Expecting The Doctor's Baby. Teresa Southwick
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he going to be okay?”
“Looks like it. The paramedics got to him in time.”
“I pulled him out of the pool.”
The teenage girl moved beside him. “He did CPR. I called 9-1-1.”
“Notify the mayor,” Mitch snapped. “They’ll throw a parade in your honor.”
“What’s your problem?” she demanded.
Mitch studied both teens before saying, “What are you on?”
“Nothing, dude.” The boy looked away and shuffled his feet.
Sam knew the doctor was right when the kid didn’t even ask what he meant. Drugs were involved in whatever happened.
“Right. Your pupils always look that big when the sun’s up,” Mitch said sarcastically. “Your brother had no head or body trauma. What happened to him?”
“Ty was there one minute, then he was gone.”
“Basic common sense. You never turn your back on a child, especially near a pool.”
“We didn’t do anything.”
“You can say that again.”
“Lighten up.” The boy pushed shaky fingers through hair the same shade as his brother’s, but wouldn’t look up.
“Reactions sluggish. What were you smoking? Grass? Crack?” When they started to protest Mitch cut them off with a curt, “Sell it somewhere else. It’s my job to know this stuff. And I’m really good at my job. So are the cops. They’re on the way.”
“Cops? What for? We just went inside for a minute—the phone rang,” she defended.
“It takes two to answer it?” He shook his head as he fisted his hands on his hips. “Even if I believed you, no phone call is so damn important that you had to take your eyes off a two-year-old by a pool. Ever.”
“Hold on, dude—”
“Don’t call me ‘dude.’ It’s ‘doctor’ to you. And you hold on. Think about this. That child should be playing with toys and watching cartoons.” He pointed an accusing finger at both of them. “You were supposed to protect him. You screwed up.”
“But you said he’ll be okay,” the girl said, looking less defiant.
“We’ll get an EEG to make sure. And he’s still at risk for the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours. I want to know when his mother gets here.” He glared at them one more time, then shook his head and disappeared back through the doors.
Sam let out a long breath. So that was the infamous Mitch Tenney in action, she thought. The hospital had a “three strikes and you’re out” policy. Two complaints had already been filed and she may have just witnessed number three. It was a lousy situation and she was on his side, but he’d have been wiser to keep his opinions to himself and let the police handle it.
It was a relief that Darlyn Marshall, her boss, would be Mitch Tenney’s counselor of record. Sam was a newbie at the up-and-coming company and he was the first client from Mercy Medical. With over two thousand hospital employees, it could be a lucrative contract. She didn’t want to be responsible for blowing the situation because she had a mild case of hero worship.
He’d cheated death. In less gifted hands that child might not have been saved. Now it was up to Marshall Management Consultants to save him.
Mitch looked at the name plate on her desk—Samantha Ryan. He remembered her from the E.R., the day he’d worked on the kid, the drowning victim he’d almost lost. The memory tightened and twisted inside him. Stuff happened. He knew that. But some stuff didn’t have to happen and his tolerance for stupidity was at an all-time low.
He met her gaze. Somehow the name fit her. Samantha—Sam—had sun-streaked brown hair and warm brown eyes that oozed optimism. When his gaze lowered to her mouth, a shot of lust went straight through him. Somewhere he’d heard the term “Cupid’s bow” to describe a woman’s mouth and he’d never quite gotten what that meant. Until now. Until looking at Sam Ryan.
He had the most absurd desire to see what her Cupid’s bow mouth felt like, tasted like. If it was half as good and sweet as he was imagining, it could be a kiss of biblical proportions. Since biblical and kiss smacked of being an oxymoron, he figured his attention could be better concentrated elsewhere. Like messing with Ms. Ryan.
Or continuing to mess with her head. He’d just walked into her office and they’d been staring at each other across her desk, and the moment was stretching into awkward territory. He and awkward were old friends so he could keep it up indefinitely. But she looked tense and ill at ease. The question was how long before she folded under the pressure of needing to fill the silence with words. When she cleared her throat and swallowed, then shifted in her chair, he knew the wait was almost over.
“So, Dr. Tenney—”
“Call me Mitch.”
She hesitated, then said, “Would you be more comfortable if I do?”
“Do you really care whether or not I’m comfortable?”
“Are you always so challenging?”
He folded his arms over his chest and looked down at her. “You think this is challenging?”
“I’m simply trying to learn more about you and your management style.”
“Is that so?”
One corner of that fantasy mouth curved up. “If you insist on answering every question with a question, this process could be less productive than everyone hopes.”
Good. Everyone was wasting his time. This appointment had been scheduled with top consultant Darlyn Marshall, but apparently she’d gone home sick. That worked for him. He didn’t want to be here anyway, but the receptionist had shown him into this office. Looking at Sam Ryan was a hell of an entertaining way to spend this waste of time.
If he had to guess, he’d say she didn’t share his sentiment. The phrase acutely uncomfortable came to mind and she was doing her level best not to show it.
“Have you been in the executive coaching business long, Ms. Ryan?”
“Why don’t you call me Samantha?”
The question made him want to smile, but he held back. He suspected she was pretty green at this whole consulting thing, but she caught on to the game quick.
“How about Sam?” he asked.
“Would you be more comfortable with that?”
“Yes.”
“Then Sam it is. Won’t you sit down?” She held out her hand and indicated the chair in front of her desk.
“Thank you,” he said politely. Politeness would confuse her, he thought. He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to be a son of a bitch, but that’s the way it was.
He glanced around the small office, located in a large building on Horizon Ridge Parkway, which was practically around the corner from Mercy Medical Center. There was no window in this glorified cubicle. She had an L-shaped desk with a computer to her right and a spindly tree struggling to survive in a pot in the corner. Mahogany frames lined the walls, but instead of pictures they contained motivational sayings. One boldly proclaimed Success is the Intelligent Use of Mistakes.
He couldn’t afford to make mistakes. If he did someone died. Beside it was another one that read Obstacles Are Those Frightful Things You See When You Take Your Eyes Off Your Goals.
His goals weren’t that complicated. Keep patients alive and don’t get personal—with patients or anyone else. It worked for him.
On the wall behind her was a large picture of a suspension bridge at sundown.