Connor’s nerves eased a notch. “Thanks, doc. But what are all three of you doing up here? Shouldn’t you all be saving the world, one surgery at a time, and stuff?”
Jonah straightened his doctor’s coat over his dark green scrubs. Not that the guy needed it. He looked more like a frigging GQ model than a trauma surgeon, a fact that Connor delighted in giving him a ration of good-natured shit for every chance he got. “And miss supporting your big moment in the spotlight?” he asked. “Never. Tess said she’ll be there, too. She’s just waiting on a cardio consult for a patient in the ED.”
“Oh! And Parker’s on my service today,” Charlie said, her smile turning all gooey at the mention of her fiancé. “So I told him he could sneak into the press conference for the good parts. As long as he’s caught up on patient care, that is. He promised to text the other interns and all the residents a play-by-play.”
Connor’s brows winged up toward his recently combed hairline, but the ease that followed was all too welcome. He and his Remington Mem family might not be bound by blood ties, but Christ, he loved these guys. Right now, especially—even if they were about to be highly disappointed by the low-to-no key factor of this press conference.
“While I appreciate the feels, I hate to be the one to tell all of you that this thing is hardly going to be a big deal.”
He was planning on ditching this suit and skinning back into his scrubs within the hour. There was way too much real work to be done for him to be wasting time on this other crap. He’d give Harlow her press conference, as promised, but it was all the PR she was going to get out of him.
Mallory laughed and shook his head. “Dude, are you nuts? The room is already packed. And, just out of curiosity, are you going to tell all those reporters out there to fuck off, too? Because if that’s a yes, I’m gonna go get my popcorn ready.”
Connor’s heart slam-danced with every last one of his ribs before taking his sternum for a spin around the mosh pit of his chest. “All what reporters? And what do you mean, the room is packed?” The room Harlow had reserved for the press conference seated over a hundred, for fuck’s sake.
“All the reporters from the news stations and local papers,” Charlie said slowly. “That guy from WJVZ was even outside, filming a lead-in segment. You know, the one with the fake tan and the porcelain caps that probably cost more than my med school loans?”
Just like that, Connor’s pulse snapped even faster. “Marty Mattigan?” The guy was a weasel-faced knuckle dragger on his best days. On his worst? God, Connor was fucked.
No. Check that.
Connor had been fucked over.
“Yeah. That’s the guy.” Jonah frowned, but only for a second before waving a hand through the air. “Don’t worry about him, though, or the crowd. You’ve jumped out of helicopters—on purpose, no less—and saved hundreds of lives. Seriously. You’re going to do great.”
Oh, he was going to do great, all right. Just as soon as he found Harlow and told her not just no, but hell no. Splashing his name and face all over TV-land, not to mention the Internet, was absolutely not going to happen, no matter how hard she tried to trick him into doing what she wanted. Not terribly large or involved, his ass.
She ate, slept, and bled big business. Of course she’d told him what he’d clearly wanted to hear in order to get to her endgame. Damn it, Connor should’ve known better than to trust her.
“Can you guys excuse me for a sec?” he asked, slapping together a tight smile. “I need to find Harlow and discuss some last-minute details.” The kind that involve the words “cancel” and “this shit show.”
Charlie nodded, and mercifully, Jonah and Mallory took her cue. “Of course. We’ll just head down to the auditorium.”
“Awesome. Thanks.”
Connor steadied his hands long enough to text Harlow to meet him in the upstairs conference room by the attendings’ lounge. He didn’t feel the least bit guilty marking the text with a big, fat 9-1-1, not even when she arrived less than two minutes later with a look of pure panic on her pretty face.
“What? What’s the matter?” she asked breathlessly, slipping into the room and shutting the door.
He strode over to the window at the far end of the conference room, jabbing a finger at the parking lot beyond the glass. “You ambushed me, that’s what. There are news vans out there. Plural! And the room is packed with reporters.” He swung back toward her, his breath tight in his lungs. The fucking tie didn’t help. “You said this wasn’t going to be a big deal. You lied!”
“I know what I said,” she replied, her voice controlled but the fire in her eyes making up for it in spades. “But I didn’t lie.”
It was official. This woman had balls the size of Neptune. “Are you kidding me right now? Did you not hear the part about the news vans?”
“Of course I did.” The quick pull of her lips hinted at her irritation. Oh goodie. That made two of them. “I know I told you this press conference wasn’t going to be a big deal, and it wasn’t, but…”
Harlow broke off, and Connor would give her this. At least she had the good grace to look momentarily chagrinned. “My father thought it was a good idea to make a big impact right away. Apparently, he reached out to a few media outlets last night, and the word spread like wildfire. I didn’t find out how many people would be here until an hour ago.”
