Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
His pupils darken as if he’s trying to absorb the reality that I have some cards left to play this round. Do I have anything left to lose? Nope.
He says, “I think we need a break from each other—”
“We have no relationship to break up—”
“Professionally speaking.” He comes closer, eyeing the nurse’s desk before he returns his hardened gaze to me. “How about I write you a transfer recommendation for Ocean’s Bay Hospital? It’s bigger. Newer. We won’t have to see each other any longer. Only perks the way I see it.”
Is he freaking kidding me right now? Is he breaking up with me professionally? No. Screw that. “I think that sounds like a great idea for you to transfer. I’m staying right here where I grew up. This is my town. Not yours.”
We both cross our arms this time, staring into each other’s eyes like we’ll lose a million-dollar prize if we don’t hold it the longest.
He finally says, “I have a job in Mountain Laurel Cove. I was bringing in a travel nurse, but I think you’d be a good fit for it, and it would give us time to regroup to figure out how best to work together again. Clearly, we both have some issues with the other that need to be worked through. I suggest taking some time to figure out how we can move forward at the hospital without sacrificing the care we need to provide our patients.”
What’s the alternative? He has me fired? As much as I hate to admit it, some space from here would be a nice break. He’s not wrong there. “What’s the job?”
“Mr. Culver has been released.”
“What?” I glance down the hall toward room 8. The door is wide open, and the Maltese cross is missing from the room identification sign. I’m pretty sure my heart shouldn’t sink like it just did over a patient being released, especially over Brandon Culver. It’s good news that he went home, that I won’t see him or have to deal with his smirk and memory loss of me again. Right? “I didn’t think he was—”
“He was sitting here. That’s something he can do from the comfort of his own home, and it frees up the room for when we need it. But . . .”
I hold my breath, having no idea where he’s going with this, and worried that I’m still on the edge of being fired. “But?” My voice pitches just slightly before I swallow down my nerves. “But what?”
“He needs home care. One week, but preferably two. I found a travel nurse his insurance would cover, but what about you taking the job instead?” His hair is dark and needs a trim with spikes of strands popping out on the sides of his head. But the odd part is that he seems genuinely sincere. “I don’t want to fight with you, Autumn. Take the break, make the extra money, and let’s talk when you get back. What do you say?”
The invitation to talk and work out some of these issues is a shock to the system. But . . . taking care of Brandon . . . at his house . . . for two weeks . . .
I can’t even believe I’m considering this off-the-wall idea, much less wanting to work with Lyle Ludlow to create a healthier working environment when I return. This could be the solution to all of my problems. I can get a break from the tension at work and, at the same time, get closure with Brandon, who just so happens not to remember me. I can put that night behind me once and for all. “How much extra money are we talking about?”
CHAPTER 8
BRANDON
“How does one man create this much laundry?” Mom shoots me a look like I’m seventeen again and still living under her roof. Her shoulders fall, and the corners of her eyes soften as she lowers the shirt fisted in her hand back to her side. With tears welling in her eyes, again, she says, “I’m so glad you’re going to be okay, Brandon.”
Not sure what brought on the sudden change of heart from reprimand to the verge of tears, but my chest tightens thinking about what could have happened, and her being left to deal with the aftermath. “Me, too.” Before this gets heavier, which it can quickly with my mom, I add, “But I’m here and healing and hadn’t done my laundry in two weeks before the accident.”
A smile brings her mouth back into place, and she laughs. “So I see. I’ll get it—”
“You don’t have to do it, Mom. I’m capa—”
“You’re not supposed to be doing anything, so it’s the least I can do. I’ll get a load started, and then—”
Knock. Knock.
Her gaze tracks from me, laid up on the couch, where I’m already tired of being, toward the front door across the room. While I try to flip through who would show up unannounced, my mom says, “Stay put.” Like I was going anywhere anytime soon . . . “I’ll see who it is.”