Page 2 of Crossing the Line (Phoenix Ridge Medical #6)

Carmen's hand tightened slightly on her wine glass. The new surgical approaches were entirely her own work this time. No partners to steal credit or claim joint development. No one to trust and no one to disappoint her.

"Progressing."

Julia studied her with the particular intensity she probably used during police interrogations. "You know, there are other surgeons in this city. Other people who might be interested in collaboration."

"I work better alone."

"You didn't always."

The conversation was veering into territory Carmen preferred to avoid. She took another sip of wine and let her gaze drift back to the room, watching the easy intimacy of women who trusted each other enough to laugh without calculating the cost.

Maybe Julia was right. Maybe she had been hiding.

But hiding felt safer than the alternative.

"Come on." Julia slid off her barstool and grabbed both wine glasses. "Let's find somewhere we can actually hear ourselves think."

Carmen followed her through the crowd to a small table near the front window.

The harbor stretched out beyond the glass, city lights reflecting off dark water like scattered stars.

It was quieter here, away from the main cluster of conversations, and Carmen found herself settling into the worn velvet chair with something approaching actual relaxation.

"Better," Julia said, settling across from her. "Now I can properly interrogate you about your hermit lifestyle."

"I'm not a hermit. I'm just…focused."

"Same thing, in your case." Julia signaled Lavender for another round. "So tell me about this research that's so important you've forgotten how to have a social life."

Carmen gave her the abbreviated version: new approaches to minimally invasive cardiac repair, improved recovery times, and reduced surgical trauma.

They were the technical details that usually made people's eyes glaze over, but Julia had been listening to Carmen talk shop for years.

She nodded in the right places and asked intelligent questions about patient outcomes.

"Sounds groundbreaking," Julia said when Carmen finished. "The kind of thing that gets published in major journals."

"That's the plan."

"Under your name only this time."

Carmen's wine glass paused halfway to her lips. "Obviously."

"Good." Julia's voice carried an edge that suggested she had opinions about Carmen's former research partner. "That woman never deserved to share credit for your work."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the harbor through the window. A fog bank was building on the horizon, and Carmen could see the lighthouse beam sweeping across the water in slow, hypnotic circles.

Lavender appeared with fresh wine glasses, replacing their empties. Carmen usually stopped at one glass—control was important, especially in public—but tonight felt different. The wine was good, and the knot in her shoulders was loosening even more.

"What about you?" Carmen asked, deflecting attention from her own carefully controlled life. "Any interesting cases lately?"

Julia's expression shifted into what Carmen recognized as her professional mode. "Had a domestic violence situation last week that turned into a hostage situation, and it took six hours to talk him down."

"Everyone okay?"

"She's in a safe house now. Kids too. He's in county lockup pending trial.

" Julia swirled her wine, watching the liquid catch the light.

"Sometimes I think Diana's community policing approach is too soft, but then I see situations like that and realize how much trust it takes for someone to call us instead of just running. "

Carmen nodded. She'd seen enough women in her ER to understand the complexity of domestic violence cases. "Trust is hard to build."

"Harder to rebuild once it's broken."

The words hung between them, and Carmen knew they weren't just talking about police work anymore.

Julia had been her friend through the entire disaster with her research partner, the professional betrayal that had bled into personal humiliation when Carmen discovered the affair happening literally behind her back.

"I'm fine, Julia."

"No, you're not." Julia leaned forward, her voice gentle but insistent. "You're surviving. There's a difference."

Carmen took another sip of wine, buying time. The alcohol was making her walls feel less necessary, which was dangerous. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"I want you to admit that hiding in your townhouse and talking only to patients isn't actually living."

"It's safer."

"Safer than what? Letting someone get close enough to hurt you again?"

The question hit too close to home. Carmen stared out at the harbor, watching the fog creep closer to shore. "I don't need another lecture about putting myself out there."

"I'm not lecturing. I'm worried about my friend who used to laugh and go dancing and actually enjoy herself occasionally."

Carmen couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed at something that wasn't dark medical humor. The realization sat heavy in her chest, another item on the growing list of things she'd lost without realizing it.

"I'm tired, Julia." The admission slipped out before she could stop it. "I'm tired of being alone, but I don't know how to be anything else anymore."

Julia reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "That's the first honest thing you've said all night."

Carmen didn't pull away. The contact felt foreign but not unwelcome, a reminder that human connection didn't always end in betrayal. Sometimes it was just a friend holding your hand while you admitted you'd forgotten how to trust anyone, including yourself.

The moment stretched between them, Julia's hand warm and solid over hers. Carmen appreciated the contact, but the café was getting warmer as the evening progressed, and the conversation had drifted into territory that required more emotional bandwidth than she'd budgeted for tonight.

"I'm going to get some fresh air," she said, gently extracting her hand and standing to smooth down her silk blouse.

Julia nodded with understanding. "I'll hold down the fort. Maybe chat up that cute nurse from pediatrics who's been making eyes at me all evening."

Carmen reached for the door handle just as it swung inward, and she found herself face-to-face with someone who made her forget how to breathe.

They nearly collided—close enough that Carmen caught a hint of clean soap and something floral and saw the surprised widening of dark eyes that quickly shifted into amusement.

The woman steadied herself with a hand briefly touching Carmen's arm, the contact sending an unexpected jolt of awareness through the fabric.

