Doctor Charmer (Doctors of Eastport General)

11. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Reggie

T he minute I step off the elevator and round the corner, I see her. A midday surprise that has Nurse Reynold’s fingerprints on it. Apparently, Ivy’s influence is just as effective on females. It’s the only thing to explain what I’m seeing.

Shoulders pressed to the doorframe of my office, door half opened, feet in a kickstand, head down and scrolling through her phone, stands Ivy. An enticing treat by herself, but by her feet on the floor next to her is a large shopping bag with the hospital’s cafeteria logo plastered on it.

“Couldn’t stay away, huh?” I joke as I approach, and she immediately lowers the phone, pushing off the doorframe.

Her smile is warm, those dark eyes I’m getting to know so well alight with mischief. “I was in the cafeteria picking up snacks for the team, and I thought, I bet a busy ER doctor probably never has time for a proper meal.” She taps her toe to the plastic bag next to the door. “My new favorite nurse had security open your office for me, but I didn’t feel comfortable sitting in there without you. I’m not sure if it breaks some hospital policy or anything.”

“And we all know you are all about the rules.” I humor her and wave for her to enter.

“Not me—you. You have so many of them. Won’t go out with a patient. Won’t kiss a girl you are dying to kiss first.” She bends and grabs the handle of the shopping bag, and I wonder how much food she picked up for lunch.

“Someone must be starving. I’m a granola and apple lunch guy.”

I follow her into my office. It’s not as spacious as the executive offices on the ninth floor, but I don’t mind. I’m barely in my office most days. A typical oak desk dominates the space, two chairs in front for the rare visitor. A small couch on one wall and a small circular work desk in the corner.

“So it’s true… an apple a day.”

I direct her to set the bag on the small table. I remove my lab jacket and place it on the hook behind the door, closing it. The corner of her mouth lifts slightly with the sound of the door shutting, and for a second, I wonder if she’s setting another trap for me.

“Can we call a truce on round two until we eat? I need my fuel for the afternoon.” I step next to her and can’t believe how fast my heart beats. Brushing past her to get around the table, I pick up the scent of vanilla on her skin.

“Sounds like Dr. Charmer is frightened of little ole me.” She lowers her gaze, pulling treat after treat from the bag.

I laugh, unbuttoning my cuffs and rolling my sleeves up my arm. “Some of us don’t have the luxury to sit around all day and think of ways to torture another human being.”

“Says the doctor administering long needles and holding a scalpel.” Even I must admit her retort is perfect. “But I hear you. Truce.” She looks up wide-eyed, and I know she has more to say. “For now.”

I duck behind my desk, bending down to my hidden mini fridge that is not hospital approved. I pull out my brown paper bag lunch.

“And what is that?” Ivy barks and points as I remove my apple and bottle of water. “Put that away. I brought you real food. Hot food. Do you always eat that? Here? At your desk? When I asked Arlene what time you took lunch so I could ambush you in the cafeteria, she mentioned you’d be in your office. I just thought she meant for today.”

It takes a second for me to realize who Arlene is—Nurse Reynolds. She doesn’t allow anyone in our department to call her by her first name. Apparently, that doesn’t apply to Ivy. I dig through Ivy’s flurry of questions and pinpoint the one she’s truly interested in, “Yes. And since we’ve declared a truce, I’ll answer the question on the tip of your tongue. Alone.”

Her eyes flash for a second before she busies herself unwrapping a turkey sandwich. “I assumed you’d have a line of women beating down your door to sit with you for twenty minutes. That’s why I showed up early.”

“Early bird gets the doctor?” I tease her.

Her fingers halt, her gaze locked on the table. “If you prefer to be alone… I could…”

“Don’t you dare complete that sentence.” The words come across more forceful than intended, surprising even me.

I step around the table next to her and reach into the bag. My hand brushes against hers as we both reach for the small white container. We both freeze, and she pulls her hand away, brushing a strand of hair around her ear. This close, I see the blush that I suspect is usually hidden beneath her dark skin.

“I didn’t realize you had reached the obsessed-with-me stage so soon.”

I tell myself she’s joking, and part of me wishes she wasn’t. I tap the can of soda in front of her. “Says the woman drinking a beverage called Dr Pepper.”

“I’ll have you know, me and the doctor have a long history.” She scoops up half of the turkey sandwich and a napkin and nods toward the couch, seeking permission.

I feel my brow lift. Her move is unexpected. The couch is small, intimate even. It is literally called a love seat. It fits two people, barely. I nod my approval.

She slips down onto the couch, placing her soda on the floor by her feet, twisting slightly to face me.

“Speaking of history…” I pivot the conversation to a topic I’m curious to learn more about. “How did you become a volleyball coach?” It’s just one of the many questions I have for the woman who had literally dropped into the middle of my world.

She leans back, her eyes flitting up to the ceiling as if weighing her words. “My dad played basketball professionally.” She starts in a place I didn’t expect. “Never made it to the NBA but winded up playing seven years overseas in Israel of all places. Can you picture a six-ten Black man speaking Hebrew?” She laughs at the happy family memory. “He’s never been afraid of stepping out of his comfort zone. He developed a thick skin and a quick wit to deal with life.”

