coach. Every second I’m around my team, they are watching, learning. I told Chelsea earlier to remain brave. Words are one thing, but actions are another.

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