"Sorry," the woman said, but she didn't sound sorry. She sounded delighted. "I seem to have excellent timing for dramatic entrances."

She moved with the kind of confidence that turned heads without trying. Not tall, but she carried herself like she owned every room she entered. Dark hair caught the café's warm lighting, and her eyes—quick, curious, assessing—held Carmen's gaze longer than politeness required.

Carmen felt something shift in her chest. The woman's lips curved into a genuine smile, and Carmen realized she'd been holding her breath.

"I was just stepping out for air," Carmen managed, her voice steadier than she felt.

"Mind if I join you? I'm new to the neighborhood and still figuring out my way."

There was something in the way she said it—playful but not pushy, confident but not assuming—that made Carmen nod before her analytical mind could catalog all the reasons this was a bad idea.

She'd come here to remember who she used to be, hadn't she?

The Carmen from before would have said yes to a beautiful woman asking to share her company.

Carmen caught Lavender's attention behind the bar.

The older woman's eyes tracked their movement with the particular interest of someone who'd spent decades reading people and situations.

When their eyes met, Lavender offered a small, encouraging smile that somehow made Carmen feel like she was being given permission for something she hadn't known she needed.

"I'm Hailey," the woman said as they stepped outside into the cool harbor air.

"Carmen."

The small outdoor seating area was empty except for string lights and the sound of waves against the harbor rocks below. The fog had crept closer to shore, wrapping the edges of the city in soft white silence that made the rest of the world feel distant and unimportant.

Hailey moved to the railing overlooking the water, her hands gripping the metal as she took in the view. "This is beautiful. I can see why people fall in love with this place."

But Carmen found herself studying the woman's profile instead—the curve of her jaw, the way she seemed completely comfortable in her own skin, the slight smile that suggested she found the world amusing rather than threatening.

There was an energy about her, something restless and electric that made Carmen hyperaware of her own breathing and the way the cool air felt against her wine-warmed skin.

"You said you're new to Phoenix Ridge?" Carmen asked, moving to stand beside her at the railing.

"Just arrived. Still figuring out where everything is and who everyone is." Hailey turned to look at her directly. "Though I have to say, the welcome committee is exceeding expectations."

It was a line that should have made Carmen roll her eyes. Instead, she felt her pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with the wine and everything to do with the way this woman looked at her, like she was genuinely interested and present.

Carmen had forgotten what that felt like.

"So what brings you to Phoenix Ridge?" Carmen asked, surprised by how easily the question came. She hadn't made small talk with a stranger in months, but something about Hailey made conversation feel effortless.

"Work, mostly. Healthcare administration." Hailey's answer came smoothly, her attention still partly on the harbor view. "I heard good things about the community here. Progressive values, strong women's networks, that sort of thing."

Carmen nodded. Phoenix Ridge had earned its reputation as a place where women could build careers and lives without constantly fighting for respect. "It's a good place to start over."

"Is that what you did? Start over here?"

The question was casual, but Carmen caught the genuine curiosity underneath. "In a way. I've been here long enough that it feels like home now." She paused, then added, "I'm a surgeon at the hospital."

"That explains the steady hands," Hailey said, glancing down at Carmen's fingers where they gripped the railing. "And probably the reason you look like you haven't slept in a week."

Carmen laughed before she could stop herself—an actual laugh, not the polite sound she'd perfected for professional situations. "Twelve-hour surgery this morning. I should probably be at home reviewing post-op notes instead of drinking wine and talking to strangers."

"Should be, but here you are anyway." Hailey's smile was warm and knowing. "What changed your mind?"

"A friend who refuses to let me become a complete hermit." Carmen gestured toward the café windows, where Julia was visible chatting with the pediatric nurse she'd mentioned. "She has strong opinions about work-life balance."

"Smart friend. Life's too short to spend it all in operating rooms, no matter how important the work."

There was something in the way Hailey said it that suggested experience, but before Carmen could ask, Hailey turned to face her fully. The string lights overhead caught the gold flecks in her dark eyes, and Carmen felt that electric awareness spike again.

"Can I ask you something?" Hailey's voice had dropped lower, more intimate. "Do you always analyze people the way you've been analyzing me for the past five minutes?"

Carmen felt heat rise in her cheeks. "I wasn't?—"

"You were. It's not a bad thing. I like being looked at by someone who actually sees what she's looking at."

The comment was bold enough that it should have made Carmen retreat into professional politeness. Instead, she found herself stepping closer, drawn by the warmth in Hailey's voice and the way she seemed completely unguarded despite being a stranger in a new city.

"You're very direct," Carmen said.

"Life's too short for anything else." Hailey's smile turned playful. "Besides, I have a feeling you appreciate directness."

She was right. Carmen had spent months surrounded by people who treated her like fragile glass, even her own reflection in windows looking back at her with wounded caution. Hailey looked at her like she was simply interesting, not broken.

"Would you like to go back inside?" Carmen heard herself ask. "I owe you a proper drink since I monopolized your fresh air time."

"I'd like that very much."

As they turned toward the café door, Carmen realized her analytical mind had gone completely quiet. For the first time in months, she wasn't cataloging risks or calculating potential consequences. She was just following an attractive woman back inside, and for once, not caring where it might lead.

Control was overrated anyway.