Back To You (A Remington Medical Contemporary Romance) Read online

  I’m a different man than I was six years ago. I’m not going anywhere this time.

  And that was when Charleston realized that, while she might not know if she could trust Parker, there was only one way to find out.

  And that was to try.

  Parker was eighty-percent certain his hand would fall off, or at the very least, cramp up to the point of no repair. But since he was one hundred-percent certain that Charlie’s pretty green stare was still fixed on said hand as he practiced sutures, and it was the first time she’d seen any sort of technique from him whatsoever in the last six years, he was utterly determined to get it right.

  She wanted him to earn his way into her OR? Fine by him.

  That was a challenge he could rise to meet, no matter how tired his hands were.

  “What happens when you can’t get the edges to line up?”

  Surprise stopped Parker, mid-suture. “Sorry?”

  Rather than taking her leave the way he’d expected her to, Charlie stepped closer to the lab table. “These lacerations are pretty neat. The edges all line up. I’m curious as to how you’d proceed if they didn’t. If, say, the wound were jagged, or Y-shaped.”

  “I, ah…” Parker thought for a minute, searching ruthlessly for the answer until he realized his work-fatigued brain just wasn’t going to cough it up. “I’m not sure.”

  Charlie paused for a beat, as if this time, he’d surprised her. “Your best bet for getting the edges to line up with a lac like that is to start with a corner stitch. Put it right at the apex”—she lifted a hand, making a V with her index and middle fingers and pointing to the juncture with her opposite index finger to mimic the point where the two edges would merge into one—“and everything should fall right into place.”

  Of course. “That does make perfect sense.”

  “I could show you. If you want,” she added, and Parker pulled back over his stool to stare at her.

  “I’m sure you have someplace better to be,” he said slowly. Not that he wanted her to leave, because he could sure as shit use the expertise. But Charlie had always been dedicated to a fault. Giving her an out after she’d just spent a mandatory eleven hours with him only seemed fair.

  A wry smile flickered at her mouth, there and then gone. “For the record, turning down help from an attending isn’t very wise.”

  “You know what, you’re right,” Parker said, smiling briefly, too. “I’d love the knowledge.”

  Putting her bag down on an adjacent lab table, she pushed up the sleeves of her pale pink sweater and slid a pair of nitrile gloves into place. “You’re actually reading that?” she asked, her auburn brows lifted at the sight of the romance novel Connor had given him this morning, sitting next to the medical textbook he’d propped open to the section on vertical mattress stitches.

  Parker nodded. “Of course I’m reading it. How else am I going to find out if Michaela and Trent can outwit the creepy bad guy so they can give each other a lifetime supply of preternaturally incredible orgasms?”

  He heard the words only after he’d—glibly, exhaustedly, borderline inappropriately—set them free. He opened his mouth to apologize. Charlie had made it wildly clear that she meant to keep things completely business for the ten weeks she was in Remington, and Christ, had he honestly just said preternaturally incredible orgasms out loud and to her face?

  But then she did the unthinkable. She laughed. “I guess I can see why Connor’s hooked.”

  “To be honest, the first chapter was really good,” he said, because it was the truth. More importantly, though, it made her smile again.

  “I’ll have to borrow it when you’re done. For now, how about we start at the beginning, with simple interrupted stitches, and go from there?”

  “Sounds good on both counts.”

  Charlie proceeded with a couple of basics on suturing techniques, most of which he knew, but a few that he didn’t. The transition was seamless, the tension between them broken, and she guided him through three rows of different types of sutures before Parker swapped back to the non-medical.

  “So, how’s Tess?” he asked, putting a corner stitch at the top of the cut Charlie had made for him to repair.

  Her shoulders stiffened, so slightly that Parker would bet she didn’t even realize they had. “Dr. Michaelson is just fine.”

  “Glad to hear it,” he said. “I take it she hasn’t had the baby yet.”

  “No. Not yet.”

