grin broke across his round face. ‘Is that why you’re here early most days?’
She dodged the truth with the skill of a secret keeper. ‘Something like that.’
The rumble of many feet against the linoleum floor made her turn. Alistair North was striding along the corridor with the nurse unit manager and the nursing and medical students hurrying along behind.
Claire pressed her glasses up her nose and blinked. Alistair North didn’t ever wear a white coat but he generally wore one of what she’d come to realise was a selection of fine wool Italian suits. Generally, he started the day in a jacket and tie, although the ties were never serious. They were almost always prints of animated characters from kids’ TV shows, which the little patients loved. Claire’s favourite ties were from a fundraising range sold by the castle’s auxiliary. Some clever clogs had come up with the idea of printing the children’s drawings of doctors, nurses and auxiliary staff onto silk. She particularly liked the one of a doctor wearing a head torch and a big smile.
Just admit it. You like that one because it’s Alistair.
Not if my life depended on it.
By late afternoon most days, he was seen on the ward in scrubs, or if it was a non-operating day, he’d have discarded the jacket and tie. An open-necked business shirt was as casual as she’d ever seen him, but today there was no sign of a suit, nor smart casual weekend wear or even jeans. He was striding towards them wearing a T-shirt that stretched across his wide chest and perfectly outlined the rise and fall of his pectoral muscles. The shirt read Epilepsy Warrior Run. Her gaze instinctively dropped.
Damn. No compression tights.
Shut up! She hated the zip of disappointment that wove through her that the rest of his body wasn’t delineated in fine detail by tight fabric. His running shorts, however, only came to mid-thigh, giving her plenty of opportunity to admire his taut quads.
Look up, look up, look up.
‘Morning, Mitchell. Bailey,’ he said with his usual nod of greeting. ‘Missed the two of you at boot camp this morning.’
‘Boot camp, sir?’ Andrew said faintly. The rotund house officer wore the look of one who went to great lengths to avoid any sort of physical pursuit.
‘Yes, Bailey. All Koala Ward staff are participating in the Epilepsy Warrior fun run. Morag—’ he turned to the highly efficient unit nurse manager ‘—you sent the diary entry to everyone about this morning’s training session?’
‘Of course,’ she said briskly in her thick Scottish brogue.
Claire pulled out her phone and immediately saw the reminder on her screen. Her stomach fell through the floor. She’d been so obsessed by the fact she’d landed in Alistair’s lap last night and tickled his tonsils that she’d totally forgotten about boot camp.
Andrew’s face drained of colour. ‘Surely someone needs to be on duty on—’ he read the black and purple writing on his boss’s T-shirt ‘—the tenth. Happy to volunteer, sir.’
‘Already got that covered, Bailey,’ Alistair said in a tone that brooked no argument. He swung his clear sea-grey gaze to Claire.
Be professional. She clenched her fists and willed herself not to drop her gaze. Willed herself to act as if this was just a regular morning instead of the one after her worst ever career folly. Memories of last night—of the way his eyes and then his mouth had fixed on hers—rolled back in, foaming and bubbling like a king tide.
Let it go. It didn’t happen.
Oh, but it did. She had the sweet and tender bruises on her lips to prove it.
Now, faced with all six foot of him standing there in front of her wearing athletic gear and with the scent of his cologne invading her senses, it was increasingly difficult to focus on her plan to banish every delicious thing that had happened between them. Remember the embarrassment. Remember he’s your boss. That will do the trick every time.
‘It’s not like you to forget an appointment, Mitchell,’ he said, using her surname in the British public school way as he did occasionally. ‘It’s important we all attend for team spirit,’ he added politely.
Despite the well-modulated parameters of his very British accent, she heard the unmistakable tone of an order. Was this his way of saying that he agreed with her that last night was an aberration? That it was a shocking mistake they both needed to forget and move on from? That it was over and done with and she needed to remember that the cohesion of the workplace team always came ahead of everything?
Please let it be so. ‘We won’t let you down again,’ she said brightly. She sent up a plea that Alistair had caught her double meaning and knew that she understood they were both on the same page about last night. ‘We’re looking forward to the next boot camp, aren’t we, Andrew?’
Andrew stared at her as if she’d completely lost her mind. ‘Wouldn’t miss it,’ he said glumly.
Alistair grinned and clapped his hands together once. ‘Excellent. Let’s start rounds.’
As they walked towards the first bay, Morag handed Claire a tablet computer. Archie McGregor’s medical history was open on the screen, but before she could silently read the first sentence, Alistair was saying, ‘Lead off, Dr Mitchell.’
Eight sets of eyes swung her way. Even before her mouth had dried, her tongue had thickened and her throat had threatened to close, the words on the screen had jumbled into an incomprehensible mess. Long ago voices boomed in her head, deafening her.
Moron. That girl’s a sandwich short of a picnic.
Panic eddied out from her gut and into her veins, stealing her concentration. She broke out in a cold sweat. Her greatest fear, which lurked constantly inside her and was never far from the surface, surged up to choke her. You knew you’d get found out one day. This is it.
No! She’d fought too hard for it to end like this. She’d set up strategies so this situation would never happen to her and she wasn’t about to let years of sacrifice go to waste and have it fall apart now. Not here in London where it was too easy for people to make cheap shots at her being a colonial. Not when she was the recipient of one of the most prestigious scholarships on offer for neurosurgery. Not when she was so close to qualifying.
Think!
‘Actually,’ she said, shoving the tablet at her junior houseman with a hand that trembled. ‘Archie is Dr Bailey’s patient. He admitted him overnight.’
Andrew, who’d accepted the tablet without question, glanced at the screen. ‘Archie McGregor, age seven, admitted last night post-seizure and with suspected juvenile myoclonic epilepsy. Observations stable overnight and...’
Claire wanted to relax and blow out the breath that was stalled tightly in her chest but she didn’t have any time to spare. As Andrew was fielding a battery of questions from Alistair, she was trying to calmly and surreptitiously read the next patient’s history.
* * *
An hour later she was helping herself to a delicious currant bun from the nurses’ breakfast platter. As she bit into the sticky sweetness, she gave thanks that she’d not only narrowly avoided disaster, she’d also survived the round.
