Between Me & You: An Enemies to Lovers Workplace Romance (Remington Medical Book 3) Read online

  Between Me & You

  Kimberly Kincaid

  BETWEEN ME & YOU

  © 2019 Kimberly Kincaid

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author’s imagination.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  For you, D

  Because you always believe in my light

  Even when I’m certain it’s gone out

  1

  Connor Bradshaw was waiting for a disaster. Which was more status-quo than stressful, considering he’d been trained to the teeth as an Air Force flight nurse and worked in a Level I trauma center for the past four years, but he wasn’t about to bitch, regardless. Cars crashed. People harmed each other. Health failed in dozens of different directions. Bad things happened, and as much as Connor hated that little nugget of truth, he’d learned the hard way that there was no getting around it. But if he could help people through the worst moments of their lives, instead?

  He was going to be down every single time. No matter how big the disaster, how high the cost, or how bloody the aftermath.

  He’d survived worse.

  “Listen up, cats and kittens, because this one is gonna test your stamina.” Tess Michaelson turned to look at the group of doctors and interns huddled against the cold in Remington Mem’s ambulance bay. Although both Jonah Sheridan and Emmett Mallory were attending physicians like Tess, unlike Tess, they were surgeons. Since she was in charge of the emergency department, she ran all the traumas that came into the ED. And whatever patients were incoming had to be in pretty rough shape for all three docs, plus a pair of interns, to be out here, waiting. Usually, the nurses or an intern met the ambos for triage and handoff from paramedics—especially in January.

  Connor’s adrenaline tapped out the Morse code-equivalent of hey-how-are-ya in his veins, and he pulled in a slow breath to let it know he was juuuuust fine, thanks. He was hardly a fucking rookie. No way was he going to let a little thing like his physiology tank his ability to help the patients coming in on this call. Not when they were clearly going to need all the help they could get.

  Tess elbowed her way into the pale yellow trauma gown that matched the ones the rest of them had donned as they’d been pulled from various tasks to handle the incoming call. “Dispatch has multiple traumas from a car wreck headed our way, ETA five minutes. At least one thoracic crush injury, a couple of penetrating lacerations, and a traumatic leg injury—that’s yours, Mallory—plus possible head and neck injuries all around,” she said. “I want fast assessments and faster treatment, especially from you two.” She eagle-eyed Sofia Vasquez and Parker Drake, whose light green scrubs and bone-weary expressions marked them as the interns they were. “No one’s dying on my watch today. Got it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Connor’s response stuck out a little in the chorus of yeses and echoed-back “got it”s, but he was hardly apologetic. The Air Force had made a lot of things second nature in his life, and even though it had tested his mettle in ways he’d never dreamed, he was grateful as hell for each of them. The six years he’d spent there before he’d landed at Remington Mem hadn’t just taught him how to take care of people who needed it.

  They’d also taught him to hide in plain sight.

  Spine straightening, he stuffed the thought back into its usual hidey hole and forced himself to rejoin the here and now. The part of a trauma that could freak a person out the most was waiting for the patients to arrive—all that maybe/what-if/but, but, but flying around and fritzing out your circuitry—so Connor decided to fill the time the best way he knew how. Christ, but humor was better than Kevlar some days.

  He looked at Jonah, who, in addition to being Remington Memorial’s attending trauma surgeon, was also one of Connor’s closest friends. “Hey, man. How’s the new place? Did you and Dr. K enjoy my apartment-warming gift?” he asked. Natalie Kendrick was the hospital’s pediatric surgeon, and, as of last weekend, also Jonah’s live-in girlfriend.

  The guy’s entire demeanor changed in a blink, his smile so big it was like a third person in the conversation, and Connor got the feeling it had far more to do with the mention of Natalie than the level of his generosity. But it was cool. Connor was just as close with Natalie as he was with Jonah, Tess, and all the other doctors at Remington Memorial. He needed some sort of a family, and the old-fashioned kind…definitely wasn’t going to be it.

  “Mini-Bundt cakes from Sweetie Pies and a basket full of romance novels,” Jonah said, one blond brow arching even though his grin stayed firmly in place. “Really, man?”

  “You both loved it, didn’t you?” Connor’s grin broadened, and he waggled his brows for emphasis. “And those novels are all signed by the authors. Only the best for my friends.”

  “Nat tackled the basket as soon as I brought it home,” Jonah admitted, dropping his voice conspiratorially as he nodded at Tess, who was talking with Mallory a handful of feet away. “Although I’m pretty sure Tess swiped that one book with your buddy on the cover. When she hung out at our place a couple of nights ago, she and Nat were giggling over it.”

  “Giggling?” Connor bit back a snort. Declan would probably shit twice and die if he heard that—dude hated the spotlight, enough that his face was rarely ever in the photos on those book covers. But now that they were both out of the Air Force, they had to make a living somehow.

