Page 24 of Vital Signs
I felt the familiar flicker of irritation. “Let me guess. He did itwhere everyone could hear.” Steady voice, steady hands. I had to beperfectlyunreadable.
“Mm-hmm. And then,” she said, smiling again, “Dr. Desmond Vaughn happened to him.”
Thatgot my attention. Shit. “Wait,” I said, trying — and probably failing — to keep a straight face. “What do you meanhappened?”
Liza’s expression softened, just a little. “I mean he shut Carter down so cleanly I almost applauded.”
My grip on the chart tightened. “What did he say, Liza?”
She studied me for a beat, then answered carefully. “He said you earned every bit of authority you took in that trauma. And,” she added, and my chest tightened. Her words were lighter, but with something heavy underneath, “that you were the most competent physician in the room.”
The words didn't feel jokey at all. They felt heavy. Earned. Dangerous.
“He told Carter that if he had concerns about you, he'd better bring evidence,” she continued, something twinkling in her eyes. “And if he had concerns about Desmond, he could take them to administration.”
I swallowed. “He didn't have to do that.”
“No,” she agreed quietly. “He didn't.”
We stood there for a moment, the noise of the department washing around us. Liza nudged me again, gentler this time. “For the record? That didn’tsoundlike favoritism. It sounded like respect.”
I nodded once because trusting my voice felt risky. Sayinganythingfelt risky. She straightened. “Anyway… Just thought you should know before someone else tells it worse.”
When she walked away, I stayed where I was, pulse still skidding. He hadn't said a word to me about it. About the confrontation with Carter or the accusations. And I wasn't sure which worried me more.
Chapter 16
Desmond
She walked into my office, the door barely cracked, and I knew before she spoke that this wasn't going to be a polite conversation. I straightened, trying to summon calm. Tried to keep the pulse steady behind my ribs. “This isn't a good time,” I said, measured.
Her eyes didn't waver. Her voice was tight. “Then stop doing things that make it worse.”
Heat skittered down my spine. Damn it. I hated that she could do that without touching me, hated that my heartbeat betrayed me in a way she probably felt. She crossed the room, deliberate, purposeful, a storm I could neither stop nor ignore.
“You shouldn't be here,” I said. Tried to keep my voice firm. Tried to draw a line. Tried tostay professional.
“You don't get to decide that,” she said. And just like that, the line evaporated. “You don't get to defend me in hallways and not tell me.”
I clenched my jaw. I wasn't defending her. Not in the way she thought. But that truth didn't sound good, not to her, not to me. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”
“Bullshit,” she spat. And it slammed into me harder than any trauma room, harder than any crisis I'd ever walked into.
I exhaled, counting in my head. One… two… failing before I even reached three. “I corrected unprofessional behavior.”
“At my expense,” she said, stepping closer. Her intensity pressed at me, demanding acknowledgment, demanding surrender. “You risked my reputation without even asking me.”
I moved closer, trying to reclaim space, trying to reclaim reason. “I shut down a man who was undermining you.”
“And you don't see how that looks worse?” She challenged, the fire in her eyes close to matching that of her hair. “Don’t you think people will notice when you step in like that?”
I should have said nothing. I should have turned away. I should have enforced every professional boundary I still had left. Instead, I let the words out, rough and honest. “I don't care what they notice.”
Her chest rose and fell against the air between us. “I care,” she whispered.
I dropped my voice to a low, ragged edge. “That's why I didn't tell you.” Silence slammed into the room. Thick. Full. Every second I spent restraining myself, restraining desire, restraining care, seemed to be pressing into me from all sides.
“You don't get to protect me by keeping me ignorant,” she said.