  Parker nodded, taking the off-limits hint. He sutured quietly for a minute, then another, memorizing the feel of the motions, the flex and release of his muscles as he stitched. Charlie sat across from him, the long side-sweep of her bangs keeping her eyes mostly shielded, but Parker could feel them on his hands. Observing. Assessing.

  “So, why now?” she asked, and the question surprised him enough to make him pause.

  “Why now, what?”

  Charlie’s stare didn’t move from the table, and Parker resumed stitching as she answered.

  “I asked all of your colleagues why they want to be doctors, but given your history, I’m altering the question a little bit. You’ve had the last six years to come back to complete your residency, yet you chose now. I’m curious as to why.”

  A fair question, he supposed. One that had an easy answer, and a not-so-easy answer. He went for door number one, just as he had when Quinn, his former partner, had asked, as well as when he’d interviewed at every hospital in the city. “I guess I just felt like it was time.”

  Unlike all the people who’d heard the words before her, Charlie frowned. “So, what? You just woke up one morning and decided it was ‘time’ to drastically change your career path?”

  “Pretty much,” Parker said. Okay, so it was the largest understatement he’d uttered in recent memory. But he’d made it fly with everyone else.

  “I’m not buying it. Upending an established career to go back to medical school—even if it’s in the same field—is a huge change, with even bigger implications. Something must’ve influenced that,” Charlie said, and damn it, Parker should’ve known better. She’d never been like anyone else.

  He put the last stitch in the cut she’d made, tying the nylon off before cutting it with a soft snick. “Okay, fine. I had an accident at work last year and busted up my hand pretty good.”

  The story wasn’t a secret. In fact, even Langston knew about it. He’d overseen the doc who had placed all the sutures, a fourth-year resident who’d taken a prestigious surgical position in Tampa a few months ago, Parker had heard.

  Charlie lifted her chin, her eyes widening. “Define ‘busted up’.”

  “I got it caught in the gurney’s locking mechanism in our ambo. Ended up with twenty-nine stitches.” Tugging off his gloves, he flipped his hand to showcase the scar that spanned nearly half his palm between his thumb and index finger.

  She winced. “That must have been painful.”

  “Yeah, it’s not something I recommend doing,” Parker agreed. It had been the worst physical pain he’d ever experienced, no doubt. Yet, for what the injury had made him realize? He wouldn’t trade receiving it for damn near anything. “For the record, I did all the PT and regained full mobility. I’m as good as new.”

  “I assume you wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t made a full recovery.”

  God, she was so much closer to the mark than she knew. “No, I really wouldn’t. I had to take three weeks for the stitches to heal, and it gave me a lot of time to think. I realized that, while I really liked being a paramedic, it wasn’t enough.”

  Although Charlie didn’t say anything, Parker could tell beyond the shadow of a doubt that she was listening—the tiny V over the bridge of her nose always gave her away—and even though he’d never spoken the words out loud before, he didn’t hesitate to give them voice now.

  “For a long time, I thought it was. I mean, I helped a lot of people on ambo, and I was damned good at my job. I know that sounds like ego”—he paused for a shrug—“but it’s the truth.” Gabe Hawkins, the smart-assed and quick-witted rescue squad lieutenant at Station Seventeen, hadn’t nicknamed Parker “Ace” in his first month as a paramedic for nothing.

  “Oh, come on,” Charlie said, her expression dancing the line between saucy and sweet. “It’s a little bit ego.”

  Parker considered her (okay, fine. Good) point. “Fair. But don’t you think you’re a great surgeon?”

  Charlie held up her hands over the lab table in a nonverbal busted. “I do.”

  “Because it’s true, and you’ve earned the right to think so,” Parker said. “And it took me injuring my hand to realize that, while I was great at being a paramedic, I didn’t miss it the way I should’ve when I wasn’t there. I missed my station-mates,” he qualified, “but I didn’t miss the job. Being a paramedic wasn’t what I really wanted. What I’ve always wanted.”

