Page 2

Chapter 2

Medical Minds

I wake to the smell of coffee and the sound of voices. For a moment, I'm disoriented; the unfamiliar couch and handmade quilt are nothing like my sleek bedroom in Denver. Then yesterday's events come rushing back—the blizzard, the clinic, and Cole Blake with those impossibly blue eyes.

Sunlight streams through the small window, bouncing off what must be feet of fresh snow outside. I check my phone: It’s 8:17 AM, and there’s still no service. So much for my early-morning call with the hospital board.

I quickly freshen up in the bathroom, grateful for my emergency makeup bag. I'm not usually vain, but something about Cole makes me want to look my best. I tame my hair into a presentable ponytail and apply minimal makeup before venturing out toward the voices.

The clinic waiting room is occupied now—a woman holding a young boy who can't be more than four or five. The child is sniffling, tears tracking down his chubby cheeks.

"Just a few more minutes, Liam," the woman says. "Cole will make it all better."

Cole emerges from one of the exam rooms, and my breath catches. He’s even more attractive in full professional mode than yesterday—now wearing dark blue scrubs that emphasize his broad shoulders and lean waist. His hair is slightly damp as if he's just showered, and the scent of his soap hits me as he walks past.

"Good morning," he says, shooting me a glance before focusing on the child. "Hey buddy, what happened to you?"

"I—I fell," the boy hiccups. "On the ice."

"Were you being a superhero again?" Cole asks gently, and the boy nods, a tiny grin breaking through his tears.

"I was The Flash."

"Well, even The Flash slips sometimes." Cole leads them toward an exam room. "Let's take a look at that arm."

As they pass, the woman—presumably Liam's mother—gives me a curious once-over, clearly wondering who I am and why I'm emerging from the staff area.

"Dr. Carrington," Cole explains, noticing the exchange. "She got caught in the storm last night and had to stay over." To me, he adds, "This is Hannah Lewis and her son Liam. The clinic's first customers of the day."

"Nice to meet you," Hannah says, her expression immediately warming at my title. "Are you joining the practice here?"

"No, I'm just?—"

"She's visiting from Denver," Cole interrupts smoothly. "Big-shot trauma surgeon slumming it with us country folk."

I shoot him a look, but there's humor in his eyes that softens the remark.

"Coffee's fresh," he adds, nodding toward the break room. "Help yourself. I'll be a few minutes with our young daredevil here."

I retreat to the break room, where I find coffee and a small spread of pastries that weren't there last night. A chocolate croissant with a handwritten note sits on a folded napkin: " Figured you for a chocolate person. –C.B."

The gesture is oddly touching. I pour a cup of coffee and bite the croissant, closing my eyes at the buttery, chocolatey goodness. It is definitely not from a chain bakery.

When Cole reappears ten minutes later, I'm on my second cup and scrolling through emails that downloaded before I lost service.

"Arm's not broken," he announces, washing his hands at the small sink. "Just a nasty sprain. Got him wrapped up and sent them home with care instructions."

"You're good with kids."

He shrugs, pouring himself coffee. "Helps that I've known Liam since he was born. That's the thing about small towns—your patients are also your neighbors." He nods at my half-eaten croissant. "Good?"

"Amazing. Where did you get these?"

"Margie's Bakery, down the street. Owner's husband had a heart attack last year. I helped stabilize him until the helicopter came, so she makes sure I never go hungry." He leans against the counter, studying me. "Sleep okay?"

"Better than I expected," I admit. "Any update on the roads?"

"Plows are working, but it'll be midday at least before they open the roads up the mountain. You're stuck with me a while longer, I'm afraid."

Something in his tone makes me look up sharply. His professional demeanor with his patient softens, and the warmth in his gaze sends a flutter through my stomach.

"I've been in worse places." I aim for casual and miss by a mile.

"So have I." His smile is slow and knowing, as if he can read every inappropriate thought I'm trying not to have.

Before I can respond, the phone rings. He pushes off the counter to answer it, and I take the moment to collect myself. What is wrong with me? I'm behaving like a lovesick teenager, not a thirty-two-year-old professional woman.

When Cole returns, his expression shifts to concern. "That was Sam Wilson—local with diabetes. His pump's malfunctioning, and his blood sugar's dropping. He lives about ten minutes from here, but with the roads?—"

"You need to make a house call," I finish for him.

He nods, already moving toward the coat rack. "I'd normally close the clinic, but since you're here..."

"You want me to cover?" I raise an eyebrow. "I'm not licensed in ER medicine."

"Just need someone to answer the phone and tell people I'll be back in an hour. Any real emergencies get directed to regional dispatch for the helicopter." He pulls on a heavy parka. "Unless you'd rather come with me? Snow's pretty deep, though."

