Page 43 of Crossing the Line
"I'm being serious."
"So am I." Harper's expression grew more intent. "Your professional reputation is safe with me. I would never do anything to compromise what you've built or put you in a position where you'd have to choose between this and your work."
Carmen felt something bloom in her chest at Harper's words. The fear that had been driving her decisions for months—that caring about someone would inevitably lead to professional destruction—began to feel less inevitable.
"And if it becomes too complicated?" Carmen asked. "If the secrecy becomes unsustainable or someone finds out before we're ready?"
Harper was quiet for a long moment, her thumb tracing the curve of Carmen's jaw. "Then we deal with it together. We don't run from each other or make unilateral decisions about what's best. We talk it through and figure out solutions that work for both of us."
The promise was exactly what Carmen needed to hear. Not that everything would be perfect, but that Harper wouldn't abandon her when things got difficult. That they were choosing to be partners in more than just this moment.
Carmen caught Harper's hand and brought it to her lips, pressing a kiss against her palm. "I haven't done this in a long time."
"Secret relationships?"
"Any relationships," Carmen admitted. "Not real ones. Not ones that matter."
Harper's smile was soft and understanding. "Neither have I. We'll figure it out as we go."
Outside, the fog had grown so thick that Carmen couldn't see the harbor lights anymore. Her townhouse felt suspended, cut off from the rest of the world in a way that made their whispered conversation feel sacred and protected.
"I should probably go soon," Harper said, though she made no move to leave Carmen's arms. "Early rounds tomorrow, and I need to shower before I show up smelling like your perfume."
Carmen felt a stab of something that might have been disappointment, though she knew Harper was right. Maintaining their secret meant thinking ahead and making smart choices.
"Twenty more minutes," Carmen said, tightening her hold on Harper. "The fog's too thick for safe driving anyway."
Harper laughed, the sound vibrating against Carmen's shoulder. "Very practical reasoning, Dr. Méndez."
"I'm nothing if not practical."
"Among other things," Harper said, her voice taking on a warmth that made Carmen's pulse quicken again.
They lay in comfortable silence, Harper's breathing eventually growing deeper and more regular. Carmen stayed awake, memorizing the weight of Harper's body against hers and the unfamiliar but welcome sensation of not being alone in her own bed.
For the first time in months, Carmen's townhouse felt like more than just a place to sleep between surgeries. It felt like home.
12
HARPER
Harper's apartment felt different in the morning light streaming through her windows. There was the same mismatched furniture, but something had fundamentally shifted. She moved through her routine with a lightness she hadn't felt since arriving in Phoenix Ridge, humming while she made coffee, smiling at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.
She was in love. The realization should have been terrifying, but instead it felt like coming alive after months of sleepwalking through her own life.
Her phone buzzed against the kitchen counter—a text from Carmen that made her pulse quicken even before she read it.
“Good morning. Hope you slept well.”
Professional, appropriate, nothing that would raise suspicions if anyone saw it. But Harper could read the warmth underneath, the way Carmen's guarded words carried weight beyond their surface meaning. She typed back with equal discretion:“Very well, thank you. Looking forward to today's cases.”
It was a perfectly ordinary exchange between an attending and intern. It was also a lie wrapped in clinical politeness, and Harper felt the first flutter of something that might have been unease.
On her way to Phoenix Ridge General, she took the same route she’d been taking for two weeks, but today, she found herself cataloging details differently: the couples walking hand-in-hand toward the harbor, the women sharing coffee outside the bookstore, the easy intimacy of people who could touch and laugh and exist openly without calculating who might be watching.
Harper pulled her medical bag higher on her shoulder and quickened her pace. She was being ridiculous. Every relationship required some level of discretion, especially workplace relationships. Carmen was protecting both their careers, not hiding her like some shameful secret.
But the rational explanations felt thinner in daylight than they had in Carmen's bedroom.
