Page 32 of Crossing the Line (Phoenix Ridge Medical #6)

HARPER

H arper's alarm hadn't even gone off when she woke, her body still thrumming with the memory of Carmen's hands on her skin and lips. The morning light streaming through her apartment windows felt different—sharper, more alive—as if the world had been repainted in colors she'd never noticed before.

She stretched beneath her sheets, muscles pleasantly sore from their rooftop encounter, and let herself replay the night in vivid detail: Carmen's tears on her cheeks when she'd finally admitted her fear, the way her voice had broken when she'd whispered "I want to try," and the desperate hunger in her kiss when professional walls had finally crumbled completely.

But alongside the satisfaction was a restlessness that made Harper's skin feel too tight.

They'd crossed every line they'd drawn for themselves, confessed feelings they'd been hiding, and chosen each other despite impossible complications.

And today, Harper would have to pretend it had never happened.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Carmen: “Good morning. Hope you slept well.”

The same professional politeness they'd been exchanging for weeks, but now it felt like a betrayal.

Harper stared at the message until her vision blurred, then typed and deleted a dozen responses.

What she wanted to write was: I can still taste you.

I don't want to hide anymore. Last night changed everything, and I love you.

What she sent was: “Very well, thank you. Looking forward to today's cases.”

Harper threw her phone across the bed and slinked to the shower.

The hot water couldn't wash away the bitter taste of their careful charade, and by the time she emerged, her decision was made.

She couldn't spend another day pretending Carmen was just her supervisor, couldn't deflect another concerned question from Alice and Piper, couldn't smile and nod while her mother talked about work-life balance without knowing Harper had found the person she wanted to build a life with.

It was time to stop hiding.

An hour later, Harper found herself standing outside Café Luna, watching her mother through the window.

Natalie sat at her favorite corner table, reviewing what looked like patient files over her morning coffee, silver reading glasses perched on her nose.

She looked so much like the woman Harper remembered from childhood—brilliant, focused, completely absorbed in the work that defined her—that Harper felt a pang of something approaching homesickness.

The bell above the door chimed as Harper entered, and Natalie looked up with that radiant smile that had sustained Harper through years of academic pressure and self-doubt.

"There's my brilliant daughter," Natalie said, rising to embrace Harper with the easy affection that made their complicated relationship feel simple.

"You look..." She paused, studying Harper's face with the clinical precision of someone trained to read subtle symptoms. "Different. Rested and happy."

Harper felt heat creep up her neck. Could her mother really see the afterglow of Carmen's touch in her expression? "I slept well."

"Good. You've seemed tense lately." Natalie gestured for Harper to sit as she signaled the server. "How are things at the hospital? Is your rotation with Carmen still going well?"

The casual mention of Carmen's name made Harper's pulse spike. This was it, the opening she'd been hoping for. "Actually, that's something I wanted to talk to you about."

Natalie's expression shifted slightly, her maternal radar activated. "Is there a problem? Carmen mentioned you're doing exceptional work, but if there's some kind of conflict?—"

"There's no conflict," Harper said quickly, then realized that wasn't entirely true. "Well, not the kind you're thinking. Mom, I need to tell you something important, and I need you to hear me out completely before you respond."

Natalie set down her coffee cup, giving Harper her full attention in the way that had always made Harper feel simultaneously cherished and exposed. "What is it, sweetheart?"

Harper took a sharp inhale, steeling herself. "I'm seeing someone. It's serious and it's complicated…and it's the best thing that's happened to me since I moved to Phoenix Ridge."

"That's wonderful," Natalie said, her face lighting up with genuine pleasure. "Tell me about her. How did you meet? What's she like?"

The easy acceptance made Harper's chest tight with love and guilt. Her mother's immediate assumption that Harper was dating a woman, her obvious joy at Harper's happiness—it would make what came next even more devastating.

"She's brilliant," Harper began, surprised by how easily the truth spilled out once she'd started.

"Incredibly talented, passionate about medicine, but also vulnerable in ways that make me want to protect her.

