Page 48 of The Maine Event (Romancing the Workplace #2)

He doesn’t laugh, but I see the corners of his mouth twitch.

Another hard-ass cracked, courtesy of Dr. Carter.

The room’s a different kind of chaos than before, still busy but humming along.

This kind, I can handle with my eyes closed.

I gently feel the mangled wrist again, then look him straight in the eye.

“Ready?” I say, making sure he knows what’s coming.

The teen nods, an act of bravery that lasts all of one second before he shuts his eyes tight.

“Here we go,” I tell him, steady hands on the fracture. “Three, two?—”

A swift, precise motion. The crack sets everything back in place with a satisfying click.

“Wait, did you?—?”

“All done,” I confirm, grinning at his confused relief. “It’ll hurt like hell for a bit, but you’ll get used to it.”

I unwrap my gloves, and he watches me, a strange mixture of awe and incredulity. I’ve seen the look a million times, but it never gets old. There’s nothing like impressing a teenage boy, who has never been impressed by anything.

“You did that in, like, five seconds,” he says, clearly wondering if I’ve been juicing.

I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms and enjoying the rare moment of being the good guy, the one no one’s yelling at. “Better than spending ten weeks in a cast, huh?”

His eyes meet mine, still full of suspicion and admiration and a little bit of that leftover glare. I slap a temporary splint on and send him off for X-rays.

“Get him checked out and on his way,” I tell the nurse, handing over the chart. “This kid’s got a story to tell, and it’s not gonna sound believable if we keep him here all day.”

The nurse nods, and the teen shoots me a last look as he’s wheeled out.

“Thanks, doc,” he mumbles, embarrassed and relieved, like most of my patients. Like most of the people in my life.

“No problem,” I call after him, even though he’s already out of earshot. I don’t expect a parade in my honor, but I’d settle for a quiet cup of coffee, just me and the chaos and the dull roar of a trauma ward that never stops being loud.

The desk is stacked with more cases. An elderly woman with hip pain, a middle-aged guy with chest tightness, a toddler with a Lego where Legos should never be. Routine. Comfortable.

It’s a fine line, what we do here. Walking the tightrope between urgency and ease, crisis and calm.

One minute, I’m literally holding someone’s heart in my hands, squeezing it like I want to restart the world, and the next I’m setting bones and cracking jokes and pretending like nothing gets under my skin.

Not the work. Not the warnings. Not the way I run from one to the next, hoping this place can keep up with me, hoping I can keep up with myself.

“Dr. Carter, we need you in bay four,” calls the nurse, and the respite vanishes, a puff of smoke. A pretty illusion.

“On my way,” I say, grabbing the next chart and getting ready to jump back in.

By the time I get to the break room, my entire day has been caffeine-deprived, sarcasm-reliant, and desperately in need of a quiet five minutes.

I crack open a drink and find Dr. Lily Harper, an incredible surgeon and reigning ice queen of Emerald Bay, standing by the coffee pot like it just insulted her entire family.

“Of course,” she mutters, in that way that tells me I’m about to get way more enjoyment out of this encounter than she will.

“You seem surprised,” I say, leaning casually against the counter. “Night shift coffee is a gamble at best.”

Lily’s sharp features are drawn in focused irritation, the kind she usually reserves for uncooperative interns. “And yet, somehow, I always lose.”

There’s a hum of broken air conditioning in the background. I sip my drink, let her think she’s ignoring me, which is exactly the opposite of what she’s doing.

“Rough night?” I ask, my voice as innocent as I can make it.

She finally looks at me, brown eyes flicking with the intensity of a thousand derailed plans. “I spent the last five hours stitching organs back together. And now, the one thing keeping me going is gone.”

“The work or the caffeine?” I quip, knowing full well what she means.

“The caffeine,” she states flatly, not missing a beat. I have to admire her dedication. And her stubbornness. It’s almost as strong as mine.

“Poor Lily,” I say, the mock sympathy dripping from my words as I hold up my half-empty energy drink. “You want half?”

“I’d rather die,” she retorts, so fast and deadpan that it nearly knocks me over.

I have to laugh, because it’s exactly what I expect from her. Everything I say, she’s got a comeback twice as quick, twice as dismissive.

“All right, Doctor,” I declare, enjoying the game, enjoying how much it bugs her that she’s playing. “Let’s make a deal. I’ll refill the pot if you admit I’m your favorite ER doc.”

She stares at me, unimpressed. “That’s a bold assumption.”

“I like my odds.” I grin, and it’s her turn to ignore me, except we both know she can’t. I watch, amused, as she finally grabs the coffee canister and sets to work.

Lily Harper doesn’t know how to lose, even at this. She doesn’t know how to back down. Not when I corner her like this, and maybe that’s why I do it. To see the cracks in her armor, the flashes of real, human irritation.

I’m still smiling as she turns her back, the universal signal for I’m done with you , which means it’s only a matter of time before she gets pulled back in.

The pot gurgles to life, and she gives it more attention than it deserves, like if she just ignores me enough I’ll leave, like she doesn’t know I’m staying until she blinks first.

“That all you’ve got?” I press, loving the stubborn set of her shoulders. Loving the challenge.

“Pretty sure you’re late for another heroic rescue,” she counters, without looking, without losing the smugness in her tone.

I chuckle, raising my drink in a mock salute. “Catch you later, Lily.”

The use of her first name earns me a frown, but it’s worth it. Every time. I walk out of the room, energy drink still in hand, and already I’m wondering what she’ll say next. Already counting the minutes until I get to bait her again, see that look she saves just for me.

The woman is infuriating. The woman is brilliant. The woman is never, ever going to admit I’m her favorite. But one day, she might. She might even mean it.