For a moment, I consider it—the adventure of a mountain house call, more time with Cole—but professionalism wins out.

"I'll hold down the fort," I say. "Just show me what I need to know about the phones."

He walks me through the simple system, then hesitates by the door, snow boots and medical bag in hand.

"Thanks for this," he says. "Most city doctors wouldn't bother."

"I’m happy to help."

Something passes between us, a moment of mutual understanding that feels more intimate than it should.

"Back soon," he says, and then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

I spend twenty minutes answering emails and checking the news on my tablet before the clinic door chimes again.

"Cole?" calls a woman's voice.

"He's on a house call," I reply, emerging from the break room. "He should be back within the hour."

The newcomer is elderly, at least in her eighties, bundled in a heavy coat and woolen hat. A man of similar age stands beside her, looking worried.

"It's my prescription," the woman explains. "I'm completely out, and with the roads the way they are, we can't get to the pharmacy in Riverdale."

"I'm Dr. Carrington." I step forward. "I'm covering while Cole—um, Dr. Blake—is out. What prescription do you need?"

"Blood pressure medication," she says. "I've been taking it for twenty years. Never missed a day until now."

"Let me see what I can do. Come in and get warm."

I lead them to the waiting area and take a moment to think. The clinic must have some kind of emergency dispensary, but I have no idea where it is or how it's organized.

"I'm just going to check the records." I move to the computer behind the reception desk.

The system is password-protected, of course. I try "AngelsPeak" and "MedicalClinic" with no luck. On a hunch, I type "ChicagoBears"—remembering Cole mentioned growing up near Chicago—and I'm in. Mental note: lecture him about password security later.

I find the patient records easily enough—Martha and George Washington, which can't possibly be their real names but makes me smile nonetheless. Martha's prescription is for a common beta-blocker, nothing unusual.

The dispensary turns out to be a locked cabinet in the supply room. The key, thankfully, is hanging on a hook labeled "Meds" near the computer. Inside, medications are organized alphabetically, and I quickly find what I need, checking and double-checking the dosage against her chart.

I've just finished dispensing a week's supply and reviewing the medication with Martha when the clinic door opens again, bringing in a blast of cold air and a snow-covered Cole.

His eyes widen slightly at the scene—me behind the counter, pill bottle in hand, the elderly couple seated in the waiting area.

"Everything okay?" He shrugs off his parka.

"Just helping Mrs. Washington with her prescription," I explain. "She was out of her beta-blocker."

Martha beams at him. "Your doctor friend is very efficient, Cole. She’s very pretty. You should ask her out."

I choke back a laugh as Cole's ears turn pink. "Mrs. Washington flirts with all the medical staff." He helps the couple up. "How did you get here, Martha? Did George drive in this weather?"

"Our grandson dropped us off on his way to check the generator at the church," George says. "He'll be back in an hour."

"Then you're staying for coffee," Cole declares, leading them to the break room. "Doctor's orders."

I follow, charmed by the easy way he interacts with them and the genuine concern beneath his teasing. This is what I miss most in my hospital practice—the continuity of care and really knowing patients as people.

While Cole sets up the Washingtons with coffee and pastries, I return to the dispensary to properly log the medication I dispensed. A few minutes later, he joins me there, standing close enough that I can feel the cold still emanating from his clothes.

"You figured out the system." He sounds impressed.

"It wasn't exactly rocket science."

"Still. Most specialists wouldn't bother." He lowers his voice. "How'd you get past the password?"

I smile innocently. "Lucky guess. Bears fan?"

"Die-hard. And yes, I know it's a terrible password."

"Practically malpractice," I agree solemnly.

He laughs, and the sound does something warm and dangerous to my insides. "I'll change it immediately, Dr. Carrington."

"See that you do."

We're standing too close in the small dispensary, the banter taking on a flirtatious edge neither of us is trying very hard to disguise. His attention shifts to my lips for a fraction of a second before he steps back.

"How was your house call?" I ask, following him back to the front desk.

"Typical Sam—waited until he was bottoming out before calling. Got his pump reset and gave him a lecture he'll ignore until next time." He glances at the Washingtons, happily munching pastries in the break room. "Thanks for handling things here."

"It was nothing. Really."

"Not nothing," he counters. "You didn't have to step in like that."

Something about his sincere gratitude makes me uncomfortable. I'm not used to such straightforward appreciation without an agenda attached.

"Anyway," I say, changing the subject, "any update on the roads?"

"Actually, yes. Got a text from the sheriff while I was at Sam's. They're making good progress—should have access to the lodge by early afternoon. I’m sure you can get a room there and salvage something of your weekend."