  “To be a doctor.” Her words emerged on a whisper, but the way she’d said them—as if she really got them on the level that he felt them, deep in his blood and belly and bones—felt like she’d shouted through a megaphone.

  Parker wanted to be a doctor. He’d known it since his first day of college, and every day since. True, he’d lost sight of it for a while. He had heartbreakingly good reasons for that, ones he wouldn’t tell Charlie no matter how pretty and honest and real she looked, sitting across from him with nothing but a lab table between them.

  But he would answer her question. “Exactly. So, even though I’m older than anyone else in my class, and I had to study twice as hard and work three times as much as everyone else, I came back. This is what I’m meant to do. I don’t care what it takes.”

  Parker knew this was the point at which he should shut his fucking mouth. Charlie had probably gotten so much mo
re than she’d bargained for with what he’d already said, and he’d vowed to put the past in the past when he’d decided to return to the program. But some deep-seated, primal part of him wanted her to know he meant what he’d said.

  No. That wasn’t quite right. He didn’t just want her to think he wanted it.

  He wanted her to believe him.

  Before he could think better of it, Parker moved around the lab table, standing in front of Charlie with less than an arm’s length between them. Her eyes flared, wide enough for him to see the light gray flecks in her bright green irises, but still, he didn’t stop.

  “I know you think I’m going to quit,” he said. “But I’m not. This time…” He broke off, holding on to her stare. Making sure she knew he meant what he was about to say. “This time is different. This time I’m going to finish what I started.”

  For a heartbeat, Charlie said nothing, just looked up at him with those bright, beautiful eyes where he’d once seen forever. Her face tipped up, her lashes fanning down as she focused on his mouth, and in that instant, want roared through him, needful and dark.

  His desire to kiss her, to part her lips with his tongue and taste her until her breathy sighs turned into cries of pleasure, had never disappeared. It had just been banked for six long years, hidden way beneath the surface like buried treasure. He wanted to unearth it now, to kiss her and claim her and tell her why he’d really left.

  But before Parker could give in to the wild impulse, Charlie blinked, standing up and stepping back. “Well, you’re definitely on your way. Keep practicing those sutures. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Right,” he said, and Christ, was he crazy? He needed to stay focused now more than ever. “Thanks for the help. Have a good night.”

  As he watched Charlie slip past the door, he realized two things. One was that he was, in fact, crazy for nearly kissing her.

  The other was that, as dangerous as that was, he still wanted it.

  10

  Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid…

  Charleston’s running shoes pounded a steady rhythm over the pavement on Weston Avenue, but it wasn’t nearly as strong as the voice in her head. Her offer to help Parker in the skills lab three nights ago might’ve been a little impromptu, but she’d still had a careful, strategic plan when she’d made it. After all, she might be stupid, but she wasn’t insane. She’d kept things friendly, yet work-related, the way she would with any other intern who’d showed initiative by staying late. Suture techniques had been a great place to start, and they’d been doing just fine. Even when Parker had brought up Tess—which was still technically work(ish), Charleston supposed—she’d still steered firmly back to business, asking him an experience-appropriate version of the same question she’d asked everyone else in his class.

  And not only had his answer yanked the rug out from under her, but she’d ended up with her mouth less than an inch from his, wanting nothing more out of the moment than for him to kiss her and touch her and take her until they both screamed.

  Behold: stupid. Because Parker was clearly more motivated than ever to become a doctor, and when he’d said he wasn’t quitting, Charleston hadn’t just believed him.

  She’d wanted him.

  She could not want him. She couldn’t let herself fall for his sweet words and good intentions and all that hard, hot intensity that burned bright, then burned out.

  Not again.

  A text message popped up on Charleston’s Apple watch, and gratitude spilled through her for the diversion from Tess.

  Hey.

  Her gratitude quickly slid into concern. Are you in labor?

  Sadly, no. I’m starting to think this kid is never going to be born.

  Sorry. Charleston switched to voice-over texting, since Weston Avenue was a ghost town and she still had half a mile to go before she reached her apartment. If you’re not in labor, why are you up at 5:47 in the morning?

