The question made him pause. No one had ever asked that before.
“I wanted to understand Hyde,” he admitted. “I thought if I could understand the biology and chemistry, maybe I could control him better. So I studied medicine, specializing in endocrinology. Spent years researching hereditary conditions and genetic expression.”
“And?”
“And I developed a suppressant that works reasonably well. I learned to identify Hyde’s triggers. I built a life around managing him.” He smiled wryly. “Not exactly the noble calling most doctors aspire to.”
“I think it’s noble.” She squeezed his arm. “You’ve helped people. Made a difference. That matters.”
“I’ve helped people not be afraid of me,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” She stopped walking, turning to face him. “Because from where I’m standing, you’ve built an entire practice around caring for this community. You’ve earned their trust. And yeah, maybe part of that is managing Hyde. But it’s also just you being a good doctor.”
The observation sat uncomfortably. Because she was right—he did care about his patients. Did find satisfaction in diagnosing difficult cases and helping people heal. But he’d never separated his desire to help from his need to prove himself safe.
“You’re thinking too hard again.” She poked his chest. “I can practically hear the gears turning.”
“Just processing.”
“Process later. Walk now.” She tugged him forward. “Tell me about Petal. How did you end up with a brownie receptionist?”
He allowed the subject change, grateful for her instinct to lighten the mood. “She applied for the position six years ago. Showed up with impeccable references and a plate of cookies.”
“You hired her for the cookies?”
“I hired her because she’s terrifyingly competent. The cookies were a bonus.” He smiled at the memory. “She took one look at my filing system—or lack thereof—and informed me she’d have it sorted within a week. Then she organized my entire practice, implemented a new scheduling system, and somehow convinced Mrs. Henderson that her chronic complaints required a second opinion from a specialist three towns over.”
She laughed. “Diplomatic.”
“Ruthlessly so. I’d be lost without her.” He navigated them around a fallen log. “I found out later that she’d worked for my father as well. I couldn’t imagine why she’d want to work for me.”
“Because you’re not like your father,” she said firmly, and he tried to believe her.
“I have to admit that it’s turned out very well—although she’s developed the unfortunate habit of leaving romance novels in strategic locations.”
“The ones you claim not to read?”
“I never claimed not to read them. I said they were surprisingly well-written.”
“Which ones?”
He felt heat creep up his neck. “Recently? Something about a grumpy duke and a sunshine governess. Petal left it on my desk with a note saying it reminded her of someone.”
“Let me guess. The duke is emotionally repressed and convinced he’s going to ruin the governess’s life?”
“Uncannily accurate.”
“And does he?”
“I haven’t finished it yet.” He paused. “But based on the pattern of these books, I’m assuming they both realize they’re idiots and end up happy together.”
“That’s the general formula, yes.” She grinned up at him. “Think it’ll work for us?”
The question was light, teasing. But he heard the genuine curiosity beneath it. Will this work? He wanted to say yes and promise her happy endings and uncomplicated love, but honesty mattered more than comfort.
“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “But I’m trying to believe it could.”
Her expression softened. “That’s enough for now.”