"Oh." I'm surprised by my disappointment. "That's... good."

Cole studies me, his expression unreadable. "Unless you'd rather stay another night?"

The question hangs between us, loaded with implications. Before I can respond, the phone rings again, saving me from deciding whether the invitation is a professional courtesy or something more.

The morning passes in a blur after that. The clinic suddenly gets busy—nothing serious, but a steady stream of locals taking advantage of the partially cleared roads to handle minor concerns they'd been putting off. A sore throat. A rash. A twisted ankle from an ill-advised attempt to shovel a driveway.

I work alongside Cole as if we've been partners for years. I take the more complex cases while he handles the routine ones. Our styles complement each other surprisingly well. He's more thorough than I expected, with an excellent diagnostic mind and an intuitive understanding of patients that can't be taught in medical school.

By lunchtime, we've cleared the waiting room, and I'm energized in a way I haven't felt at work in months. Cole seems to notice, shooting me curious glances as we clean up the exam rooms.

"What?" I finally ask, catching him staring.

"You're smiling," he says. "Really smiling. Not the polite doctor face."

I hadn't realized, but he's right. "I guess I am."

"Looks good on you." He tosses a used glove into the bin with perfect aim. "You don't smile much in Denver, do you?"

The observation is too perceptive, cutting straight to a truth I've been avoiding.

"Not lately, no."

He doesn't press, just nods as if I've confirmed something he already suspected. "Hungry? I've got sandwiches in the fridge. Or we could walk down to the café if you want to stretch your legs. Roads are clear enough for that, at least."

"Sandwiches sound great," I say, taking the safer option.

If he's disappointed, he doesn't show it. "Coming right up."

In the break room, he pulls out a surprisingly sophisticated lunch—not just sandwiches but a small container of soup and what appears to be homemade pasta salad.

"Did Margie provide this too?" I ask as he sets the food on the table.

"No, I did." At my raised eyebrow, he adds, "What, men can't cook?"

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to. Your face did."

I laugh, accepting the plate he offers. "I'm sorry. That was sexist of me."

"Forgiven. But only because you covered for me this morning." He sits across from me, his long legs briefly bumping mine under the small table. Neither of us moves away. "So, trauma surgery. That's intense."

"Says the man who handled eight different cases single-handedly this morning."

"Different kind of intense." He takes a bite of his sandwich. "What drew you to it?"

"The immediacy," I answer honestly. "No bureaucracy, no committees, just you and the patient and the clock. Either you save them, or you don't."

"Black and white," he notes. "No gray areas."

"Exactly."

"Must be nice." There's no sarcasm in his tone, just genuine reflection. "Out here, everything's gray. Limited resources, patients you've known forever, families depending on your judgment."

I study him across the table, seeing beyond the rugged good looks to the intelligent, committed professional beneath. "How did you end up here? Chicago to Angel's Peak is a big jump."

Something shutters in his expression, but only briefly. "The official version or the truth?"

"The truth, if you're willing to share it."

He sets down his sandwich, considering me. Whatever he sees in my face must reassure him, because he nods slightly before speaking.

"I was engaged to another doctor at Rush. We worked in the ER and had our lives all planned out." His voice is even, but I can hear the careful control in it. "Then she got a once-in-a-lifetime offer to join Doctors Without Borders. Three-year commitment, minimal contact."

"She took it," I guess.

"Didn't even discuss it with me first, just accepted and then presented it as a fait accompli." The hurt is still there, buried but not gone. "She expected me to wait. To put my life on hold while she followed her dream."

"And you weren't willing to do that."

"It wasn't about the waiting," he corrects. "It was about the unilateral decision-making. The assumption that her career took precedence over our relationship." He meets my gaze directly. "Sound familiar, Dr. Department Head?"

It's a direct hit, uncomfortably close to choices I've made myself.

"So you came here to...?"

"To start fresh. Somewhere, I could make my own decisions and have a real impact. Somewhere about as different from Chicago as possible." He smiles wryly. "Mission accomplished on that front."

I digest this, and I understand him better now. His reaction to my comments about my career aspirations and his dedication to this tiny clinic make more sense.

"Do you regret it?" I ask. "Leaving the city?"

"Not for a second." The conviction in his voice is absolute. "The work I do here matters in a way it never could at Rush. These people aren't just cases—they're my community."

Before I can respond, my phone buzzes with an incoming text. Service must be returning as the roads clear. I check it automatically—then freeze.

"What is it?" Cole asks, noticing my expression.

"The hospital board moved up my final interview. To tomorrow morning." I stare at the screen in disbelief. "If I'm not there, they're giving the position to Dr. Samuel."

