Second Chances: The Seahaven Series - Book One (2 page)

Then he flips the chart closed and leaves.

I stare after him, trying to figure out what just happened and why I feel so off balance. His arrogance? The innuendo of me not doing my job? Him finally conceding I did a good job? The lips?

Chapter Two

When I get home I throw my bag and keys down and immediately get tackled by Buster.

“Buster!” I plead, “Give me a second to myself!” But he won't go for it. I plead with him. “I'm tired! I've been working all night!”

He jumps, he wiggles, he turns, he sits. “Okay,” I say, giving in. “Walk?” Buster hops up, does two spins, and runs over and sits next to his leash.

“You go get your ball, I'll go get my clothes.” We each hold up our end of the deal, and then we're off.

By the time Buster and I get to the beach three blocks away, the clouds are low and threatening rain. The sunrise reflected from the east is casting a pink-orange glow over the water, and it's so beautiful I can't help but feel thankful to be back. There were a lot of ups and downs growing up here, and toward the end of high school I couldn't wait to escape, but the physical beauty of the place was never one of the reasons I wanted to leave.

As soon as our feet hit the sand I unclip Buster and he takes off running down the beach in the light of dawn, chasing the seagulls he loves to hate. I walk to the shoreline and put my feet in the cold water, breathing deeply, letting go of the tensions from last night.

First I think about Danny and try to decide whether to ignore what felt like a potential love confession, or to address it and maybe be presumptuous about the whole thing. Maybe he's just happy I'm in town again after all these years and is glad to have an old friend back.

I breathe out. I breathe in.

I run through the calls from last night to make sure I didn't make any mistakes, to figure out whether there's anything I can do better or differently next time. I breathe out again.

Then I think about the blonde doctor and get irritated. I breathe out. I breathe in. The image of him standing close, getting on my case about Danny, arguing with me about what he thought I should have done—I breathe out.

But I can't get his face out of my head.

Somebody should tell him he can't mess with people by accusing them like that, especially paramedics who are out saving people's lives in emergencies.

If he wants to lay into someone and criticize them, it should be after getting all the facts. Totally arrogant! But I see it all the time in doctors, it's like it comes with the territory. They save people, so they have their own little God-complexes. Lots of my colleagues have dated doctors, and every single time it turns out there isn't room in the relationship for both of them. Them and their doctor-boyfriend's ego. Breathe in.

Why am I thinking so much about Dr. Blonde? He's a jerk! Why is he here, anyway? He's Australian, so why Seahaven? You couldn't get farther away—we're at opposite ends of the globe. Maybe he married an American and moved here? I shake my head. What am I doing? I breathe out.

If I see him again I'll avoid him, and then we won't have to interact.

“Excuse me. You dropped this.”

A voice is behind me, a man. I turn around, startled. It's him.

He takes a step back, also startled. “You,” he says.

“Me.” I say, meeting his gaze.

I try to be steely-faced, even a little angry. But as I'm doing it I realize it's hard to look at him and feel mad, especially when he's out of his white coat and in running clothes. I'm trying and it's not working. We stare at each other. Finally I remember what he said. I break eye contact and look at his hand. A hand that doesn't have a wedding ring.

I pat my pockets as I realize what he's holding.

“Oh, Buster's bags.” I reach for the bundle of Buster's empty cleanup bags I dropped. He brings his hand up and it smashes into mine, and the bags scatter into the sand. We both kneel down to get them at the same time.

“Here,” he says, “I'll get them.”

“I can do it,” I say.

We both gather them up, our heads close together. His blond hair is wavy, and smells good. His shift must have ended when mine did, so he probably went home and took a shower and then came out here for a run–

“Here,” he says again, and hands me the bags. He stands up and brushes off his knees.

He's tall enough that I have to look up into his eyes. And yes, with those legs he's a runner, and the wind is pushing against his shirt in a way that I can tell he's no stranger to being outdoors. And the lips in the early morning light. Don't look at his lips. Don't look at his lips.

“Well,” I say. Even though I want to be mad at him for last night, it's hard not to stare at him. “Thank you.”

