Page 20 of Not Like Christmas At All
I’m caught off guard—confused, and I immediately feel vulnerable. Masking it with attitude, I ask, “What’s your problem?”
“My problem is you’re on a ladder older than both of our ages combined, leaning against the wall in a highly populated hallway where you could easily be knocked down.”
A chill runs down my spine at the protectiveness in his tone, and I do everything I can to stifle the triumphant smile pulling at my lips. I loop a section of Christmas lights over another nail. “Careful, Lincoln. It almost sounds like you don’t hate me.”
“Of course I don’t hate you,” he snaps. I peek at him again, but this time he’s watching the other nurses and doctors urgently power walk past us.
“Could have fooled me.” My fingers graze the head of another nail as I loop a section around it, balancing on one foot as I reach for it. “What happened? Why are you here?”
Three more nails and I’m done. Climbing down the ladder, I hop from the third to last rung, landing practically chest to chest with Doctor Scrooge.
“In case you haven’t noticed, it’s snowing outside, and the ER is busier than a zoo.”
I have to crane my neck to look at him as he towers over me. With my hands on my hips, I shrug. “I’ve been busy making this place a winter wonderland.”
“I can see that.”
“Doctor Stokes, Doctor Grimes is looking for you.” A blonde nurse whizzes past us so quickly, I don’t even catch who it is. When I turn back to face Lincoln, his gaze hasn’t wavered. The butterflies in my stomach flutter in a frenzy.
Still staring at me, his eyes narrow just a beat. “No more ladders.”
Then his phone vibrates in his pocket, pulling his attention. He starts to walk away before I can articulate a coherentthought, but somehow I manage to call out, “Merry Christmas to you too.”
An exasperated sigh chuffs past my lips as I move the ladder down the wall to finish hanging the lights. Muttering under my breath, I climb the metal rungs again, annoyed.
Who the hell does he think he is, practically telling me I’m not capable of using a ladder?
I cast a glance in the direction Lincoln went, seeing him deep in conversation with another doctor and a couple nurses just a few yards away. Shaking my head with irritation, my hands and feet work in tandem to climb the next rungs, but the ladder wobbles unsteadily beneath me. My breath catches in my throat, heart seizing as I see the top of the ladder isn’t flat against the wall, but teeters on the recessed edge of the wall.
Redistributing my balance, I root my feet, and the ladder stops quaking, unlike my pulse.
I’m okay. I can reach the next two nails and not worry about the third.
Reaching up, I hook the strand of lights over the nail, securing it in place before I switch hands to reach for the next, but it’s enough to destabilize the ladder once again.
As the ladder sways, my sweaty palms slip from the metal, my feet flailing as I try to use my hands to catch myself. Everything happens so quickly, and a wave of nausea slams through me. My heart plummets when a scream pierces through the air.
Then I realize the scream is my own and I’m falling.
Chapter Eight
I’ve been through many fear-inducing situations in my life, especially once I stepped into my profession.
As a child, I watched my cousin split his chin when the handlebars of his bike clipped a mailbox.
When I was in high school, I was house sitting for my best friend’s family and lost their dog for almost a full twenty-four hours.
I’ve watched patients flatline on my operating table.
All scenarios sent me into a panic-stricken whirlwind which had me wondering if I was going into cardiac arrest.
“There’s only two options for the poor bloke.” Doctor Connors pores over a patient file for the millionth time, swiping his index finger in a forward motion to skim through the document on his tablet. “We operate, or he has no chance of survival.”
The fluorescent lighting bounces off the screen, making it impossible for me to see the information he’s looking at. But I don’t need to see it to know exactly what he’s talking about. We’ve been going around and around for the last three hours. “Which we’ve been over countless times, Connors. But aswe’ve also discussed, it’s a high-risk procedure. Survival is low regardless. At this point he’s on borrowed time.”
“What does the family say?” Doctor Lambert, a trauma surgeon, pushes his bifocals higher up the bridge of his nose.
Connors opens his mouth, but I cut him off. “They want what’s best for their loved one. They want his doctors to see him as a person, and not just an opportunity to perform a rare surgery.”