“And the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” I say.

She laughs, her hand landing on my knee, a tingle racing up. “So you’re not only obsessed with me but with apples too.” Her light touch disappears, and she continues. “I grew up a tomboy, me and my brother climbing trees, jumping in lakes, biking through the woods. I ran track, played basketball, softball, but I excelled at volleyball.”

I unwrap my sandwich and take a small bite, enjoying the relaxed, not-focused-on-anyone-but-herself version of her. “When my middle-grade coach told my dad how good I could be, he signed me up for travel teams, got me lessons with coaches, and moved us to California so I could play year-round.”

Every spring, we get a few cases in the ER of kids being pushed too fast, too far, by parents trying to live their dreams through them. Two minutes with some of the kids is all it takes to see how miserable they are, trying to fulfill the dreams of someone else. “Did you enjoy it?”

Her momentary smile bursts into technicolor. “I loved it more than breathing.” The light in her eyes dims, and she mumbles, “Especially in the beginning.” She takes a sip of her soda before continuing. “Me and my friends on the beach in San Diego, playing in tournaments across the states. I pictured doing nothing else the rest of my life. My high school was nationally ranked. I got a full scholarship. Tapped to play at an invitational in Vegas for the top prospects nationwide.”

The cadence of her voice slows, and I sense what comes next.

“Made it to the final round of the Olympic qualifying team selection when I got injured.” She pauses, and I doubt she realizes her gaze lowers to her T-shirt. The one with the Olympic rings on it. “I had never been injured in my life. Thought I was invincible. Pushed myself too hard, too soon, and caused permanent damage. Goodbye Olympics, goodbye pro ball, hello small-town coach.” Self-consciously, her hand presses to her hip, and my medical mind begins to speculate. It can’t be that simple. Not for someone with her relentless drive.

She gives me a quick headshake. “Enough about me. What’s your deal? I’ve seen how every woman in the building looks at you, yet no ring.”

I make note of her deflection and chew on my sandwich. My past is complicated. Only a handful of people know my entire history. “Story as old as time. Married to the job.” I give her the version I feed most people. It’s not a lie but summarizes where I’m at but not why. “Difficult to compete with a career that has no boundaries. Emergencies can’t be predicted nor ignored.”

“Sounds just like a spouse to me.” She looks over the top of her soda can as she takes a swig. “Unpredictable, enchanting, and hates to be ignored.” She pauses before taking another swig. “Hell, sounds a lot like me.”

I’m sure you are . I keep my comment to myself and hide my reaction behind a large bite of my sandwich.

“When the right one comes along…”

She continues to paint a picture, the hint obvious. That’s what I always believed. I found out in heart-wrenching fashion that it takes more than finding the right one. It has to be at the right time, and most importantly, they have to carry those same feelings.

“You like what you do?” She takes another tiny bite of her sandwich and begins to roll it back into the wrapping paper. She’s eaten less than a third of the sandwich.

“It’s what I was meant to do.” My heartfelt words come out intense, a bit of pride filling my chest. “I. Save. Lives.” I point to the three pieces of wood on the wall next to my certifications, diploma, and awards, the words burned into a mahogany wood art piece. Three of the most powerful words any person could ever claim.

She stands and walks toward the piece, and I get to admire her profile from a different angle. There’s no denying her beauty. A dark-skinned beauty with long legs and curls I want to run my hands through every time I see her. I’m wise enough not to. Angie’s words of wisdom offered to me over half a dozen years ago: Never touch a Black woman’s hair.

“A real-life superhero,” Ivy says with the sound of awe in her voice. My sister once said the same words to me, a similar sound of wonder in her voice.

“Without the secret identity.”

She turns and inspects my lab coat hanging on the door. “But you do wear a cape.” She lifts the coat off the hook and slips her arms through the sleeves. “I dig a man in a cape.”

I stand, and she begins to roll up the sleeves of the lab coat, which practically swallows her. I step toward her, reaching for the back of the collar, which is folded behind her. My hands lift her hair, and she tilts her head down to accommodate me. I prop up the collar. “You look like a kid playing dress-up.”

She tilts her head up, our noses nearly touching. “You would love seeing me playing dress-up.”

I feel the heat from her breath on my neck. “I bet I would.”

“Dr. Reggie? Are you into role-playing?”

Something about the way she calls me Dr. Reggie whips my head into a frenzy. It’s different from any way she’s ever said before now, a sexy twang in her voice.

“You should come to the holiday mixer I host for the staff tomorrow night.” The invite is out of my mouth before I’ve thought about the implication.

“Is it a costume party?”

I feel my brows pinch in confusion, and then I realize what we were just discussing and how she would make that connection.

“Nothing so fun. Just cocktails and finger foods upstairs in the executive conference center here in the hospital.”

She stares at me, and I can imagine the ten questions that must be swirling in her head right now. I should take a step back and let her process, but I do the opposite. I lean forward.

