a Mr. Harold Asgaard. He’s scheduled for surgery at seven in the morning, but I want him monitored closely throughout the evening and all through the night.”
Somehow, Rita refrained from a salute. Still, she dutifully replied, “Yes, sir. I’ll see to it.”
“Good.”
“Anything else?” she asked when he added nothing more. She found it odd that he’d sought her out just to tell her to closely monitor a patient who was scheduled for surgery in the morning. That was standard operating procedure in CCU.
Dr. Grayson dropped his gaze to the chart he held in one hand, began scanning it, then shook his head. “No, I think that’s all for now. You’re on evening shift tonight?” he asked, stating the obvious, still scanning the chart, as if he were uncomfortable meeting her gaze.
“Um, yes,” Rita replied in light of the obvious.
“Covering for Nancy?”
“Rosemary, actually,” Rita said. “Her great-grandmother’s one-hundredth birthday party is tonight, so she and I traded off today. Nancy’s left the unit. She transferred to pediatrics last week.”
Dr. Grayson nodded, as if just now remembering, and continued to scan the chart. Continued to avoid Rita’s gaze. “That’s right,” he said absently. “I’d forgotten.”
Rita eyed him suspiciously. It wasn’t like Matthew Grayson to forget things. And it wasn’t like him to avoid anyone’s gaze. What was up with him today? He seemed a little…off.
“Is everything okay, Dr. Grayson?” she asked before thinking. “You don’t seem like yourself.”
His gaze shot back up to meet hers, and only then did Rita realize how familiarly she had spoken to him. Boston General didn’t have rules against such behavior, but Dr. Grayson did. And everyone knew it, because he’d made it clear over the years that he was not the kind of person who spoke about personal things. But Rita couldn’t help it. It was in her nature. Family matters were a big deal with the Barones, and were generally discussed quite candidly.
Still, she should have known better with Dr. Grayson. She didn’t know what she was thinking to have asked him such a question and offered such a remark about his well-being.
“And who do I seem like, Rita?” he asked coolly.
“Uh, no one in particular. Just…you know…not yourself.”
“And how does myself usually seem?” he asked further.
“Uh… I, uh… What I meant was… It’s just that…” Great. Now she’d done it. How did one get oneself out of a painted corner without messing up one’s shoes? she wondered.
“Yes, Rita, everything is fine,” Dr. Grayson finally interjected before she gave herself enough rope for a self-inflicted hanging. And in doing so, he simultaneously put her out of her misery, and put her back up in the process. “Not that that’s any of your concern,” he added sharply.
Another point to the beastly Dr. Grayson, Rita thought.
She bit her lower lip to keep in a tart retort. Instead, she nodded silently and glanced momentarily away. But when she looked his way again, she noticed his eyes weren’t meeting hers, though his attention was lingering on her face. More specifically, on her mouth, she realized. He was noticing how she was anxiously biting her lip and…
…and probably thinking her the worst kind of neurotic.
Immediately, she ceased her fretting and forced herself to attention. “I’m sorry,” she said, though even she couldn’t detect a trace of apology in her voice. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Didn’t you?” he asked.
She shook her head, knowing she spoke the truth. Why would she want to pry into Matthew Grayson’s life? Just because she found his seemingly inexplicable gruffness intriguing? Just because he had such dreamy green eyes? Just because he seemed to be as dedicated to his work as Rita was to hers? Just because he had such dreamy green eyes? Just because she’d been wondering since the day she started working in CCU what his story was? Just because he had such dreamy green eyes? Just because she wished she could work up the nerve to ask him about those scars on his face and neck?
And had she mentioned his dreamy green eyes?
Get a grip, Rita, she told herself. This was Matthew Grayson, MD, whose green eyes she found so dreamy. He was a distinguished cardiac surgeon and an eminent curmudgeon, probably almost ten years her senior and too serious by half. He wasn’t the kind of man she should be wondering about in any way. He wasn’t her type at all.
Not that she had a type, she quickly reminded herself. But if she did have a type, it wouldn’t be Matthew Grayson, MD.
Even if he did have dreamy green eyes.
“No, I didn’t,” she said, recalling now that he had asked a question. “I didn’t mean to pry. I was just a little concerned, that’s all.”
Dr. Grayson studied her for a moment more, long enough to make Rita think he was wondering something about her, too. Then, in a brisk, that-will-be-all kind of voice, he assured her, “You needn’t be concerned about me.” Before she had a chance to comment further, he spun on his heel and walked away.
Point three to the Beast.
Rita was a Barone, though, and Barones always got in the last word, no matter how many points behind they were. Always. So, quietly enough that he couldn’t hear, and to his retreating back, she said, “Trust me, Dr. Grayson, when I say that I won’t be concerned about you. Ever.”
Point to the Barone. Finally.
Then Rita returned to both her chair and her work. Still not feeling as if that last word was quite enough, however, she glanced back up in time to see Dr. Grayson’s imposing figure disappearing around the corner at the end of the corridor. And she fired off another last word to punctuate the others.
“Beast,” she said.
For some reason, though, it didn’t make her feel any better.
Matthew Grayson managed—barely—to make it back to his office in the medical towers adjoining Boston General before his knees finally collapsed beneath him. He staggered over to his desk and toppled into the leather chair behind it, then inhaled a deep, ragged breath in the hopes that it might quell the rapid-fire banging of his heart. Then he called himself every kind of fool.
Rita Barone had come this close to catching him this time. When he’d seen her leave the nurses’ station, he’d thought she was taking a longer break than a few short minutes, so he hadn’t been in any hurry to slip the little package from the pocket of his jacket into her mail slot. Plus, he’d had to wait for another nurse and a visitor to conclude their conversation near the nurses’ station and walk off before he could even approach. He couldn’t risk anyone seeing him anywhere near Rita’s station when he did what he had to do.
He’d only just managed to leave the gift and steal away before she’d returned. Lucky for him she’d been entirely focused on not spilling her coffee as she’d walked down the corridor. Had she glanced up, even for a second, she would have seen him standing there, then would have found the gift after he left, and then would have had no trouble deducing who had been leaving her mysterious presents for the past two months.
And damned if Matthew didn’t feel like the biggest buffoon on the planet for leaving those mysterious presents. Here he was, a thirty-three-year-old man, one of the most noted surgeons in New England, and a member of one of Boston’s most illustrious families, and he was behaving like a goofy junior-high-school kid, leaving secret gifts in the locker of the girl he liked. What in God’s name had reduced him to such behavior?
Well, of course, he knew that. And he felt like an even bigger buffoon admitting it. It was the simple presence of Rita Barone in the coronary care unit at Boston General. The “beastly” Dr. Grayson—yes, he knew quite