And as a concerned mother, she was both looking for help for her child, and afraid that this place she’d brought him to would hurt him. Mommy guilt knew no cultural barriers.
For the next fifteen minutes, Angel took her time examining Bobby, comforting Ms. Davis and taking a swab that shortly confirmed her diagnosis.
Unfamiliar territory could be scary, and good parents—no matter their education or economic background—worried they weren’t doing the best for their children.
Her parents hadn’t been like that. None of her family had ever displayed any real sense of kinship, but she’d seen it in the darkest hours in the emergency rooms where she’d worked, and, despite the horror she sometimes encountered there, that was what kept her coming back. It was where she got to see, in the brightest, most authentic and raw terms, what family was supposed to be. What love meant without restrictions and conditions.
New York’s cultural diversity, more than any other city where she’d lived, let her see it in people who looked like her, and also in those who looked and believed completely different than she did.
Ms. Davis could’ve been her neighbor, and Lyons McKeag pushed Angel to her because people still liked to categorize like to like. Which meant two things: that disdain he showed for this woman was really the heart of how he felt about her. She was right to keep as much as she could about her background hidden.
And two, Wolfe probably felt the same sort of superiority. Their family was socially important in Scotland, that she knew. And moneyed. Even if he played the fool and charmed everyone, a man couldn’t wear handmade gloves and still mix with common riff-raff.
No matter how far she moved, or how far she climbed, she’d still be one of “Those Conleys from Tarpin Holler.”
* * *
It was nearly 1:00 p.m. before Wolfe’s morning surgery was over and he was free to go find Angel.
With any luck, she’d be at lunch, and joining her for lunch in a busy cafeteria was closer to private and unsuspicious than cornering her in Emergency.
In the hours since the locker-room failure, Alberts—the hospital admin—had summoned Wolfe and made clear the hospital wanted them to continue, but to watch the flirting. Wolfe had managed not to roll his eyes at that little addendum. Alberts didn’t approve of romance at work, something Wolfe generally agreed with—he wasn’t some teenager who needed reminding.
He could say no to the request, but he liked his job; it was the best part of who he was. Either the squeaking door had been Alberts overhearing them directly, or someone had reported back to him, maybe even Angel. Now he had to make this work somehow. To come up with some other way to deal with this.
Like throw money at it. He could hire entertainment to come in every evening—that would take the kids’ minds off their illnesses while saving him from spending too much alone time with Angel.
He stepped into the still-crowded cafeteria and looked over the bay of tables. Hers stood out for its sheer emptiness.
She’d chosen the smallest table, off by the wall, out of the way. With three empty chairs, she sat, book in one hand, fork in the other, a large salad bowl on the table before her.
Finally, something going his way today. His young patient’s surgery had been successful, but more difficult than they’d anticipated, but he shouldn’t discount the win. It was just this problem and Alberts earlier...
Crossing the cafeteria, he pulled out a chair beside her and sat. The surprised expression she lifted to him was bright and warm for the shortest moment, then visibly cooled before he’d even said a word.
Maybe it was the lack of a greeting earning him the glower. Or maybe she was still angry.
He started over. “Hi.”
She laid her paperback down on the table, preserving her location, and set the fork down as well to focus on him. “If you haven’t changed your mind, I don’t have anything to say to you.”
Definitely angry still. Not about to come around easily.
He leaned back in his chair, reconsidering his approach to just lay things out. “What if I have a counter plan to offer?”
Her head turned slightly, those gorgeous dark blue eyes cold, but she was listening. Listening, because she had nothing else to say to him. That shouldn’t smart but did.
“You’re right that I don’t want to let the kids down,” he said. “How about I hire different entertainment to come in every evening, take their minds off the world for a while? Whatever you think would be good.”
“You don’t want to be involved, so you want to give me money to do stuff for the kids in your name?”
When she put it like that, it sounded pretty jerky. “I wasn’t looking for credit.”
“But you’re feeling guilty over not wanting to invest your time?”
She didn’t know about Alberts’s order. Which meant it was definitely whoever had been behind the squeaky door that had led to Alberts’s intervention.
If he told her that, she’d think even less of him.
God, how did he get himself into these situations?
Screw it. He liked to live his life as open and honest as possible. “Alberts wants us to continue as PR for the hospital.”
She pushed the bowl away. “I see. And you don’t want to. I get it. I don’t need you for some half-hearted investment of your presence. I’ll tell Alberts I don’t want you there.”
Being entirely uninvolved wasn’t in the cards. “You said ice skating. You’re planning on going to live stream the rink? That’s boring.”
“I’ll skate and, I don’t know, maybe I can strap it to my chest to give that gliding feeling, be kind of at eye level for many of them. Or show my skates on the ice like point of view, they can imagine it being their skates.”
“Seriously? That’s your best idea?”
She shot him a heated look, picked up her book, marked her place and stuffed it into a satchel on a chair.