She takes a half step back. Then another. Her backside hits the door, and her lips part.

“Shouldn’t I at least pretend to be monitoring my students rather than attending a party with a superhero?”

Her question is rhetorical, but I provide her with the response she might need to justify her actions. “All of your kids are on their way back to campus or home.”

She nods. “That still leaves…”

“Four here at the hospital, I know. Visiting hours end at eight o’clock. You have your entire night free.” I assume. For all I know, she might have six doctors, two orderlies, and a partridge in a pear tree waiting for her in the hospital lobby at the end of shift.

She leans back, her shoulders flat against the door, and I press a hand over her right shoulder, caging her in. My blood is racing, and I’m two seconds from losing our bet and couldn’t care less.

“I have just two questions,” she pants and lets the rest of her weight sag against the door. Her eyes flit down to my lips for two heartbeats before rising and capturing my gaze. “I already know the answer to the first one.”

The answer is yes. Yes, I want to kiss you right now. We stay frozen in our staring contest, and I wait for her second question.

“Isn’t the mixer only for employees of the hospital?”

Technically, she’d be right. I host two different monthly mixers. One just for the staff of the ER and another for anyone in the hospital. But it’s the holiday season. I put this one together for anyone working in the hospital, a chance to take part and enjoy some of the holiday fun they might be missing. That’s why it’s at the hospital.

“It’s a holiday mixer. Open to friends, families, girlfriends, whomever.”

“Which am I?” She doesn’t miss a beat.

I reach for the lapel of my lab coat and flick it. “You’re the one wearing my jacket. You tell me.”

She lowers her chin, tilting her head, her cheek pressed against my hand, pinning it in place across her upper chest. She takes a deep inhale. “You’ve gotten your scent all over me—marking your territory. “

She bats her lashes and nibbles at her lower lip, teasing another comment.

“How many other women will I meet at the mixer that smell like this?” She looks up, her sexy eyes turning serious. She voices a concern that hadn’t crossed my mind.

“I think you already know you are one of a kind.” I try to disarm her concern with charm. It’s what I do. A necessary deflection to keep her from digging into an area of my life I protect.

She ducks underneath my arm, spinning away from the door. Away from me. She stuffs her nervous hands deep into the pockets of my lab. My charm is not dousing her concern.

“I’m not that guy.” I say the words spoken by every man who was that guy once. “You don’t have to worry about anyone having an issue with you being there. No one has a claim to me.”

I expect my words to give her relief. Instead, it causes her brow to furrow. “You say it as if it’s a point of pride.” She tilts her shoulders back and removes my jacket. “I’ve been waiting so long for someone to claim ownership of me. Wishing for it, praying for it. You’re just like every other man, avoiding commitment like it’s a land mine. I…” She twists and places the jacket on the hook, pulling on it so hard I expect the hook to pop out. “I don’t even know why I thought…”

My hand lands on the back of her shoulder. I step forward, not stopping until my chest presses against her. I cage her against the door again. This time, it’s different. Gone is the playfulness. In its place is a hunger dripping in desperation. I trace a finger across the outline of her face, moving the hair from her face around her ear so I can see all of her. “I enjoy your company.” I start in a place I know she won’t disagree. “I think you enjoy mine.”

I hear my good friend Angie’s voice in my head. After my heartbreak, we somehow became good friends. Real friends. She’s had many difficult conversations with me. About who I am, how I am perceived, and what I should do if I want to change. This was lesson one: speak your heart. No matter how uncomfortable, no agenda, no expectations other than the truth. Let the chips fall where they may.

“I want to spend time with you, Ivy. Plain and simple. If I didn’t have the mixer, I would contrive another reason to spend time with you. I wouldn’t put it past me to unplug Griffin’s plugs, causing an alert to the nurses’ station just to have you race back here to the hospital.” There is no humor in my voice, only desire. I realize in short order she’s gotten under my skin. I have no idea what is going on. I have no idea if this is just the crazy chemistry between a man who charms and a woman who flirts as easily as most people breathe or something more. I have no idea other than to find out where it may lead.

“I want to get to know you better. I want to spend more time with you. If you’ll have me.” I lay it all on the line. The younger, clueless version of me never would have conceded this much power to another. I felt a need to always be in control. “Coach Ivy Springwood, will you join me at the holiday mixer? Will you be my date?” I make it clear my expectations. No misdirection. No confusing, charming mixed messages.

I step back from her, our heated bodies separating. I don’t stop moving until my backside hits the desk. I slip down onto it, and I wait for the verdict.

Worry floods my veins, and I wonder if I’ve overstepped. She’s warned me she is all talk. Accepting this invitation is clearly an action, crossing a line for both of us. I’ve made it clear my intent. It’s time for her to do the same.

It’s put up or shut up time.

Her chin remains lowered, her eyes hidden. Her hands fiddle with one another in front of her, a different type of nervousness bouncing off her.

“I knew it.” She lifts her chin, that gorgeous smile lighting up my office. My heart. “You are so in like with me.”