Regrets.
Yep, as Monday dawns, I wake with regrets.
Not because of Cam…because of beer.
I didn’t speak a single word to him yesterday, in fact. Instead, we kept making eye contact across the bar, and I have no idea what any of it means but now it’s Monday morning and I’m a little terrified to go into the office.
And it isn’t just regrets I wake with. It’s also a pit of nervousness in my stomach. Monday mornings are our weekly staff meetings, and this morning both Paul and Marsha will be out until noon, so today’s meeting will be run by none other than Dr. Cam Foster.
One of the things I love about this job is that I get to help children and still mostly maintain regular nine-to-five hours. I walk in a few minutes early, and Sara greets me with my Starbucks order. She knew I’d need the fuel for this meeting, and she came through in the clutch. She’s another thing I love about this job.
But the hours, Sara, and my sweet little patients tend to be where my love ends, and as I walk into the small conference room where we hold our staff meetings, I’m reminded of everything I hate about my job.
He sits by himself at the head of the table. Sara and I are the first to arrive, and we both set our coffee cups down on the table. Dr. Foster’s brows are turned down as he studies some papers in front of him. He glances up at us, and I don’t know if he’s actually glaring at me or if his forehead is lined because he was just deep in concentration over whatever’s in the file he’s reviewing.
He grunts, which I think is his way of saying good morning. Sara excuses herself to the restroom, and even though I give her a look that clearly begs her not to leave me alone with the good doctor, she goes anyway.
Traitor.
He takes off his glasses and I watch as he taps the part of the frame that hugs his ear against his tooth. I listen to its soft click, and I can’t help as my eyes settle on his mouth. I wonder if his lips are soft and if they firm up when he’s using them. I wonder what it’s like to kiss him.
“What do you know about Logan Wesley?” he asks.
My brows furrow as I try to regain my focus. Daydreaming about Dr. Foster’s lips is dangerous territory.
“His mom brought him for flulike symptoms twice in the past month or so,” I say.
“I read that much in the file. What else?”
“His favorite sucker flavor is cherry and he always takes a superhero sticker even though we have Paw Patrol.” I lift a shoulder and sit. “That’s it. Paul diagnosed his symptoms as a virus both times.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s a virus. I’m recommending we run some more tests at Children’s.”
I blow out a breath. “What do you think it is?” I can’t finish the thought that forms in my head.
“I don’t know,” he says quietly. “We’ll run the tests. Could be something as simple as a UTI, or maybe it’s juvenile rheumatoid arthritis.” His tone is hard to read, but I get the sense he isn’t sure it’s either of those. He’s a doctor, though. While a lot of what he does is based on instinct, he won’t believe the worst until the test results prove it.
My whole day darkens as his words settle around me. I got into this profession because I love children and I want to do what I can to help them. I get to wear Mickey Mouse scrubs to work, I get to cuddle babies, and I get to help guide parents when they move into the scary new territory of parenthood when it comes to the healthcare of their kids.
Logan is only six years old. If it’s a urinary tract infection, that’s an easy fix. It can’t be something more serious because I don’t know how to make it better, and fatigue and flulike symptoms over the course of the last month or longer could mean something as serious as leukemia. I know the prognosis is good these days, but it doesn’t change the fact that Logan and his family’s life might be completely flipped upside down when Dr. Foster calls them today.
I can’t fix that, either.
And it’s not just that. I have a special soft spot for every single six-year-old boy who enters into this office. I can’t help but wonder what if .
The meeting starts, but I’m still stuck in the conversation that happened before it started. As a general rule, I try to leave my feelings out of my work, but it’s impossible right now as worry fills me. We find ourselves connected to our patients, and Logan is a special little kid.
“Taylor, a word with you before you go,” Dr. Foster says, calling me by my last name again once he dismisses us from the meeting.
I stay behind, twisting my ring around my finger as the rest of the staff files out of the room.
He blows out a breath when it’s just the two of us. He rubs his forehead before he glances up at me. “It’s clear our conversation before the meeting started is already affecting your performance. Don’t let it.”
“I’m sorry?” I say it like a question, like surely I didn’t hear him correctly. Of course it’s affecting me, but I’m a professional. I can keep my feelings in check.
I do it every Monday and Thursday when I have to deal with this asshole.
“You have a job to do today and kids and parents who are depending on you.” He shoots me a small glare.
My brows squeeze together as I try my very hardest not to glare back at him. “I’m well aware of that.”
“Focus ahead. That’s all I’m asking.”
I barely refrain from saluting my drill sergeant as I walk out of the room without a reply. I don’t know what else to say. It’s not my fault Dr. Foster has zero emotions.
Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s upset about Logan, too, and he’s using me to take out the anxiety he feels that we might not have the capacity to cure one of the kids in our care in this office.