  Because there’s a Ninja in my uterus. You?

  Charleston’s heart rate monitor flashed upward. Running.

  Sadist, came Tess’s reply, and Charleston’s snort echoed off the quiet storefronts and mostly dark brownstone windows.

  You’re the one with a Ninja in your uterus.

  Point. Ten seconds went by before Tess asked, How’s work?

  Business. Business. Stick to business. Good. Busy.

  Uh-huh. How’s Boy Wonder?

  So much for business. Parker’s fine. Mostly working with Sheridan.

  This was actually true. Jonah had caught a handful of nasty trauma surgeries and had wanted Parker on the cases through post-op care, which had required them working together for two consecutive shifts. Having triaged and stabilized the patients when they’d been rushed to the ED, Charleston could attest to the fact that the cases had been serious. Just as she could attest to Parker being as calm under pressure as ever, even when Jonah had had him start a central line on a patient right there in trauma two.

  Vasquez, who had been on Charleston’s service at the time, had been pissed to miss out on the chance to do an advanced procedure. Jonah had been impressed at Parker’s speed and skills.

  Charleston had been more torn than ever.

  Good, came Tess’s reply, depositing Charleston back to the early morning reality of Weston Avenue and her sweaty running gear. Don’t let him forget you’re Godzilla, okay?

  Godzilla.

  With a wry smile and a much-needed shot of relief, Charleston replied that she wouldn’t and signed off. Tess was right. So Parker might not be as much of a flight risk as Charleston had originally thought. Just because he was more dedicated to becoming a doctor than she’d expected him to be didn’t mean she had to trust him on a personal level. In fact, she didn’t need to let him anywhere near her personal level. They would only be together for nine more weeks. She’d teach. Delegate appropriate tasks for a first-year. Supervise as necessary, just as she did with the other interns. She’d forget they’d almost kissed and focus on work, because that was what mattered.

  And she sure as hell wouldn’t let her mouth get anywhere near Parker’s again unless he keeled over and needed CPR.

  Charleston made her way back to her sublet just as the sun began peeking over the horizon to brighten the cityscape around her. After a quick routine of coffee/shower/breakfast/more coffee, she headed to Remington Mem with her work ethic strapped firmly in place. She’d done a few routine surgeries over as many shifts, and staying apprised of those patients, along with whatever cases came in to the ED, were sure to give her all the work-only, work-often fuel she needed to get through this shift with Parker on her service.

  “Good morning, Don,” she said, wondering how many of the guy’s arteries were clogged beyond measure as he took a bite out of a triple-decker breakfast sandwich.

  He harrumphed, which, Charleston had to admit, was cheerier than usual. “If you say so.”

  Checking the board, she ordered the cases in her head, using the desktop computer at one of the communal work stations at the front desk to log in and read the notes from the night shift attending. Everything was up-to-date and nothing emergent—a few patients waiting on labs, a few more waiting on discharge orders, and one slip-and-fall being monitored until neuro could come down for a consult. There were six patients who had been triaged—an ankle injury, two fairly minor lacerations in need of sutures, two fever/cough/chills who Charleston would bet her lunch money would end up testing positive for the flu, and, last but not least, the poor guy puking up last night’s all-you-can-eat dinner in curtain three.

  Perfect. “When Dr. Drake gets in, can you have him come find me?” Charleston asked Don, reaching out to grab one of the tablets from the charging station on the desk. She could probably clear a discharge or two before she had to deal with him face-to-face.

  Shooting a beady glance to a spot over her shoulder, Don said, “You got that, hotshot? Or did you need me to write a memo for you?”

  Heart thumping, Charleston turned around just in time to catch Parker’s slow and sexy smile point blank in the sternum, and damn it, who looked so good first thing in the morning?

  “I’m all set. Thanks, Don,” he said, turning toward Charleston and holding up a brown paper bag with the words Sweetie Pies scripted across the front below a pie-shaped logo. “Good morning, Dr. Becker.”