  Jonah nodded, although he seemed completely unfazed. “Like schoolgirls,” he confirmed. “But Natalie does love them, and I reap the benefits when she reads the steamy bits, so really, maybe I should get you a gift instead.”

  Connor lifted a brow at his buddy and pulled the pair of nitrile gloves he’d been holding into place while Jonah did the same. Involuntary response to the sound of sirens getting closer, he supposed. “I never say no to donuts. Boston cream, glazed, jelly-filled…I’m equal opportunity with my sweet, sweet carbohydrate love.”

  Jonah laughed, although his expression quickly grew serious at the sight of the ambulance pulling into the bay in front of them. “How a huge dude covered in ink got into reading romance novels is a mystery to me. One of these days, I’m going to get you to tell me your secrets.”

  Secrets. The word snapped through Connor, ratcheting his pulse. That was twice in one day that his long-buried skeletons had reminded him of their existence. Damn, he was
off his game.

  “Never,” Connor said, shrugging off the stiffness in his shoulders and grinning broadly at Jonah as Tess hit them both with a tart smile.

  “Sorry to interrupt your bromance, gentlemen, but how about we treat some trauma patients? Y’know, just for shits and giggles.”

  “You got it, Dr. Michaelson,” Connor said. As much downtime as he spent with both Tess and Jonah, when he was on the clock, they were always “doctor”. No exceptions. Taking care of people, no matter the cost, might be Connor’s stock-in-trade, but the chain of command wasn’t something he messed with.

  Tess’s light brown ponytail bobbed over one shoulder as she nodded and lifted her voice to address the group. “Okay. Parker, you’re with Sheridan on ambo one,” she said to the intern-slash-former-paramedic. “Vasquez, you’re with me on two, and Connor, you’re with Mallory on three. Let’s go.”

  They all turned toward the trio of ambulances pulling into the bay, eyes alert and muscles primed for movement, and Connor took one last breath before disaster struck.

  It didn’t take long.

  “What’ve we got?” Mallory asked as soon as the ambulance jerked to a stop and the rear doors flew open.

  The paramedic scrambled to the head of the gurney while Connor’s muscle memory had him moving to the foot to take care of the honors so Mallory could assess the patient as soon as she came into view. Easier said than done, since she was strapped to a backboard, one leg heavily splinted and her body covered with a trauma blanket from the waist down.

  “Shelly Fitzpatrick, twenty-six-year-old female, restrained in the driver’s seat,” the paramedic said, guiding the gurney wheels to the pavement with a hard clack. “GCS 11. Complaining of chest and shoulder pain and left leg pain. No apparent head or neck trauma, no LOC.” He rattled off her vitals—not terrible but certainly not good enough to make Connor a happy camper—before adding, “Obvious left upper leg deformity. Pain meds were administered en route.”

  “Hi, Ms. Fitzpatrick, I’m Dr. Mallory, and I’m going to help you, okay? Don’t try to nod. We want to keep your neck stable until we can check you out,” he said, falling in beside the gurney on the right side as they moved like a symphony toward the automatic doors. “Can you tell me if you’re experiencing any pain?”

  “My leg. It hurts really bad.”

  “I’m just going to take a quick look,” Mallory told the woman, who whimpered and tensed in response, and whoa, even with those pain meds on board, Connor could see why.

  Mallory said, “Definite open femur fracture. Let’s pick up the pace.” Without moving his eyes from the patient, he added, “Trauma two, Connor,” and without moving his eyes, Connor steered the gurney directly toward the trauma room, his strides growing more purpose. They crossed the threshold seconds later, going through the practiced motions of transferring the patient to a hospital gurney and preparing for a more thorough exam, and damn, they had their work cut out for them with a broadsword. But while the gruesome nature of the woman’s injuries would make most people panic—or at the very least, lean toward despair—visualizing what needed to be fixed solidified the necessary steps in Connor’s head. Assess. Strategize. Act.

  First things first. Connor scanned the woman from her head down, using the exact same visual process he’d learned on day one in medic training ten years ago. The woman’s face was pale, sharp lines of pain etched around her eyes and mouth. A bright yellow C-collar held her neck steady, and cuts and abrasions of mild to moderate severity peppered her face and hands. There was no way to do a full exam with her jeans and sweater in the way, so Connor grabbed a pair of trauma shears and an extra blanket, making quick work of the patient’s clothing while giving her as much privacy as possible.

  “Femoral and dorsal pulses both weak,” Connor confirmed after a manual check, while Mallory began a more comprehensive exam. An angry purple bruise was forming across the woman’s chest in a sash from left shoulder to right hip, and man, thank God for pain meds, because that leg injury was one of the worst Connor had seen.

  And oh, he’d seen a lot.

  “Alright,” Mallory said after a minute. “Ms. Fitzpatrick is alert and her pupils are equal and reactive. No dizziness, no nausea. Good signs.” He placed a quick squeeze on the woman’s forearm before adding, “Let’s clear her head and neck so we can lose this C-collar, and I want a full set of left leg, chest, and shoulder films. We need to see exactly what we’re dealing with.”

