packing it quickly with the expertise he’d acquired living in Massachusetts and growing up with three siblings.
He let it loose, getting her on the chin.
Bethany shrieked with laughter as snow found its way under her coat, drizzling down along her throat.
“Oh God, that’s cold,” she cried, shivering as she brushed away the snow.
He was already prepared to fire off another salvo, but he stopped, his arm raised behind his head. “Give up?” he challenged.
It went against her grain to give up, even when it came to something as simple as a snowball fight. But she had a feeling that pitted against him in this sort of contest, she’d lose. It was better to do it now—before she got any colder—than later.
“For now,” she conceded.
There was something in her tone alerting him that this really wasn’t over. Dropping the snowball to the ground, he brushed the remnants of the snow off his overcoat.
“Does that mean I should be on my guard?”
Her eyes reflected her amusement and what he could only describe as a delighted wickedness.
“Maybe,” she laughed. “Consider yourself warned, Dr. Wilder.”
“Peter,” he corrected.
“Peter,” she echoed.
“I will,” he responded. “But that warning works both ways,” he added.
It gave her pause.
Without quite turning his back on her, Peter hurriedly brushed off some of the snow that had settled on top of the hood of his car before getting in. He turned the key in the ignition. The car made a futile-sounding noise, as if it were coughing, then suddenly fell stone-cold silent.
He tried again. This time there wasn’t even a hint of a sound.
On his third try, the car cautiously came to life. Relieved, he let the engine run for a couple of minutes, wanting the vehicle to warm up before he took it out of park.
Waiting, he got out for a moment and called to her. “Want me to lead the way?”
“I know where it is,” she assured him. “I’ll lead the way.”
With that, she got into her car. After a couple of false starts, it came to life and she peeled out of the parking lot. Snow flew away from both sides of her vehicle as the tires made their way through the lot.
“Of course you will,” Peter murmured under his breath. He got back in behind the wheel. Closing his door, he threw the car into Drive and took off after her.
The woman drove like she kissed, he thought. Fast and hard.
Peter pressed down hard on the accelerator. He was determined to keep up.
Chapter Eight
Peter arrived in the parking lot some five minutes after Bethany did. He’d been harnessed by such little things as obedience to speed limits and not flying through yellow lights that were turning red. Because of the hour and the weather, the tiny lot was all but empty.
Peter parked his car beside hers. When he got out, so did she. She looked rather satisfied with herself, he thought. “This wasn’t a race, you know.”
She had the good grace to look somewhat contrite. “Sorry, I’m always in a hurry to get where I’m going.”
“I noticed that.” She appeared set to dash up the two steps leading to the coffee shop door. “Hold it.”
She looked at him, puzzled. Was there a lecture in the wings? “What?”
“You have snow in your hair.” He brushed it aside with his fingertips. “Makes you look like an ice princess.” The moment he said the words, he saw her eyes cloud. “What?” he wanted to know. “What did I say?”
“Nothing.” Bethany turned away and walked up to the entrance. The snow on the shop’s roof made it look almost quaint.
Moving ahead of her, Peter opened the door and held it. The warm air within the shop instantly brushed over her face, making the cold a thing of the past. She took a breath.
Silly to act that way, she upbraided herself. It had been years since she’d heard the taunting term applied to her and she knew that Wilder didn’t mean it in the same way. Just an unfortunate choice of words, that’s all, she thought.
The shop was empty except for one person sitting alone at a table near the front counter. About to walk over to a table, Peter curbed his impulse. Instead, he let Bethany choose one, sensing that she’d prefer it that way.
“You don’t want to talk about it,” he guessed.
Stopping by a table in the middle of the shop, she unbuttoned her coat and draped it over the back of the chair before sitting down. “No.”
Peter followed suit, sliding into his chair after leaving his overcoat on the back. The waitress came over, an old-fashioned order pad in her hand. He found that oddly reassuring, given that orders were now electronically taken and submitted in some of the more upscale restaurants in Walnut River.
He waited until the young woman retreated before leaning across the table and responding to Bethany’s answer. “Fair enough. I won’t push.”
She knew what he was saying. That he respected her desire not to discuss the matter while she’d continued to push for a lengthy discussion of the blessings involved in Northeastern Healthcare’s possible takeover.
Well, he was wrong here, too, she thought. “Apples and oranges, Peter. One subject’s personal, the other is very, very public.”
“Patient care should be personal.” His voice was mild, his feeling wasn’t.
In a perfect world, he’d be right, she thought. But the world was far from perfect. They had to do the best they could and make use of every opportunity that came up. And being taken under NHC’s wing was a genuine opportunity.
“It’s a noble sentiment,” she allowed. “But it really is no longer possible.”
He nodded at the waitress as the woman returned with two cups of coffee and the Danish he’d convinced Bethany to split between them.
“Well, it isn’t if we all just give up and focus on a paycheck,” he said, once the waitress had left their table again.
Bethany gave him the benefit of the doubt, since he seemed to be so impassioned about the subject. Maybe the man was too close to see the big picture. “Medicine is specialized now.”
That would presuppose that what NHC offered was special and, as far as he was concerned, the HMO route detracted from medicine, it didn’t add to it.
Raising his cup to his lips, he took a swallow and let the black, bitter brew wind through his system. “Working for an HMO is too compartmentalized. I don’t treat a left pinkie or a right toe, I treat—”
She sighed wearily. “The whole patient, yes, I know. So you said. But in the time you’ve spent with that one whole patient, you could have helped three.”
She was still thinking assembly line. That didn’t work in this case. People brought nuances, shades of gray, individuality, to the table. They weren’t all the same. “Or missed important symptoms for all three because I was moving so fast.”
She stirred in cream and raised her eyes to his. “No, you wouldn’t.”
All right, he’d bite, Peter thought. “And why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you’re good,” she said simply. “You’re experienced.”
Gotcha. The woman had just made his argument for him, Peter thought. “I got that experience one patient at a time.”