"Can't you do it virtually?"

"They specifically say in-person only. It's part of the test—how you handle pressure and unexpected changes." I look up at him, conflicted. "I need to get back to Denver today."

Something flashes in his eyes—disappointment, maybe—but he masks it quickly. "I'll call the sheriff and see if the road to the interstate is open yet."

While he makes the call, I sit there, sandwich forgotten, feeling pulled in two directions. The rational part of me knows I need to get back, that this position represents everything I've worked toward for the past decade. But another part, a part I barely recognize, is strangely reluctant to leave this clinic, this town—this man.

Cole returns, his expression carefully neutral. "Good news and bad news. The road to the interstate should be clear within the hour, but there's another system moving in tonight. If you're going to make it back to Denver, you need to leave as soon as possible."

"Right." I nod, pushing aside my confusion. "I should get my things."

He follows me to the break room, leaning against the doorframe as I gather my bag. The morning’s easy camaraderie has evaporated, replaced by a tense awareness that our brief time together is ending.

"I'd offer to drive you to the interstate, but I can't leave the clinic unattended," he says, watching me pack.

"I understand. Really, you've done more than enough already."

When I straighten up, bag in hand, he's closer than I expect. Those blue eyes are intense in a way that makes my pulse quicken.

"Tess," he begins, then stops, seeming to reconsider. "Drive carefully. The roads will still be slick."

"I will." I swing my bag over my shoulder, hyperaware of his proximity in the small room. "Thank you. For everything."

"Just doing my job," he says, but we both know it's been more than that.

We walk to the clinic entrance in silence, and I'm struck by how reluctant I am to walk through that door. It's absurd—I barely know this man and have spent less than twenty-four hours in his company. Yet something significant has happened here, something I can't quite name but can definitely feel.

He hands me a card at the door with the clinic's number scrawled on the back. "In case you run into trouble on the road," he explains. "Cell service is still spotty in places."

"Right. Thank you." I tuck it into my pocket, our fingers brushing in a now-familiar spark of contact.

Before I can overthink it, I rise on tiptoes and press a quick kiss to his cheek. "Goodbye, Cole."

I turn away but he catches my wrist, gentle but firm, spinning me back around. The touch stops me more effectively than if he'd grabbed me with full strength.

"Tess." Just my name, but the way he says it—low and intent—sends a shiver straight through me.

When I meet his eyes, whatever restraint he's been exercising seems to snap. In one fluid motion, he pulls me to him, his free hand coming up to cradle the back of my head as his mouth claims mine.

There's nothing tentative about this kiss. It's confident, commanding, his lips moving against mine with absolute certainty, as if he knows exactly how we fit together. And he does—my body responds instantly, melting against his as my hands find his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath his scrubs.

He angles my head to deepen the kiss, and I open to him willingly, a small sound escaping me as his tongue meets mine. He tastes like coffee and something uniquely him, and I'm suddenly desperate for more, pressing closer as if I could eliminate any space between us.

When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard. His eyes have darkened to midnight blue; pupils dilated with the same desire coursing through me.

"That," he says, his voice rough, "is what I wanted to do since you walked through that door yesterday."

I should be shocked by my behavior, by the immediacy and intensity of my response. Instead, I feel only rightness and a burning need for more.

"Cole," I start, not even sure what I'm going to say.

"Go," he interrupts, his thumb brushing my now-swollen bottom lip. "Go to your interview. Get your promotion." His eyes hold mine, unwavering. "But know this isn't finished. Not by a long shot."

The promise in his words—the absolute certainty—sends heat spiraling through me. I swallow hard, trying to regain my composure.

"I'll call you," I say, meaning it despite knowing how unlikely it is that anything could come of this—me in Denver, him here in Angel's Peak.

"Yes," he agrees, as if there's no question about it. "You will."

He steps back, creating distance that feels physically painful, and opens the door for me. Cold air rushes in, a bracing shock after the heat of our exchange.

With one last look at his face—memorizing the strong jaw, those impossible eyes, the mouth that just thoroughly claimed mine—I walk out into the snow-covered parking lot. My car has been cleared, and the path to the road is shoveled. Sometime during the morning, Cole must have did this, preparing for my departure even as we worked side by side.

The thoughtfulness of the gesture breaks my heart and threatens my resolve. It would be so easy to turn around, to walk back into that clinic and into his arms. To see where this unexpected, powerful connection might lead.

Instead, I get into my car and start the engine, watching in the rearview mirror as he stands in the doorway, a tall, solid presence framed by light.

Only when I can no longer see him do I allow myself to touch my lips, still tingling from his kiss, and wonder if I'm driving toward my future or away from it.