life to make him that way. And Rita couldn’t help wondering what had happened in Matthew Grayson’s.
She also couldn’t help wondering if it had anything to do with the scars he bore on his left cheek and neck. The worst of them were a trio of nearly straight lines that ran from his cheekbone to his jaw—three parallel stripes, roughly a half inch apart and three inches in length.
Automatically she slammed the lid back down on the box she had just opened. For some reason, she didn’t want Dr. Grayson to know about her secret admirer—if admiring was indeed what was behind the mysterious gifts. As discreetly as she could, she slid the box back into her note slot, tossed the white wrapping paper and gold ribbon into the wastebasket beneath her desk, and then turned in her chair to face him.
Big mistake, she realized immediately. Because being seated while he was standing left Rita gazing at a part of Dr. Grayson she really shouldn’t be gazing at.
“Dr. Grayson,” she said as she abruptly stood, telling herself she was only imagining the breathless quality her voice seemed to have suddenly adopted. “I didn’t hear you coming.”
“Obviously,” he replied wryly.
“And I wasn’t enjoying a coffee break,” she assured him.
He gazed pointedly at the cup sitting before her chair.
“Okay, yes, I was having coffee,” she conceded. “But I wasn’t enjoying it. It’s from the vending machine,” she added meaningfully.
Dr. Grayson, however, evidently didn’t catch her meaning, because he only continued to scowl at her. Granted, it was kind of a handsome scowl, what with those dreamy green eyes and that full, luscious-looking mouth, but it was a scowl nonetheless. So Rita countered with the most dazzling smile she could conjure from her ample arsenal. She knew it made him uncomfortable to be smiled at. Probably, she thought, because he didn’t know how to smile back. In fact, she’d never seen him smile. And, true to her supposition—and his own personality—Dr. Grayson only deepened his scowl. So Rita smiled even more dazzlingly, this time batting her eyelashes playfully.
There, she thought triumphantly. Take that, Dr. Grayson.
But instead of being immobilized by her mischievous warfare, Dr. Grayson only looked more ferocious. So, with an imperceptible sigh, Rita surrendered.
Point to Dr. Grayson.
“Rita,” he said in a tone of voice that indicated he wanted to start all over again and pretend the last few moments hadn’t happened, which was fine with her, “we’ve just admitted a new patient who will be arriving in CCU shortly, 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