I take a few steps away from him and look for Buster. No Buster. I look up and down the beach. The doctor is ten feet away when he sees me looking. I stick two fingers in my mouth and whistle loud because I can't see Buster and this has never happened before. The doctor jogs over to me after the whistle.

“What's going on?” he asks.

“My dog. Buster. I don't see him.”

I scan the horizon. Nothing. I see packs of seagulls waiting to be chased, which is odd. Buster should be all over them.

I start to jog toward the dunes. The doctor is right behind me.

“It's okay,” I say. “He's probably over here.” The doctor keeps running behind me.

“Buster!” I yell. But no answer. I hear a loud whistle behind me. It's the doctor, with his own two fingers in his mouth. Buster still doesn't come running.

We climb up the dune into a depressed area of sand out of view from the beach, and there's Buster, laying down, whimpering. I run to him.

“Buster! Oh no.” I drop down next to him to figure out what's happened. The doctor kneels on his other side. I check Buster's mouth, his eyes, his ears. But it's the doctor who finds the problem.

“Keep him still, hold his head,” he says. I look at him, anger in my eyes that he's giving me health directives about my own dog. “Please,” he amends. Then, “Look.”

He gently turns Buster's paw towards me, and sticking out of it is a long rusty tack. I gasp. The doctor and I examine it while Buster whines.

“It's deep,” I say. “I need to get him to the vet.”

The doctor rubs Buster's ears. “It's okay, buddy,” he says. “You'll be okay. They'll fix you up.” Tender. Sweet. Totally unlike anything he's shown me so far.

I gather Buster into my arms. He's whimpering and scared, and I'm scared for him too. The wrong kind of bacteria on that nail and my little baby's foot could be in big trouble.

“Let me drive you,” says the doctor. “My house is there—” he points to a small surf shack on a small cliff near the edge of the sand. It's next to Jason McKerricker's old house, a kid I knew when I was growing up. In high school a group of us would get bottles of Strawberry Hill with fake IDs and sit on the cliff and watch the moon and the waves.

I think about it for a second. He's right there and I'm three blocks away. Him driving would definitely be faster. I nod, and we walk quickly up the beach to his house.

In the truck, Buster lays in my lap, ice wrapped around the nail in his paw. I call the vet as we drive and explain the situation. She isn't open yet but agrees to come in to see him.

The doctor and I drive in silence. I don't mind silence, and if he's uncomfortable he isn't showing it. He seems focused and in charge, which puts me at ease because I'm worried. He glances over at Buster. “How's his breathing?”

“It's good, his vitals are all good,” I say. “I'm worried about bacteria.”

He nods at me. “I know.”

Of course he does. He's a doctor. He's worried about the same things I am. I look at his hands on the steering wheel. They look strong, and big. Some callouses, which is unusual for a doctor. Usually doctors' hands are fine-boned and delicate, unmarred by physical labor. These hands have seen some hard work.

He catches me looking. “What?” he asks, guarded. Why can't this guy lighten up a little?

“Your hands,” I say.

He pulls one off and looks at it. “Looks like a hand,” he agrees. “This is where they go on an American steering wheel, right?”

I nod. “Pretty much universally the same everywhere,” I say. “Your hands are pretty beaten up. If I saw them in a bar I'd never peg you for a doctor.”

He rotates it, looking at it, then puts it back on the wheel. “Is that what you do? Go to bars and look at men's hands?” Now he smiles a little.

Are we flirting? I don't know how to do this anymore. Also, I don't want to flirt with him. My dog is sick and this guy was a jerk up until a few minutes ago. So I go silent.

“Rugby,” he says. He holds his left hand up and wiggles his pinkie at me. It's totally crooked. “A patient once went with another doctor instead of me because of this little digit,” he says. “She thought I wouldn't stitch her up straight.” He looks at it again. “Worth it, though. That was a good game.”

I can't help it, I smile.

We pull up to the vet's office and he parks the truck, then jumps out and runs around. What's he doing, being chivalrous?

“I can do it,” I say, and start to open it myself.

He takes the handle anyway. “I'm sure you'll want to keep holding your boy.”

Right. Not chivalrous, but thoughtful. He waits for me to climb out and then closes the door behind me.

