Page 11 of Yours to Keep

“Good outcomes will comfort them. So will progress. Those are the things I care about.”

Her chest was heaving now, her eyes narrowed and her head shaking. “Progress doesn’t mean making patients feel like they’re wearing cheap, wet napkins.”

“I—”

“Stop it!” she snapped, her voice several octaves higher and her eyes wild. Then she did something I never would’ve seen coming.

I watched it happen almost as if time itself had slowed down. She grabbed the cannoli out of the container and hurled it at me. It spun through the air with tragic elegance, landing squarely on my lap and squashing into a sugary, creamy smear.

My eyes widened, but she was already storming out, slamming the door behind her with enough force to rattle the papers on the table. The scent of chocolate and indignation wafted through the air as I sat there, stunned and breathing hard.

Liana walked in, her expression half shock and half amusement as she bit back a laugh. “Oh my God. I like her even more now.”

“Then it’s a pity I’m going to have to fire her,” I said flatly, standing and brushing sugar from my suit.

“Hell no.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Don’t you dare. Standing up to you isn’t a crime, and in all fairness, you were being a prick. Bree tried being nice and you cursed at her. You’re lucky a cannoli is all she threw at you.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Perhaps, but she still just threw a cannoli at me.”

“It could’ve been a cheesecake,” she said, shaking her head. “Or a box of used syringes. Just chill, okay? She’s smart and I just did some asking around about her. She’s really good at her job. You need her.”

Since I honestly didn’t even know what role she fulfilled in this hospital that she was apparently so good at, I just grunted and gathered my things. A minute later, I left the conference room, marching to the parking lot with aggravation sweeping through me like a wildfire.

Back in my penthouse, the city sprawled out below me like a tiny chessboard. Since I hadn’t had time to decorate yet, the space was pretty bare, but it was functional. A bed in the bedroom, couches and a TV in the living room, and a table and chairs in the dining area. Plenty of scotch and takeout containers.

Basically, I had enough to survive, but nothing more. I’d only bought this place right before I’d moved here, and while I’d planned on hiring a decorator, I hadn’t even gotten around to that just yet.

With the hospital takeover consuming my life, I hadn’t had time for anything else. Everything but work had simply evaporated. Including my social life.

Back in Philly, I’d had no shortage of distractions. Casual hookups that knew better than to expect anything more from me.

New York was different. Here, I was deep into a work-induced dry spell, which made returning to a bare apartment feel less like solitude and more like exile.

As I strode over to the windows, that same aggravation still roiling hot and heavy in my gut, my eye caught the smear of cannoli on my pants in the reflection. Chocolate, cream, and a little trail of pastry sugar.

Bree Bennett. Fuck. What a pain in the ass.

I ran a hand over my face, my head shaking as I thought about her. She was gorgeous, infuriating, and entirely naive about how the world—and hospitals—actually worked.

And yet, she’d made herself impossible to ignore. Somehow, she’d even left me feeling like she saw something I didn’t, or maybe she just refused to see the world the way I did. Either way, she was a problem.

As soon as I thought about her, she took over my entire goddamn brain with a vengeance. Especially now. After that.

Every time I blinked, I saw her crossing that conference room like she owned it, glaring at me like I’d insulted her mother.

An instant later, my train of thought derailed, and suddenly, I wasn’t just remembering. I was imagining myself vaulting over the table, taking all that frustration and energy of hers and redirecting it. Kissing those pouty lips and channeling all that passion into something a lot more fun than arguing.

The conference room table had plenty of space. More than enough to get creative.

Before I could fall too far down the rabbit hole, I shook my head and reined myself in, pouring a glass of scotch and swirling the liquid in my glass instead.

Maybe in another life, we wouldn’t be adversaries, arguing over paper gowns and pennies. Maybe I’d have leaned over a conference table for a fuck instead of a fight.

But not in this life. Not today.

Today, there were numbers, outcomes, and a woman who could throw a cannoli like a missile. I sipped my scotch, stared out at the city I’d made my new home, and ordered dinner for one.

Maybe in another life, she and I could’ve had a good time together. It’s just too bad it’ll never happen in this one.