Despite the rough start to the morning, I’m a complete professional. I’ve had my share of hard days, but Gabby Westchester in room three with a fever deserves a happy nurse. Aidan Smith in room fourteen deserves a nurse who is ready to provide the answers to the thousands of questions his mom has about how to care for a toddler. Jamie Gregory in room six deserves a nurse who is fully present when I have to administer her Tdap vaccination.
And that’s just the first three kids, never mind the fact that I’m the nurse on triage calls today.
When I return from lunch, there’s a handwritten note on my desk from Dr. Foster. Come see me before your lunch hour ends.
That’s never good. It feels an awful lot like getting called into the principal’s office.
I knock on his doorframe, and he glances up from some paperwork. He pulls off his glasses and sets them on the desk in front of him, and then he rubs his eyes as if he’s exhausted. “Close the door.”
I do as I’m told.
“I spoke with Logan Wesley’s mother.” He keeps his eyes down on the papers. “They got him an appointment this evening at Children’s. I don’t have rounds there tonight, but I’d like to stop in and check on him in person. Mrs. Wesley specifically asked for you to be there.”
“She did?”
He nods. “She said you always make Logan feel safe.”
My heart swells and a lump forms in my throat.
“I’m heading over there at five.” He still doesn’t look up at me.
I nod and turn to leave.
“Focus on your patients this afternoon, Taylor,” he says to my back. “You’ve got to toughen up.”
I turn around and face him again. I’m so damn sick of his lack of empathy. “Maybe you need to loosen up a little. It wouldn’t hurt to show some emotion once in a while.”
He lifts to a stand behind his desk, leaning forward in combat mode as he faces off with me. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that.”
I set a hand on my hip. “I will kindly remind you that you aren’t my boss, Dr. Foster. I’m not sure why you treat me differently than every other person who works in this office, but I’m not your subordinate and I would appreciate it if you stopped treating me like I am.”
His brows shoot up as he straightens. “Let’s see…you’re twenty-five, right? A four-year degree and a couple years of experience.” He moves around his desk and leans on it, crossing his arms over his chest. “It took me nine years of school to earn my degree, and I’ve been practicing on my own now for over five years. I’d say that makes you subordinate to me.”
“You’re maybe ten years older than me and because you have higher student loan bills you think that means you’re better than me?” I counter, my voice rising a little.
He moves from his leaning position and drops his arms to his sides as he takes a step toward me. “I don’t think that, Nurse Taylor.” He takes another step. “It’s what I know .”
My stomach twists as my brain seems to focus on what he’s doing here. It’s the art of seduction…I think. In a twisted way, anyway. He takes another step toward me, and my breathing labors as heat creeps up my neck.
I want it. I want this. I want him , and none of it makes any sense because I freaking hate him.
I think for a second how he probably likes pulling the subordinate card. I can picture him standing over me as I lie naked and trembling beneath him, wanting and needing as he issues his commands and I submit to every last one of them.
The image causes my chest to rise and fall with anticipation, but I won’t give into him. I will stand up for myself.
“You don’t know me at all, Mr . Foster.” I emphasize the mister since I know he hates it when his official title of doctor isn’t used.
His eyes darken as he stalks a little closer to me, and I back up until my backside bumps into the door. It very much feels like he’s the hunter and I’m the prey as his ice blue eyes pin me to where I stand.
“Are you always this mouthy?” he murmurs.
“I will always stand up for myself when I feel like I’m not being treated fairly.” My words come out in a hushed whisper as all these feelings pulse through me—need, want, desire—things I’ve rarely felt at all in the last few years, things every woman my age deserves to feel. Lust takes hold in my chest.
He’s a whisper away now, and it’s like the heat in this room has turned up about ten thousand degrees.
“There’s something insanely hot about that.” He’s so close that I can feel his breath against my lips, smell his spicy scent, feel his heat.
My brain seems to malfunction at his proximity and his words. A deep ache pulses low in my belly as the anger between us seems to transition into something new, something dark and sexy and intimate.
I get the sense my hunch was right and the reason he’s been such a dick to me is because, well, he wants to stick his dick in me.
His fingertips move to my jaw, and I close my eyes as I lean into his touch. Nerves zip up and down my spine. He’s really going to kiss me. I tip my chin up as I wait for those plushy pillows to land on mine.
“Oh sweet little nurse,” he whispers. He angles his head so his lips are a mere whisper away, and he presses the front of his body to the front of mine. This feels so good—so intimate. So hot. It’s been months since I’ve been with a man, and I need this. I need to feel wanted again.
He’s hard against me. He wants this, too.
Just when I think he’s about to kiss me, he murmurs, “This can’t happen. It will never happen. You are too many years younger than me, you are a nurse, and you need to step into line and get your feelings under control. That is the difference between a twenty-five-year-old nurse and a thirty-six-year-old doctor.”
With those words, he reaches around me, pressing his body further against mine, and then he turns the doorknob. I have to push him to get out of the way as he opens it.
“I’ll see you at the hospital at five,” he says, and he walks through the door, leaving me a panting, wanting mess who hates him a little more after that exchange.