Page 1 of Crossing the Line (Phoenix Ridge Medical #6)

CARMEN

T he surgical notes weren't going to finish themselves, but Carmen Méndez couldn't focus on the words blurring across her computer screen.

She'd been staring at the same post-operative report for twenty minutes, her home office silent except for the distant harbor fog horns and the soft hum of her laptop.

Her townhouse felt too quiet tonight. Everything was in its place: medical journals stacked in perfect right angles, pens arranged by color in the ceramic holder, and coffee mug washed and returned to its designated spot in the kitchen.

The antiseptic smell still clung to her hands despite three rounds of scrubbing, a phantom reminder of the twelve-hour surgery that had ended three hours ago.

The phone buzzed against the mahogany desk. Julia Scott's name lit up the screen.

"Don't even think about declining this call." Julia's voice carried the authority of someone who'd made Captain in the Phoenix Ridge Police Department before her fortieth birthday. "I can see your townhouse from the harbor patrol boat. Your lights are on, which means you're brooding."

Carmen closed the laptop with more force than necessary. "I'm working."

"Bullshit. You finished your surgery at four. It's seven-thirty, and you're sitting in that sterile house convincing yourself that reviewing surgical notes constitutes a social life."

"Some of us have responsibilities that don't end when we clock out."

"And some of us need to remember that we're human beings, not robot doctors." Julia's voice softened slightly. "When's the last time you left that house for something that wasn't work-related?"

Carmen couldn't remember. The realization sat heavy in her chest, another item on the growing list of things she'd let slide since everything fell apart six months ago.

Her former partner—professional and personal—had made sure of that.

Professional betrayal had a way of bleeding into every corner of your life, making trust feel like a luxury she couldn't afford.

"There's a thing at Lavender's tonight," Julia continued. "Lesbians Who Wine or whatever they're calling it this month. Diana mentioned it during the morning briefing."

"I don't do crowds."

"You used to."

That was before. Before she'd learned that the person sharing her bed and her operating theater had been systematically undermining her research, stealing her surgical techniques, and presenting them as original work to the medical board.

Before she'd discovered that trust was just another word for vulnerability, and vulnerability was a luxury surgeons couldn't afford.

"I'm tired, Julia."

"You're hiding."

The words hit harder than they should have.

Carmen stood and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Phoenix Ridge's harbor district.

City lights reflected off the dark water like scattered coins, and somewhere in the distance, she could make out the purple glow of Lavender's café sign.

"One drink," Julia pressed. "You don't have to talk to anyone except me. You don't have to pretend to be interested in whatever community organizing project Lavender's pushing this month. Just show up and remember what it feels like to be around people who aren't bleeding on your operating table."

Carmen's reflection stared back at her from the window glass—composed, controlled, alone. When had she become someone who needed to be convinced to leave her house? When had isolation become easier than the alternative?

"Fine. One drink."

"I'll meet you there in thirty minutes. Wear something that doesn't look like you're heading to a medical conference."

The line went dead before Carmen could argue.

Forty-five minutes later, she stood in front of her bedroom closet, second-guessing her choice of black slacks and a burgundy silk blouse.

Professional but approachable, or at least that's what she told herself.

The blouse brought out the amber flecks in her dark eyes, though she wasn't sure why that mattered.

This wasn't a date. This was barely even socializing.

The drive through Phoenix Ridge's winding streets gave her time to construct the familiar armor of polite conversation and practiced smiles.

She'd perfected the art of appearing engaged while maintaining just enough distance to avoid actual connection.

It was a skill that served her well in medical conferences and hospital fundraisers—all the social requirements of her profession without the messy complications of genuine intimacy.

The fog was rolling in from the harbor as she pulled up outside Lavender's Café-Bar.

The Victorian building glowed warm against the evening darkness, its famous purple door and hand-painted sign visible from two blocks away.

Through the large windows, she could see clusters of women talking and laughing, wine glasses catching the light from the eclectic collection of vintage lamps.