“I have time to come up with another idea. There were a lot of people who watched, I don’t know how many were from the children’s ward, and I know they’ll be watching again.” Her speech got faster and a little more high-pitched as she spoke...or ranted at him. “I already told Jenna I was going to the rink. It doesn’t take much to get the kids excited—anything that breaks the monotony is enough. Even if it’s just three or four kids who winds up watchin’, I’m not aimin’ to disappoint them. I’ll figure somethin’ out.”
Aimin’ to disappoint? Figure somethin’ out? There was that accent again. Not just a circumstance of being tired. Apparently, it came out when she was angry too.
He could feel a headache starting at the base of his skull. “You won’t come up with something better between now and then. I’ll come to man the camera. You do the skating.”
“Just so you can make snarky comments on how much I stink at skating?” she asked, then paused, clearly considering whether her humiliation was something she’d be willing to offer up.
“You don’t know how to skate?”
She picked up her bag, ready to make her escape.
“Okay, no, I never skated before, but I can learn. I do know how to make the danged thang stream this time for darned sure.” She swung the bag onto her shoulder, stepped away, then stepped back to jab her finger at him. “You come, or you don’t come, I don’t care. But if you come, you better come with a glad heart, or not a’tall. I’ll be fine without your unkind assistance.”
Come with a glad heart? Even with her country twang all riled up, she set a high bar.
It was probably his fault Alberts even wanted them to continue—if he hadn’t been messing around, it would’ve been less entertaining. Messing around and being an idiot to make people smile was an integral part of who he was, but he didn’t feel like smiling right now. Or even feel like making her smile. If it weren’t for Angel being involved, he’d be down with the request—for
the kids, not Alberts’s PR campaign—it was just his glad heart got corrupted by his baser heart, the one that wondered how far down those freckles traveled over her pale skin. And then everything got complicated and harder to navigate.
“I’ll be there at seven,” he muttered, then added—because no matter what he wasn’t going to make fun of her skating, especially when she was the one doing this for the right reasons; he was still the jerk—“I’ll film. You come up with something to say. As cute as you are, the kids aren’t going to be impressed by your freckles or your ability to impersonate an owl when you have to say something.”
“What does that mean?” she asked, loudly enough that people at the nearest tables turned to watch them. Arguing in the cafeteria? If people weren’t already talking...
Wolfe mimed the slow blinking she did when stymied by a turn in the conversation. “Some people are naturally quiet, I get it. Introvert, all that. And those people—by which I mean you—aren’t really good at conversation. Maybe you should think of some story to tell the kids before you strap your skates on. Or learn some rhyming poem.”
She looked for a moment as if she was about to swing that lumpy satchel at his face, but, rather than argue, just turned and walked away.
As one did when they were no good at conversation.
Tonight couldn’t end like last night if she was this angry. It was easier to resist the urge to flirt with a woman who clearly thought him a bastard.
CHAPTER FIVE
ANGEL CLIMBED FROM the back of her taxi, her puffy trench coat cinched and buttoned to contain the outfit she’d purchased for the evening’s affair, and slung the duffel bag stuffed with the rest of it onto her shoulder.
That was something else she would miss about New York City: the ability to buy almost anything at almost any hour of the day. Her shift at the hospital had ended at three, and from there she’d gone directly to several stores to be certain she was well equipped for the performance she was determined to give.
The taxi pulled away and she looked up and down the street. Was he really coming? Maybe she should wait for him.
No. He might not show up, and she’d be better off waiting at the rink. The closer she was to the ice, the more likely she was to do what she’d intended—skate in this ridiculous outfit—than if she had to stand here where she could easily talk herself out of it and catch a cab home.
Right. Rink it was. She started up the sidewalk toward the rink below the glittering Christmas tree.
“Conley.”
Even with her lingering irritation with him, hearing him call her name from behind her shot a little thrill through her belly.
Only ten steps into her journey, she stopped. He’d recognized her with the shiny fuchsia leggings peeking out from beneath a camel-colored trench coat, with her hair piled up in an extremely messy bun on top of her head? From behind? And she’d mistaken his brother’s voice for his earlier...
She turned around and waited.
How could she have made that mistake? Lyons almost sounded American when he said her name, but Wolfe still laid on the o hard enough to sound as if he’d just stepped out of the Highlands. Or not. Given her fixation on losing her own deep Appalachian accent, she suddenly felt kind of bad for not knowing if there was more than one Scottish accent out there. Maybe he didn’t sound like the Highlands at all. Maybe Highlanders didn’t sound like what Americans typically thought of as a Scottish accent.
Except for Lyons, who barely sounded Scottish, but had a great deal more judgmental jerk dialect in every word.
Something she’d have to find out online, because, no matter how common this confusion probably was, she didn’t like exposing when she lacked in any way. Ever. Especially when she never knew if something was common knowledge that she just didn’t know.
He caught up to her in seconds, looking so grim a spike of anxiety hit her guts.
“Did something happen to Jenna?”
“What?” He tilted his head a notch, then frowned. “Not that I’m aware of. Why?”
“You look like something is terribly wrong.”
