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Stupid me, overreacting. I pushed the glass door open, and when she saw me, the girl’s eyes went wide. “Mr. Hardcastle?”
“Yes?” I glanced down to make sure I hadn’t forgotten a major article of clothing. Nope, shirt and slacks in place.
“Here!” the girl squeaked, half-thrusting, half-throwing the bag at me.
I caught it gingerly—arancini, pizza and buddino did not mix—but instantly something felt wrong. More than that, somethingsmelledwrong.
I didn’t have to look inside the non-Delivrd bag to know this was not fried rice balls, duck sausage pizza and pudding.
The door slowly closed between me and the girl who had just thrown the product of walking a dozen dogs into my hands. She didn’t have to say it.
I already knew the wrath of the Tynies. Now I knew the smell.
Yeah, definitely moving.
I braced myself as I reached the ICU Tuesday morning. Davis was shadowing us again, and I’d have to face him and Dr. Donaldson with perfect professionalism. One hundred percent above reproach. Easy to do with my mentor; I’d done it yesterday.
With a dude like Davis, not so much.
I needed therapy. It was the only explanation, the only way to make sense of the mood swings wide enough to give me whiplash when it came to Davis Freaking Hardcastle.
Or, alternatively, he could stop trying to push me to date Dr. Donaldson. Or trying to convince me Dr. Donaldson wanted to date me.
Davis was so sure Dr. Donaldson wanted that, maybe Dr. Donaldson was paying him to push us together.
I shook off that ridiculous thought and collected myself to face both of them.
Dr. Donaldson nodded at me to take his leave, abandoning me to Davis and his clipboard. I made an effort not to scowl at the clipboard, as if he thought he could check up on me.
“I’m ready to go over the city guidelines when you are,” he said. His smile seemed conciliatory.
I looked him up and down. Seriously? That was how he’d start today?
Davis’s gaze faltered. “Sorry about Saturday.”
At least he had the good grace to be embarrassed about picking a fight with me.
And then I saw the gauze on the back of his hand. That hadn’t been there Saturday night.
Was he hurt? “What happened?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s nothing.” He shifted as if to hide the injury. “Seriously, just a scratch.”
“Have you had it looked at?”
He laughed uncomfortably. “You know how expensive hospitals are.”
I cocked an eyebrow at him. I knew it was an attempt at humor, but without his usual air of confidence, the joke fell flat. A crack in his glittering façade.
Somehow, this was more worrisome than if he’d asked for help outright. He was working so hard to downplay this, to make it seem okay. Like he had Saturday night, and I hadn’t done enough for him then apparently because he’d gone and brought up Dr. Donaldson to tick me off.
To push me away.
I was an idiot, because all I cared about now was making sure he was okay. Cue the emotional whiplash.
Maybe if I lightened the mood. “If only you knew a doctor.”
“Yeah, if only.”
