AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“That it made sense? Yes, I think one of the most brilliant infectious disease doctors in the world can read a map.”
“Does he know that he’s an ‘only’?”
I made a show of rolling my eyes. “Look, I’m sure you’re used to everyone in your life falling all over you—”
“This isn’t about me.”
“—but shockingly, most of us manage to have civil relationships with people, including our coworkers, without secretly being in love with them.”
Davis held up those defensive hands again, delicately pinching the stem of his champagne flute. “You know best.”
“Remember that. It’ll save us time.” I turned on my purple sparkly heel and strode back into the ballroom, where everyone was still on their feet, applauding. Where Harper Tyne had disappeared and apparently we’d moved on with the hospital gala.
Where my name was being projected on the giant screens up front.
“Go make a speech,” Davis’s baritone murmured by my ear. He’d followed me.
I glared back at him. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy watching me squirm.”
Maybe it was the lighting, but his expression held none of the animosity I expected. “Enjoy being recognized for something you did well, rather than something you never had any say in.” His voice was sincere, and that definitely wasn’t the dim lights.
“Cassidy!” I whirled back around to find Dr. Donaldson right before he dragged me forward. “I thought I’d have to come after you. You’ve been named the Nathan Mossell Fellow! Hurry!”
Numb, I made my way to the stage. The CEO delivered a prepared statement about Nathan Mossell, the first black member of the Philadelphia County Medical Society and founder of the Frederick Douglass Memorial Hospital and Nursing Training School, the second facility to admit black patients in the US.
Oh, great, an award created to commemorate the revolutionary contributions of a black doctor going to me. Was I supposed to be eligible for this award? This got better and better.
I’d heard of people blocking out a memory, but I’d never truly understood until I returned to my table without any idea what I’d said under those bright lights.
“That was... great,” Dr. Donaldson forced out. “I knew you’d win.”
“Did you nominate me?” Presumably Dr. Donaldson knew the qualifications and criteria.
“Of course.” A light I hadn’t seen before glowed in his eyes. “Are you joking? The voting initiative you worked with at the hospital, that pro-vax newsletter you founded—the research in the Congo last fall—not to mention updating the city and state HAI guidelines.”
I’d nearly forgotten all those things, I’d been at Beaufort so long. So that was why he’d been so insistent about me joining this task force. “Thanks,” I said weakly.
I couldn’t say I was great company for the rest of the night, alternating between stunned at the honor and fuming over Davis. But that didn’t matter. It wasn’t a date. Nothing about Dr. Donaldson’s behavior had indicated anything in the same ZIP code as romance. I wasn’t sure he could define the word without a dictionary and a crash film course. The closest I’d come to “romance” tonight was a toast of bad champagne on the sunset balcony—with Davis.
This. Was. Not. A. Date.
So why wasn’t I 10,000% sure Dr. Donaldson felt that way?
Sunday morning, I programmed the hill climber for a sprint workout, setting it for the maximum time. I wanted to forget about the entire gala for as long as possible.
I had—stupidly—thought we were moving past that first initial dislike, but I—again, stupidly—had underestimated my capacity to alienate the people around me. Hadn’t I learned well enough yet that nobody had ever wanted to see the real Davis, broken and lonely?
I hadn’t meant to fight with her. I’dmeantto impress her. It wasn’t my fault that when it came to her mentor, Cassidy Croft was so far into denial that she qualified for an Egyptian passport. But itwasmy fault that I kept bringing it up, even if she’d struck too close to a nerve with Neverett. Watching Cassidy stride away from me left a worse knot in my stomach than Harper Tyne’s kiss attack had.
Cassidy had to pry, always. Well, twice—once bringing up Harper, a mistake she was unlikely to repeat, and then pushing about Everett. I worked so hard to do everything perfectly with her, technological trials notwithstanding, and that still wasn’t enough.
I shoved that thought away. This was not helping me forget. I concentrated on the burn in my quads and calves, the pressure of each step, perfecting my form.
Until I glanced up halfway through my workout and saw what was circulating in the entertainment gossip world: half a dozen blurry photographs of Harper Tyne in a “lip lock.” With me. I’d paid the photogs handsomely and watched them delete the shots myself, but judging by the picture quality, at least one attendee had gotten video of her full-court press.
The caption debated whether I was Everett Hardcastle. It wasn’t until the hill climber beeped at me that I realized I was sprinting too aggressively. I didn’t know that could bother the machine. But seriously, we could not look that much alike. Because I could point out a lot of differences. And it wasn’t like Everett had spent the last five years getting his beauty sleep and geeking out over the latest South Korean skin care serum.
I did not look like I’d been partying that hard. He had to look a decade older than me.