In the office, I lay Buster on the examining room table and Dr. Rand comes in. She's younger than I am and owns her own vet practice, and she has a reputation for being no-nonsense and straightforward. I've always found her to be a good doctor, and she's always nice to Buster.

“Hi Ellie,” she says.

“Thanks for seeing us, Dr. Rand,” I say.

“Anything for my favorite little guy,” she says, scratching Buster's ears.

She looks at the doctor. “I'm Chelsea Rand,” she says, extending her hand. And all of a sudden I realize I don't know his name. With everything that's happened last night and this morning, I don't even know his name.

He takes her hand.

“Matt Runyon. Good to meet you.” I see her eyes sweep over him appreciatively as they shake.

She says, “You're the new ER doctor at Cottage Hospital, right?”

As I watch them I feel a pang of something. Jealousy? I blink rapidly a few times and breathe out. This is ridiculous, Ellie. Half an hour ago you couldn't stand him and now you're jealous that the vet's flirting with him?

She starts examining Buster, but keeps small-talking him, still flirting a little bit, as I stand back waiting to hear the verdict on Buster's paw. I'm starting to feel that she might not be taking this seriously enough and am about to say something when Matt interrupts her to ask about bacteria. I feel myself relax slightly. He has redirected her in a nice way back to Buster. He hasn't forgotten that we're here for Buster.

Half an hour later, I climb into Matt's truck and get Buster settled on my lap. When I look up, I see him talking to Dr. Rand. She hands him a bottle of pills, antibiotics for any potential infection.

I scratch my dog's ears, grateful he's going to be okay and that the nail came out cleanly with no nerve damage. I look out the window again to see Dr. Rand handing Matt a business card. Her card, with her number on it. She's totally hitting on him right in front of me when she doesn't even know if we're together! We could be together, he's not that far out of my league. I mean yes, he's tall, and blonde, and gorgeous by practically every standard, and those lips, and...

I watch him smile at her and put the card in his pocket. I watch her tuck her hair behind her ear, smile her best smile, and go inside. She's so obvious. Why do I feel like I want to punch her? This is ridiculous. Get a grip, girl.

Matt climbs into the truck and starts it up. He gives Buster a pat and a scratch on the head. “Good job, buddy,” he says. “You'll be aces in no time.”

Then he looks at me and holds out his hand to shake it. “Ellie, was it? Good to meet you, Ellie.” He's even better looking when he's being funny, if that's possible. I shake back.

“Likewise. Matt, right?” He smiles.

I watch his profile as he backs out of the parking lot, and try to figure out how I'm going to get this guy out of my head.

Chapter Three

Our lights and sirens are blazing. We just picked up a hit and run and it's not looking good. Danny's in front driving fast towards the hospital, and I'm in the back with our bicyclist victim trying to keep him stable. He's on a stretcher with a neck brace and body straps, immobilized, an IV in his arm. The ID in his pocket says he's twenty-three.

Our area is known for being the bicycling Nirvana of the west. Athletes come from all over the world to bike the annual Cali-Cycle race that passes through town. The city shuts down the highway for the riders, kids cheer, TV reporters broadcast live, and for months afterwards the racers inspire amateurs to put on their spandex tights and bike along the road with the ocean as their backdrop.

But if a bicyclist gets distracted by the beauty of the view, or hits debris, and if a driver gets distracted by the picturesque fields of yellow mustard grass, or a rock hits his windshield, and if any of those things happen at the same time, that bicyclist either winds up in my ambulance, or in the Coroner's van.

I gave him morphine a few minutes ago but it's not even touching the level of pain he's in because this guy is very clearly in distress. I ask him what his pain level is, and hold up the card that goes from zero to ten starting with smiley faces for zero and ending with screaming squinty-eyed agony for ten. He points to a space just beyond ten.

Then he looks me in the eyes with tears in his own and says, “Tell my family I love them.” I hold his hand to reassure him. I want his meds to kick in, but on the other hand his pain might help keep him alert, awake, and alive.

Or, it could make him pass out, which is what suddenly happens. The machines start beeping. His blood pressure falls.

“Danny!” I yell to the front. “He's crashing!”

I feel the ambulance accelerate when I wasn't even sure we could go any faster.