She's been hurt before, so trust is difficult for her.

But when she lets her guard down..." Harper's voice caught slightly.

"When she lets me see who she really is, it's like watching someone come alive. "

Natalie's smile was warm and encouraging. "She sounds perfect for you. You've always been drawn to complexity, even as a child. What's her name?"

Harper's mouth opened, the confession balanced on her tongue like a diving board she was finally ready to jump from. "Her name is?—"

Natalie's phone exploded into sound, the shrill hospital ringtone that meant emergency. Without hesitation, Natalie grabbed it, her expression shifting to the focused intensity Harper recognized from years of watching her mother save lives.

"Dr. Langston," she answered, already reaching for her jacket. Harper could hear the urgent voice on the other end, medical terminology that meant someone was dying and needed Natalie's immediate attention. "I'll be there in ten minutes."

Natalie was standing before she'd even ended the call, maternal warmth replaced by professional urgency. "Sweetheart, I'm so sorry. Emergency C-section, complications with twins. We'll have to continue this conversation later."

"Mom, wait—" Harper started, but Natalie was already kissing her cheek, gathering her things with the efficient movements of someone who'd learned to prioritize life-or-death situations over everything else.

"I want to hear everything," Natalie called over her shoulder as she headed for the door. "Dinner this weekend? I'll cook, and you can tell me all about this mysterious woman who's made you glow like this."

The door closed behind her mother with a soft chime, leaving Harper alone at the table with the weight of unfinished confession and the growing certainty that waiting for the perfect moment was a luxury she could no longer afford.

Outside, Phoenix Ridge was waking up to another ordinary day. But Harper sat surrounded by the debris of interrupted honesty, knowing that the next time she saw Carmen, she'd have to pretend the most important conversation of her life had never been attempted.

The bitter irony wasn't lost on her: she'd finally found the courage to tell the truth, only to discover that courage without opportunity was just another form of waiting.

And Harper was done waiting.

Harper's morning frustration followed her through Phoenix Ridge's streets as she made her way from Cafe Luna to the hospital.

The interrupted conversation with her mother had left her raw and restless, but seeing Carmen would help, she told herself.

Last night, Carmen had promised to try. They'd figure out what that meant together.

The hospital lobby felt different under the fluorescent lights, sterile and exposed after their shared intimacy on the rooftop garden.

Harper's eyes found Carmen immediately. She was standing near the surgical board reviewing the day's schedule, her dark hair pulled back in her usual severe style, every line of her posture screaming professional competence.

Last night, Harper had traced the curve of that neck with her tongue and had felt Carmen's pulse racing beneath her lips. This morning, Carmen looked like a stranger wearing a familiar face—and worse, she was acting like Harper meant nothing more than any other intern rotating through her service.

Harper approached the surgical board, studying Carmen's body language for any sign of the woman who'd whispered "I want to try" against her lips just hours ago.

But Carmen's shoulders were rigid with professionalism, her movements sharp and efficient, her expression carefully blank.

If anything, she seemed more guarded than usual, as if their rooftop breakthrough had made her retreat even further behind her clinical facade.

Harper approached the surgical board with measured steps, hyperaware of how her body moved through space and how her voice would sound when she spoke. The careful choreography they'd perfected over weeks of hiding felt grotesque now, like performing a lie that suffocated with every breath.

"Good morning, Dr. Méndez," Harper said, the formal address feeling foreign on her tongue after whispering Carmen's name in the darkness. "I see we have the Morrison valve replacement at ten."

Carmen looked up from her tablet, and for a split second—so brief Harper might have imagined it—something raw and vulnerable flickered across her face before the mask snapped back into place.

"Ms. Langston." Carmen's voice was steady and professional, but Harper caught the slightest pause before she spoke, as if Carmen, too, was struggling with the careful distance between them.

"Yes, Mr. Morrison will require close monitoring.

His cardiac output has been irregular, and we'll need to watch for arrhythmias during the procedure. "