Expecting The Doctor's Baby. Teresa Southwick
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in the workplace.
He shrugged. “It’s a swell idea with no relevance in the real world.”
“I’m glad to see you’ve come here with a completely open mind. How’s that working for you?”
“Sarcasm,” he said. “I like that in a woman.”
Her lips pressed tight for a moment and she pulled nervously at the gold turtleneck sweater beneath her suede blazer. Her eyes now could only be described as brown because the optimism switch was turned off. He must have touched a major nerve.
“It’s irrelevant whether or not you like me, Mitch. You need to focus on the goal.”
“If keeping my eyes on you will get me there, I’m all for it.”
When he grinned, she shifted her gaze from his and picked up a pair of black, square-framed glasses. After settling them on her nose she glanced at the paperwork in front of her. “All right then. Do you know why you’re here?”
“Yes.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“No.”
Her lips compressed for a moment before she asked, “Are you familiar with the hospital’s three-strikes policy?”
“You mean the one where it’s three strikes and you’re out? As in don’t let the door hit you in the backside when you leave the building?”
She nodded. “That would be the one, yes.”
“I’m familiar with it.”
“Are you aware that you’re halfway out that door and it’s just about to…” Her gaze lowered and if his back was turned, he knew what part of his anatomy she’d be looking at. Her cheeks flushed pink. “Hit you in the hiney.”
The blush made his view even better. This was starting to be less a waste of time and more fun by the minute. “Why, Ms. Ryan—Sam—I’m shocked and appalled. Is hiney official consulting terminology?”
“You’re the doctor, Doctor. Is it the anatomically correct term for ‘if you don’t start taking this seriously your ass is grass’?”
He laughed. “Touché.”
“The thing is you have two strikes. But you’re in a class by yourself because you have two strikes in two different categories—patient complaints and employee complaints.” She removed her glasses and met his gaze. “You already know that because your signature is on the paperwork, a clear indication that you’ve been apprised of the deep doo-doo you’re in.”
“Tough talk, Sam.”
She shrugged. “It seems the only way to get your attention.”
“You’ve got it.” And how. She was beautiful and smart, a dynamite combination. “Now that you’ve got me what are you going to do with me?”
“Save your job.”
“As goals go, it’s a good one,” he agreed.
“You remember me from the hospital,” she reminded him. “It was my job to observe you.”
“I see.”
“The little boy who almost drowned? I’d like to talk about how you handled his caregiver.”
His hands, resting flat on his thighs, curled into fists. “You mean the teenager who was so high his kid brother nearly died?”
“Unless you had results of a drug test, that was a guess on your part.”
“Educated guess.” He’d seen more than his share in the E.R. And he’d found his own brother high so many times recognizing drugged-out was second nature to him.
“Still, you didn’t know for sure.”
Yeah, he did. But this wasn’t a hill he planned to die on. “What’s your point?”
“The E.R. waiting room was full of people. Very public. Do you think that discussion would have been better conducted in private?”
Was she kidding? He’d just put a tube down a two-year-old’s throat and hooked him up to a ventilator to breathe for him. Then he stood by while they checked electrical activity in his brain to see whether or not he’d be a vegetable for the rest of his life. In this case he wouldn’t be, no thanks to the brother. Did he think? Hell, no. He’d reacted.
“I was updating the family on the patient’s condition.”
Her right eyebrow rose. “Is it possible that you were venting frustration? Perhaps less diplomatic than you could have been? Might you have been better off waiting for the police? And the boy’s mother?”
Again with the questions designed to make him see the light. She might catch on quick, but she was still new at the game. He’d been doing it a lot longer.
“So, did you have a good time in the E.R.?” he asked.
“I tried to stay out of the way,” she hedged. “I didn’t want to be noticeable.”
“Then you failed miserably. You’re pretty hard to miss, Sam.”
“You’re saying I didn’t blend?”
“Not even a little. The nurses were talking.”
“Really?”
Her way of asking what they said. “On a scale of one to ten, they said you’re a fifteen.”
Actually, that was his scale, his assessment. His secret.
“Thank you.”
He shrugged. “Just stating the obvious.”
“No. You’re changing the subject.”
“Trying.” He leaned back in his chair. “Nothing succeeds like the truth. And it worked for a minute there.”
She referred to her notes. “Back on task—”
“Speaking of that. What are you doing for dinner tonight?”
When she met his gaze, her expression was wry. “I was planning to eat.”
“By yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like company?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Very.” She shuffled the papers. “Now, as I was saying. After the trauma—”
She was kind of a pit bull. A pretty one. He was telling the truth about that scale thing. But apparently she wasn’t going to let him distract her. “What about it?”
“First it should be acknowledged that there was a positive outcome.”
“Yeah. The kid’s alive, no thanks to his brother.” Every time he thought about what could have happened he wanted to put his fist through a wall. That kid was a baby and should never have had to go through something like that. No matter how young when it occurred, trauma changed a person. He should know. Trauma was his middle name, and not just because it was his job.
“Life is about as positive as it gets,” he said.
“And it’s thanks to you.”
“And a lot of other people,” he said.
“Absolutely. Thank you for bringing that up. Saving lives is a cooperative effort.”
He’d given her the segue and she ran with it. Really smart girl. This was where she gave him the pitch for harmony equals effectiveness in a group situation. He had news for her.
“Have you ever been in a life-and-death situation, Sam?”
“Everyone struggles with issues—”
“Don’t