Page 37 of Healed By the Grumpy Elf

"Work together all you want during school hours," he concedes with a dismissive wave. "But no more private visits. No more roses. No more late-night consultations at her cottage." He pronounces the word consultations with heavy innuendo.

He's been watching us. The knowledge sends an icy chill down my spine.

"And if I refuse?" The question is reckless, but I need to know exactly what I'm facing.

Braggstone steps back toward the exit, his point made. "Then by this time next week, everyone in Saltford Bay will know exactly what kind of doctor they've welcomed into their community. Including Maeve. No parent will trust you with the care of their child, not even in the middle of a Pixie-Pox outbreak."

“You’re willing to endanger the children just to keep me away from Maeve?”

“I’m willing to do whatever it takes to keep her safe.”

He reaches the door, pauses with his hand on the handle, and turns back to me.

"Saltford Bay doesn't need people like you, Doc. And neither does Maeve. Even if she doesn’t see it for now."

The door closes behind him with a soft click that somehow sounds final.

I stand frozen in the dimly lit waiting room and lean over the reception desk, bracing my hands on the heavy oak surface. The coolness grounds me as my mind processes what just happened.

I don’t care about Braggstone or about my reputation. I’ve made my peace with what happened a long time ago.

I close my eyes, remembering the patient I couldn't save. The whispers, the accusations that followed. The heartbroken parents left behind.

I did everything I could to save that boy. But truth rarely matters in these cases.

I accepted my fate. I accepted the disgrace and the exile to spare the duke and duchess my presence as a constant reminder of their son’s death.

But I would not endanger more lives just to keep up the lie.

Chapter 11

Maeve

Istandonthewide porch of the Primrose residence, shifting my weight from one foot to the other as I debate whether to ring the doorbell or just text Rylan that I can't make it today. The Victorian-style house looms before me, all elegant lines and tasteful trim, reflecting Rylan's success as one of Saltford Bay's most sought-after attorneys. The perfectly manicured garden frames the house like something out of amagazine spread.

But I'm not here to admire the architecture. I'm here because Millie's Pixie-Pox symptoms have persisted longer than most, and Rylan called this morning sounding desperate.

"She won't come down from the ceiling," he said, his voice frayed with exhaustion. "The ice pops aren't working anymore."

I promised I'd come by after school, but now, as I stand on his doorstep clutching my medical bag, I'm having second thoughts. Not about helping Millie, of course, but about seeing Lorian again.

Three days. Three full days since I last spoke to him. Three days of radio silence after that kiss in my kitchen. Three days of him sending Mrs. Beckham to collect updates on the school cases rather than coming himself.

Maybe I was just a mistake for him, after all.

The hurt and confusion have curdled into something that feels like anger in my chest, and I'm not sure I can maintain a professional facade for an entire house call.

The soft purr of an engine draws my attention to the street where a sleek black sedan pulls up behind my ancient compact car. My heart flip-flops in my chest as I watch Lorian unfold himself from the driver's seat. Even from here, I can see that he looks immaculate in a crisp white shirt and dark slacks under his doctor's coat, his silver-blond hair pulled back in that perfect ponytail.

What am I saying? He doesn’t look immaculate. He looks good enough to eat. He looks like a rock star or a movie star or some medieval knight in a painting. A painting where the knight in shining armor walks out and decides to torture me.

He doesn't notice me at first, or simply refuses to look my way, gathering his medical bag from the passenger seat, his movementsprecise and economical. When he turns and spots me on the porch, he freezes momentarily before recovering his composure.

Wow. So much for liking me. Thanks, Harriet.

"Nurse Maeve," he says with a slight nod as he approaches. His voice is cold and professional, as if we're just colleagues rather than two people who've had their tongues in each other's mouths. Throats. It was more throats, the kiss was that good.

"Dr. Reizenhart," I reply with equal formality, putting as much ice in my tone as possible. Lorian’s head snaps my way and his eyes squint a bit, but he gives no other indication that he noticed I used his title instead of his name.