Page 15 of Yours to Keep

A few people sucked in breaths. Someone coughed to hide a laugh. Meanwhile, I felt heat spark deep within my gut—and it wasn’t the good kind.

Those blue eyes of hers were unapologetic as they held mine, her arms crossed like she was daring me to say something stupid. “Well, have you? Because if so, I’m sure you know exactly what’s going on here.”

“Alright, if you insist on cutting to the chase.” I held her gaze without wavering, feeling one of my eyebrows arch before I flicked a glance around the room. “I asked what you were doing because it’s inconceivable to me that every health care professional on this floor is currently singing instead of being out there, minding your patients.”

Bree tilted her head, studying me like she was halfway convinced I was a creature from outer space. “It’s just Happy Birthday and a piece of cake.”

“You can’t all be on break at the same time,” I said, not ignoring her but not acknowledging her much either. “It’s irresponsible. You have a duty to care for your patients while you’re being paid to be here, to work, not to eat cake.”

“It’s five minutes,” someone said quietly.

I scoffed and scanned the room. “Five minutes multiplied by how many people? This is a hospital, not a daycare center. People’s lives and illnesses don’t pause because someone brought frosting.”

When I looked back at Bree, she didn’t flinch. If anything, she seemed entertained. Sighing as I shook my head, I gestured to the department heads behind me.

“See?” I said. “This is exactly the kind of lax standards I’m talking about. We need to tighten things up.”

Bree’s jaw tightened, but she still didn’t look away from me. “This little lecture took longer than just singing and divvying up the cake, so if anyone is wasting time, it’s you.”

The room went dead silent as I stared at her. Behind me, I could practically hear the department heads holding their breath. Someone’s phone buzzed and a candle sputtered out, but no one moved a single muscle.

God, I really should’ve just fired her.

That thought came clean and sharp, like a scalpel. I’d had the perfect excuse a week ago. Cannoli assault. Insubordination. Calling me a soulless robot to my face. Any HR department in the country would have rubber-stamped the paperwork, but my sister liked her, so I wasn’t going to fire Bree Bennett. But that didn’t stop her from being a colossal pain in my ass.

“If you’re done,” I said coolly, refusing to be baited into another argument that might end with me wearing birthday cake this time. “I suggest everyone return to work. If you want to have a party, do it when your shifts are over.”

Bree held my gaze another second, her chin tipped up like she was daring me to do something about it. Then she turned back to the table. “Wrap up the cake. We’ll eat it later. Apparently, joy is no longer in the budget.”

A couple of people snorted, but I spun around and walked out without looking back, my spine straight and my pulse irritatingly fast. Even so, I put the whole thing behind me and continued the walkthrough, but my rhythm was off.

I caught myself missing things I wouldn’t normally miss. One of the heads even had to point out a leaky sink that I hadn’t noticed. All because of one spunky nurse practitioner who thought it was her duty to break my balls.

I’d dealt with worse, but shit. Somehow, I was going to have to get Bree Bennett under control, because resistance to change was one thing. Active, loud insubordination was trouble.

Twenty-four hours later, I still hadn’t quite figured out how to deal with Bree’s particular brand of rebellion, but I also couldn’t afford to get hung up on it. While the back of my mind kept working on a solution, I was in my conference room office, going over some of the quotes that had already started coming in for repairs.

When my phone rang with an unknown number, I answered without even thinking, assuming it was either work or another contractor. “Crowne.”

“Mr. Crowne, this is Evan Marks from the Daily Ledger. I was hoping to get a comment on⁠—”

“I don’t do comments,” I said curtly, already pulling the phone away from my ear when I heard him shout the question.

“Is it true that you’ve banned birthdays at Saint Raphael’s Hospital, Mr. Crowne?”

I paused then, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs. My hand moved on its own accord, slowly bringing the device back to my ear. “Excuse me?”

“There’s a story going around with video footage of you yelling at staff for singing happy birthday. Social media is calling you the Birthday Grim Reaper.”

I hung up on him, then opened my laptop. Less than ten seconds later, I was staring at a grainy phone video of myself. Standing in a break room with my arms crossed and my face hard. I looked ten years older and twice as mean.

Shit, the angle is terrible. But the caption was even worse.

Birthday cake banned because “patients don’t pause for frosting.”

The tagline wasn’t great either. Imagine working twelve-hour shifts and getting yelled at for five minutes of cake.

Another headline read, Saint Raphael’s new boss hates joy.