“Your legs.”
“What’s wrong with my legs?” She leaned forward to see them, still there, still brightly colored.
“They’re bright pink and sparkly enough to suggest you’re about to do something stupid. Humiliate yourself without ever stepping on the ice.”
My God, the man’s accent. It somehow sounded like a sexy dare when he said do somethin’ stupid.
She squinted at him, as if that would negate his damnable attractiveness. “I’m not going to do something stupid.”
Wait. Yes, she was.
“I’m going to have fun,” she corrected. “Like you had fun last night. Even if it takes a humiliating outfit.”
All decked out in silliness of the flesh while he’d been decked out in silliness of manner. Which was some semblance of the truth.
He snagged the front of her coat between the gaping buttons and gave a light tug, starting to look begrudgingly amused. “Are you wearing padding?”
Being questioned about her silly outfit when she could still catch a taxi was far from helpful. It also made her cheeks go warm in a way that countered the frosty air.
“Yes, but you can’t see the padding.”
“I wasn’t going to ask for a show and tell, lass, but the trench coat makes your bottom look...let’s say...fluffy.”
Her bottom was fluffy. Because of the tutu. And the miles of cotton batting she’d shoved into the seat of her tights to protect her tailbone. The tutu had been a practical afterthought to hide the fact that the volume of her bottom had nearly tripled and was lumpy enough to resemble some mutant version of super-cellulite.
“And I have kneepads.” She didn’t bother trying to walk him through the absolute rationality of her safety-first sparkly pink outfit, just pulled her phone out, opened the case and pulled up the post she’d readied on the way over for the stream, and handed it over to him. As soon as she was free of it, she practically jogged to the rink.
He was tall enough to keep up with seemingly no effort, while the increased activity in the cold air made her breathe fast enough to regret having missed so much gym time the past couple of months.
He didn’t say anything else until they’d gone through admission and found a spot near the ice for her to get her skates on, which was when she noticed he had a pair too.
“Are you going to skate? I thought you were too cool for ice skating.”
“These are rescue skates,” he explained, sitting beside her. “I know how to skate and plan to be prepared for when I have to come drag you off the ice when you fall and break your arse. Of course, that plan was hatched before I saw your massive arse-padding, but I’m still going to wear them.”
She whacked him on the arm on reflex. “You just jinxed me. You know if I fall now, it’s all your fault.”
Her arm swat made him grin, the jerk.
“I know nothing of the kind. I know that if you fall, it’s because of physics. And that you’re a rubbish skater.”
She grunted, dug her kneepads out and the leg warmers she’d also purchased, and shoved her feet through both before she went about getting the skates on.
“The kneepads don’t match.”
“They didn’t have any pink sparkly ones, or I’d have gotten them.” She tied the skates on. “They’ll protect as well as the pink ones would’ve. I hope.”
“The imaginary pink sparkly ones? I reckon they would’ve protected better, being imaginary and all that.”
“Shut up.” She dug in her bag, got the furry pink earmuffs, crammed them onto her head and topped it all off with the crowning piece of her ensemble. Literally.
The cheap rhinestone tiara had traveled well, despite her rough treatment of the bag, and she wrestled it over the earmuff band, then, before s
he lost her nerve, unfastened the trench coat, whipped it off and threw it onto the bench.
In her mind, it had all gone very smoothly. In practice, she almost knocked herself down with the jerky ripping around of material, and her tutu remained so mashed up in the back that it didn’t at all cover her lumpy rear end until she began frantically smashing and rearranging it.
Wolfe’s laughter drew the eyes of everyone else in the immediate vicinity. Not her outfit. They were looking at the loud Scotsman laughing. That’s all.
“I warned ya I was gonna make it fun.” She pointed a pink-gloved finger at him. “Even if you wasn’t.”
Her words caught up with her mind as soon as they were out of her mouth and did more to wobble her nerves than the outfit did.
“Weren’t. Weren’t going to make it fun.” She corrected herself before he could do it. The more riled up she got, the more upset or angry, the more it came. The twang. The lazy pronunciation. The identity she’d stuffed down far enough one would’ve thought she’d be able to forget it entirely by now. But there it was, still close enough to the surface to burst forth when she least wanted.
Today Lyons had almost triggered it. He hadn’t said the word stupid, but it had been there in his open frustration with understanding her, the implication that she’d speak more as he wanted her to speak if she were smarter.
Wolfe had a way of tilting his head at things that struck him as curious, and, yes, it conveyed his notice of peculiarities, but it also amplified how awkward she felt about her mistakes, her failings.
“Start the stream.” She gestured with one rolling, impatient hand. “It takes a couple minutes for people to start showing up.”
All around, people in colorful—and generally warm—outfits slid over the ice. They sat, cueing up a video stream while people who were in no doubt far better moods than the two of them swirled over the ice, festive and bright.
“It’s up,” he said, standing and offering her a hand up, protectors still on the blades of both their skates. “Do you need instruction, Dr. Angel?”
Their Christmas to Remember Page 6