now scanning through the pages of her presentation folder. “Do you really think you can meet that kind of deadline?”
Could she? It wouldn’t be easy, of course. She had ten days. And she sure didn’t appreciate the implication that “good” art was measured by how long it took to create it. Brilliant works had been crafted over the course of years, and others in the span of hours.
“Of course,” she returned coolly. “Although, obviously, the sooner the committee reaches a decision, the easier it will be for the chosen artist to meet the deadline.”
The committee leader, Belinda McDowell, rose. “And we hope to give you a response as soon as possible, Ms. Stewart. Thank you so much for coming in today.” With a curt nod, she dismissed Abigail before turning her attention to the rest of the group. “I have one more artist I’d like you to meet if you can all remain for just ten more minutes.”
Dismayed that she was already done with her portion of the meeting, Abigail hurried to gather her things before she headed toward the door. Had she blown the most important presentation of her career?
Passing Dr. Chambers on her way out, she felt her gaze drawn to him in spite of herself. Maybe because she wanted to give his chair a swift kick for finding fault in her presentation.
More likely, her artist’s eye wanted to roam all over those intriguing angles of his face, the sculpted muscles of his body. At least, she hoped it was her inner artist that was having those ridiculous urges. Because if it was some kind of womanly desire for her surgeon heckler, who’d been about as charming as a Texas diamondback, then she had bigger worries than a depleted bank account and a baby on the way.
She needed a doctor all right. But only because she ought to have her head examined.
* * *
Vaughn Chambers flipped through the two artists’ presentations side by side at a table in the hospital’s doctor lounge later that afternoon. The lounge was busy at this hour during shift change, with colleagues darting in and out to grab coffee or a bite to eat. But Vaughn had positioned himself with his back to the room, earbuds in place, a coping mechanism he’d started using more often since his return from a military medical deployment with the United States Army Reserves.
Despite being the heir to an oil empire, Vaughn had never been willing to simply follow the path chosen for him. Instead of taking the easy route and accepting a CEO seat in the family company, he’d pursued a medical career. Inspired by his grandfather’s military service, he’d been compelled to make a contribution of his own, signing on after he’d already secured his medical degree. He didn’t regret those choices, but he was still paying for them.
He refused to let his service rob him of the career that meant everything to him, but coping with the aftereffects of his time as a brigade surgeon in Afghanistan had all but consumed him for months after he got home. Now, he understood the strategies for dealing with the post-traumatic stress. But since trauma was his surgical specialty, he could never fully insulate himself from the situations that triggered bad days.
Like today.
Vaughn stilled his restless knee under the table with effort, forcing a quietness in his body that he wasn’t feeling, while a groggy resident struggled to make a fresh pot of coffee at the snack table beside him. Vaughn’s patient this morning had been a stabbing victim, helicoptered in from a nearby ranch where a couple of cowboys had gotten into an argument over a card game. The surgery went well, though slowly, considering all the areas that needed repairing. But then, Vaughn had always been a rock during surgery, shutting down everything else in order to focus on the work he’d dedicated his whole life to perform.
The aftermath was what killed him, when he could no longer compartmentalize by focusing solely on the surgery at hand. And today, of all days, he’d had to sit in on a committee meeting about a new art installation right after he’d emerged from the operating room. He should have just blown it off. Except his colleague, Dr. Parker Reese, had asked him to attend as a personal favor. Or maybe Reese had been trying to do Vaughn a favor, nudging him back into the world outside a war zone, since Parker was one of the few guys who knew what Vaughn was going through. Either way, he’d promised. So Vaughn had dragged himself into that boardroom, adrenaline level crashing, knowing he wasn’t at his best.
Now, drumming his fingers on the lounge table as he stared at the two artists’ presentation packets, his eye landed on a photo of Abigail Stewart. Her long, espresso-colored curls fell over her shoulder as she smiled in a candid shot that captured a far more lighthearted woman than he’d met today. Sunlight behind her—like dawn breaking—made her glow. Her dark eyes glanced at something just off to the side of the camera, and whatever it was made her laugh. The photo wasn’t your standard head shot, but made sense for an artist. She practically vibrated with warmth and vitality in the image.
Something he’d stomped during their brief meeting. He’d known, even as he questioned her after her presentation, that he’d been abrupt. Tactless. But that was because he’d been battling to keep himself together. Normally when he got out of a more difficult surgery, he either escaped under the headphones, or he booked it back home to decompress with his service dog, Ruby. Today, neither option had been available. So he’d launched his reservations about the art project at Ms. Stewart with zero filter.
A clap on Vaughn’s back startled him. He whipped around too fast, too fierce. He could see it in Belinda McDowell’s wide-eyed expression, her tiny step back.
“I—” The seasoned hospital administrator was an endlessly competent woman, a tireless advocate for Royal Memorial and a consummate professional.
And Vaughn had just spooked her because he was having a bad day.
Damn it.
“Sorry about that.” Yanking off his earbuds, he turned on what little charm he could scavenge, smiling broadly. “I must have been falling asleep.” He gave a rueful head shake. “Good thing my residency days are behind me. I’d never cut it.”
The administrator thrust an envelope toward him. “No apology necessary. I’m very grateful to you for agreeing to pay a visit to Ms. Stewart so she can begin work on the art installation.”
After the presentations, the committee had voted unanimously to select Abigail Stewart to begin work on the statue for the children’s ward as phase one of a larger art installment. And because Vaughn had regretted the way he’d approached her, he had volunteered to deliver the news personally.
Ah, hell. Who was he kidding?
He couldn’t deny that he had volunteered because she fascinated him. In spite of the rocky start to their meeting. In spite of the day he was having that reminded him he might never be normal again. Something about Abigail Stewart called to him.
“It’s no problem to drop by her studio. I have to pass through downtown on my way home anyway.” Accepting the envelope from Mrs. McDowell, he glanced down at Abigail’s name typed on the front. “What’s this?”
“Half of her commission payment, which were the terms we discussed in the meeting,” she said crisply, nodding to a couple of the older cardiologists who’d been on staff at Royal Memorial for decades. “Please remind her she is welcome to work on site as often as she requires. There is a security badge and parking pass for her in there, as well.”
So he’d be seeing more of Abigail. Possibly a lot more. With only ten days until the Royal Memorial summer gala, the artist would have her work cut out for her. Vaughn would have a ready-made excuse to see