Carmen sat in her car for a moment, engine still running, watching the easy camaraderie inside. When had she become someone who needed to gather courage to walk into a room full of people?

The cool ocean breeze hit her as she stepped onto the cobblestone sidewalk.

Salt air mixed with the scent of lavender from the café's signature plantings, and she could hear the soft hum of conversation and laughter spilling out into the night.

Her heels clicked against the stone as she approached the purple door, each step a small act of defiance against the voice in her head that whispered it would be easier to turn around and go home.

Julia was right. She was hiding.

But maybe, for one night, she could try to remember who she used to be.

The purple door opened to a wall of warmth and sound that hit Carmen like a gentle assault.

Lavender's Café-Bar buzzed with the particular energy of women who'd claimed this space as their own—conversations flowing over vintage sofas, laughter echoing off exposed brick walls lined with local art, and the clink of wine glasses punctuating stories she couldn't quite catch.

Carmen stepped inside and immediately activated what Julia called her "doctor mode"—the practiced smile, the confident posture, the way she could scan a room and catalog every detail while appearing completely at ease.

It was a survival skill she'd perfected through years of medical conferences and hospital fundraisers.

The Victorian interior embraced controlled chaos.

Mismatched armchairs clustered around low tables, string lights wound through hanging plants, and every wall displayed paintings and photographs from local artists.

A hand-lettered chalkboard near the bar announced "Lesbians Who Wine: Friday Edition" in purple script, complete with small drawings of wine glasses and lavender sprigs.

"Carmen!" Julia's voice cut through the ambient noise. She waved from the bar, where she'd already claimed two stools and what looked like her second glass of red wine. "You made it."

Carmen navigated through the crowd, nodding to familiar faces.

Dr. Samira Hassan from the hospital's emergency department sat near the window, still in scrubs with a coffee cup instead of wine—probably grabbing caffeine before her night shift.

Carmen offered a professional smile and a small wave, the kind of acknowledgment that said colleague without inviting conversation.

"You're late," Julia said as Carmen slid onto the adjacent stool.

"I'm here. That's what matters."

Lavender Larwood appeared behind the bar as if summoned, her silver hair catching the ambient lighting.

Marriage to Police Chief Diana Marten suited her.

There was a contentment in her movements that hadn't been there five years ago when she'd been running this place alone and coordinating underground networks for women fleeing domestic violence.

"Dr. Méndez," Lavender said, her voice carrying the same warmth Carmen remembered from community events she'd attended back when she still did that sort of thing. "It's been too long. Diana mentioned you've been keeping yourself busy at the hospital."

"Always something that needs fixing." Carmen accepted the glass of wine Lavender poured without being asked—a pinot noir from a local vineyard, probably. Lavender had a talent for remembering everyone’s preferences.

"Diana's working late again," Lavender continued, polishing glasses with practiced efficiency. "City council meeting ran long. You know how she gets about budget discussions."

Carmen made the appropriate sympathetic sound. She could do this: surface-level conversation, professional courtesy, the social dance that kept her connected to the community without requiring actual vulnerability. It was easier than she'd expected, slipping back into the rhythm of it.

Around them, the Lesbians Who Wine crowd represented Phoenix Ridge's particular brand of organized lesbian social life.

City employees mixed with artists and small business owners, nurses from the hospital clustered near the window, and what looked like half the fire department occupied a corner table, still radiating the easy confidence of women who ran toward danger for a living.

Carmen catalogued them all with the same clinical precision she brought to everything else.

Demographics, age ranges, relationship status based on body language and ring fingers, probable income levels based on clothing choices.

Observing human behavior from a safe distance was a comfortable way to engage without actually engaging.

"How's the research going?" Julia asked, interrupting Carmen's anthropological assessment of their surroundings.

"Fine." The wine was good, she had to admit. It loosened the knot between her shoulder blades that had taken up permanent residence six months ago. "Publishing schedule is still on track."

"And the new techniques you've been developing?"