Page 14 of Yours to Keep

We all erupted into laughter, and for a little while, everything felt warm, fuzzy, and safe. Like I was sixteen again and the biggest problem in my life was a bad grade or a boy who hadn’t texted back.

After brunch, I hugged them both, tearing up a bit when my dad put his hands on my shoulders. “You’ll be okay, sweetheart. Whether you decide to enact our plan or not, you’re brilliant and caring. You chose this path because you were born to do it. No matter what happens with this clown, you will come out on top.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said, hugging him again, but honestly, I wasn’t sure it was true.

All the way back to my own place, all I could think about was Sullivan Crowne and why I’d reacted that way to him. My parents were awesome, supportive to the extreme, and they trusted me precisely because this hadn’t been like me at all, but the truth was that I shouldn’t have done what I had and I knew it.

Something had just… happened to me in that conference room, my blood heating with uncontrollable rage that had started as a low churn in my stomach and had finally just erupted. Hours later, as I moved through the familiar motions of getting ready for work tomorrow, I still couldn’t stop thinking about it.

I laid out my scrubs and made sure my badge was clipped on. I set my coffeemaker and slid my travel mug into the correct slot, and through it all, I tried to convince myself that everything would be fine.

Although I was new in this specific role, I’d dealt with all kinds of stuff in my career so far. Trauma. Loss. Grief. Angry patients. Terrified families. Long nights and impossible decisions.

If I could handle all that, I could deal with Sullivan Crowne and his king-sized ego. I had to. Because Saint Raphael’s was my dream and I refused to let that entitled dickhead take it from me, no matter what unfamiliar reactions he elicited from parts of me I hadn’t even known existed.

6

SULLIVAN

Iwalked the halls of Saint Raphael’s with three department heads trailing behind me like a reluctant parade, our footsteps echoing too loudly against floors that needed refinishing. The baseboards were scuffed, the actual flooring a mess of spiderweb cracks in the corners and years’ worth of grime in the grout.

Another project to add to my list.

The maintenance—or lack thereof—in this building was astounding. Some of the overhead lights flickered. There was an unattended cart parked halfway down the corridor, stocked with supplies that should not have been sitting out in the open.

I stopped immediately and pointed at it. “Why is that there?”

The head of nursing cleared her throat. “They’re restocking rooms on this floor.”

“Then it should be in a room,” I said. “Not blocking a hallway. This isn’t a storage unit. It’s a hospital.”

With every question I asked or remark I made, I could feel their tension mounting until it was rolling off them. I suspected they didn’t like being talked to like this, but tough shit.

People rarely enjoyed hearing that the way they’d always done things wasn’t good enough, and this really wasn’t. We kept walking and I gestured at a cracked tile. A door with chipped paint. A loose handrail.

“These are all repairs that should have been made as soon as the damage was reported,” I said. “Deferred maintenance is neglect. It might offer a better excuse, but it’s still a bad look. Especially for a hospital. Here, it’s a glaring liability.”

One of them muttered something about budget constraints and I rolled my eyes. “You have a new budget now. Use it.”

They exchanged exasperated glances, but I didn’t care. These people needed to start doing things my way, and I had no problem being direct if that was what was required.

Vision without enforcement was just a dream and I wasn’t a dreamer. I was a builder. We turned down another hall, and as I stopped to point out yet another flickering lightbulb, I heard singing echoing from somewhere further down the corridor.

Off-key, enthusiastic singing, like multiple people were performing a rogue musical number.

“What is that?” I asked.

Before anyone could answer, I followed the sound, irritation tightening my jaw as I strode into a break room. The door had been left propped open and a group of nurses stood inside, crowded around a table with a cake on it. Lit candles right underneath a fucking smoke detector—one which obviously had to be replaced, since it wasn’t even twitching despite the tiny flames flickering beneath it.

A few of them laughed and clapped as they finished the last line of “Happy Birthday” like it was a Broadway finale. For a second, all I could do was stare, but I snapped out of it when a loud, fresh wave of cheering broke out as the song ended.

“What’s going on in here?” I asked, my voice coming out harsh and sharp, but fucking hell.

Again, this was a hospital. I got that the people who worked here also had birthdays. Obviously, but this was hardly the place to be singing and applauding loudly enough for the noise to carry down the hall where patients could hear.

At the sound of my voice, the festivities died instantly, every head in the room turning toward me. Silence fell in that thick, heavy way that told me every last one of them had just realized exactly how much trouble this could be, and then Bree Bennett opened her mouth.

“Have you never had a birthday cake before?” she asked, then paused for just a beat before she let out a soft sigh. “Actually, that would explain a lot.”