Page 14 of A Prescription to My Heart

I turn to face her fully. She does the same, arms crossed, expression unflinching. She’s smaller than me, but somehow, she doesn’t seem it.

“What exactly do you think my problem is,Nurse Vance?” My voice is low, controlled.

She lifts a brow. “You want the truth?”

“No, I want you to lie to me.”

Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t smile. “Your problem,Dr. Calloway, is that you expect people to follow you blindly. No questions. No independent thought. But that’s not how I operate.”

I step closer. “Then maybe you shouldn’t be in my OR.”

Her eyes flash. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

We stare at each other, the air crackling with something sharp and unspoken.

Then she exhales, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

I watch her walk away, her blonde ponytail swinging behind her.

And for some reason, I feel the urge to smirk. Soren Calloway doesn’t smirk.

Back in my office,

I don’t realize I’m gripping my coffee mug too tightly until the heat seeps through the ceramic, burning my palm. My jaw clenches as I take a slow sip, staring out the window. The sky is slowly turning orange with late evening light.

My thoughts keep circling back toher.

From the moment Talia and I crossed paths, she’s done nothing but challenge me.

I remember the way she met my gaze in the OR without flinching, the way she calmly pointed out that I was asking for a something that wasn’t needed. I should’ve been irritated—wasirritated—but beneath that, there was something else. Something… different.

I expect some insubordination from those below me who aren’t used to my brilliance. Nurses are often last to fall in line. While I acknowledge their hard work, we simply are not equals.

Talia Vance is not my equal.

And yet, when she challenges me, I see more than a nurse with a chip on her shoulder. More than someone making trouble for trouble’s sake. I see a woman standing her ground for her patients.

I don’t know what to make of her. Or where to put her, but she doesn’t seem like any other woman I’ve ever come across. Or nurse I’ve worked with.

And I don’t like that.

***

I don’t like surprises.

I especially don’t like coming home after a brutal sixteen-hour shift to find aguestin my kitchen, laughing with my daughter like she belongs in my house.

The moment I step through the front door, I know something is off. The smell of garlic and tomatoes fills the air, mingling with the buttery warmth of something baking in the oven. My house never smells like this. Marigold and I don’t cook—she likes takeout, and I like efficiency.

Then I hear it.

Laughter.

Not just Marigold’s—hers.

I step into the kitchen, and there she is.Talia Vance. Again?!

She’s standing at the stove, stirring something in a pan, completely at ease in my house. Her wavy blonde hair is piled on top of her head, a few loose strands clinging to the sides of her face. She’s wearing jeans and a soft-looking sweater that clings to her curves in all the wrong ways.

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