  Connor had the portable X-ray machine ready to go before Mallory had even finished ordering the films. “Okay, Ms. Fitzpatrick. We’re going to take good care of you. First thing I’m going to do is take some X-rays with this machine right here,” Connor told her, his gut going tight as her eyes widened and her heart rate spiked on the monitor. “I know you’re in pain. I’ll be as gentle and fast as possible, I promise. Once we get these images, Dr. Mallory will be able to see your injuries more clearly, and then we can fix you right up, okay?”

  “It’s…really bad…isn’t it?” she asked, and Connor cobbled together a big, playful smile as he shouldered into the protective apron and maneuvered the arm of the machine into place.

  “You’re going to have plenty of time to relax and eat ice cream while you recover.” He didn’t mention the rods and pins Mallory would almost certainly have to place in her leg, or the boatloads of PT she had ahead of her. For now, they needed to tackle the closest alligator to the boat; namely, keeping her calm while they figured out the extent of the damage to her leg and whether or not there would be permanent effects.

  Strategize, Connor told himself. “So, what’s your favorite kind?” he asked, calling out over his shoulder to let Mallory know he was shooting the first set of films on their patient’s head and neck.

  “W-what?”

  “Of ice cream,” Connor elaborated as he continued to work. “I kind of change mine according to season. Peppermint around the holidays, strawberry in the summer. But, really, I don’t think you can ever go wrong with chocolate. It’s a classic.”

  “Vanilla is better,” she said after a beat, and Connor placed a hand over the front of his lead apron, calling out for the second set of films before splashing a dramatic look of mock pain over his face.

  “You wound me, Ms. Fitzpatrick.”

  She eked out the tiniest of smiles. “Shelly.”

  A grunt of pain crossed her lips as Connor adjusted her leg for a different view, and he bit down on the urge to wince right along with her.

  “Sorry. Just a little adjustment. You’re doing great.” He distracted her with the whole chocolate-versus-vanilla debate for the rest of the films, which Mallory had been reading from the computer monitor on the other side of the partition in the room as Connor had been shooting them and sending them over.

  “Okay, Shelly,” Mallory said, coming back into full view a few seconds later. “The good news is that your head, neck, and spine are all uninjured. You sustained some pretty moderate bruising to your chest and shoulder from the seat belt, and you’ve got some cuts from the broken glass, but none of those injuries are serious.”

  “What’s the bad news?” she asked, her eyes darting to Connor, then back to Mallory.

  His pause was short enough for Shelly not to notice it, but long enough that Connor sure did. “Your femur—the big bone in your upper leg—is pretty badly broken. The trauma is compromising the blood flow to the lower part of your leg, and in order to fix it, you’re going to need immediate surgery so we can get the bones back in place.”

  “You want to do surgery to move my bones? Right now?” she asked, her voice rising in panic, but Connor stepped into her line of vision, giving her no choice but to focus on him. Act.

  “Hey, Shelly. We’re going to take a deep breath together, me and you, and then I’m going to take this C-collar off so you’ll be more comfortable, okay? Here we go.” He inhaled loudly, and although her corresponding breath was far shakier, at least she followed suit. Connor made good on his pr
omise to remove the C-collar, and bingo. A little more tension left the woman’s gaze.

  “I know surgery sounds pretty scary,” he told her. “But if we don’t do it quickly, there’s a bigger risk of permanent damage to your leg, or infection, or even both. Dr. Mallory wouldn’t tell you it’s necessary unless it was the best way to help you get better.”

  “Okay, but I don’t have good insurance. I don’t think it’s going to cover a lot of this, and I’ll miss a lot of work if I have surgery.” Tears gathered at the corners of Shelly’s eyes, tracking over her temples.

  Nope. Not today. “We don’t ever turn anyone away because they don’t have good insurance—or any insurance, for that matter. The hospital can work with you on a payment plan.” Hopefully her insurance would cover more than she thought, but Christ, the whole thought that this poor woman was stressing over what some corporate yahoo would or wouldn’t approve for coverage when she was so badly hurt really pissed him off. “Temporary disability, too, if your recovery takes that long. Okay? I promise, we can figure it out.”

  The words seemed to sink in, at least a little. Shelly nodded. “Would…would you be there during the surgery, too?”

  Connor smiled at her to soften the news. “I’m afraid I’m not as cool as Dr. Mallory, here. He’s got that flashy surgical license, and I’m the sort of nurse that has to stick around the emergency department in case more traumas come in. But I’ll tell you what. I’ll ask the surgical nurse who scrubs in with Dr. Mallory to page me when you’re in recovery, and as soon as you’re cleared for food, I’ll use my sparkling personality to get you some of the finest vanilla ice cream the cafeteria has to offer. Deal?”