Connor counted to five in his head, but only got to two before the numbers were all some variation of fuck. “And you didn’t think to, oh, I don’t know, come find me and tell me this press conference had turned into a three-ring circus?”
She made a small noise, like a snort, only with more class. “Oh, for God’s sake, Connor. I get that public speaking isn’t your favorite thing, but it’s the press. Not a pack of hungry wolves.”
“Marty Mattigan?” he bit out, and Harlow tilted her head in a slight show of acquiescence.
“Okay, he might be the exception. Anyway, nothing has changed.”
At Connor’s are-you-kidding-me-right-now expression, she made a redirect. “Fine. Nothing has changed except for the level of exposure. Dr. Langston will still make a statement naming you as the director of operations for the clinic. You’ll still share a few remarks, and I’ll still handle the Q&A in a way that puts the hospital and the clinic in the best possible light. The added press coverage is unexpected, I know,” she said. “But you said you were ready, and all you have to do is say what you already planned to say. The buzz is going to be great for the clinic. I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal.”
Connor opened his mouth to tell her it was a colossal deal and that there was no way in hell he’d do it. The more public his face was, the greater the chances someone would see past the facial hair, fifty pounds of added muscle, and seven sessions in a tattoo artist’s chair to uncover the arrogant, unsuspecting son of a bastard he’d once been. He’d buried his birthright a decade ago, and he could not—would not—risk anyone finding out about the life he’d abandoned.
But then, amazingly, he stopped. If he backed out of this press conference now, with minutes to spare, Harlow would demand a reason, and camera shy wasn’t going to cut it. She’d grill him until he told her why he didn’t want his face all over the city, and if he did that, there was a one hundred percent chance that she’d march her designer shoes all the way to Langston’s office and demand his resignation on principle alone. Worse, she’d probably make the information public, and then his co-workers—Christ, his friends, who he valued more than anything outside of his job—would know the truth.
And he wouldn’t be able to help a single person at the clinic.
But no matter what anyone said or thought, Connor wasn’t his father. He had earned this job on integrity he’d busted his ass for ten years to gain, and while he hadn’t gone looking for the position, now that he had it—and the chance to take care of countless people along with it—he wasn’t about to let that go without a fight.
He might not like the facts, but th
ey were clear. Going through with the press conference was a gamble, and a huge one, at that. But risking exposure was a better strategy than ensuring it. His family tree had nothing to do with how well he could and would do this job. Harlow would vehemently disagree—of that, Connor had no doubt—and he still wasn’t sure he believed that she hadn’t manipulated him into this, then given up the story about her old man as a cover. But he’d have to chew on that later.
When she wasn’t pinning him into place with that fierce-as-hell stare, waiting for an answer he was already too late in giving.
So he said, “It’s a big deal because I wasn’t expecting it.” The words were true, so Connor kept going with what he could. “I don’t like fanfare, and I don’t like surprises. I’m just here to help people. All this hoopla isn’t how I want to do it.”
“I can assure you, I really wasn’t expecting so many reporters, either,” Harlow said, her voice softening enough that Connor’s gut—tricky SOB that it was—told him she was being honest. “Look, I get that this press conference isn’t your preference. I really do. But it will give us some good buzz, and we need that right now. So do you think we could just get through it together, like we planned? Please?”
Connor blew out a breath. “Fine. Deal.”
Harlow’s smile was all business, but at least she forked one over. “Excellent, because it’s time to go.”
He sent up a lightning-fast prayer—was there a patron saint of flying under the radar?—then followed Harlow through the door. After a wordless trip downstairs, they walked side by side to the hospital’s auditorium. The room was usually reserved for morbidity and mortality conferences on high-profile medical cases or lectures from the occasional guest speaker, and even though the main doors were closed, the buzz of voices beyond told Connor to expect standing room only.
And that was exactly what greeted him as he opened the door to usher Harlow inside. The voices surged in a wave of excitement, the air in the room practically vibrating before settling into a hush. Connor’s heart slammed rapidly without his permission, but he tempered his physiology the same way he would if this were a trauma.
Oh, the goddamn irony.
Cameras flashed and beeped for the duration of his and Harlow’s trip to the stage, where Langston sat beside Harlow’s father. Connor had never technically met the older man, although he knew his reputation well enough. Shrewd, smart, ruthless.
Connor trusted him as far as he could bunt a Buick.
Luckily, there was little (read: no) time for pleasantries. His and Harlow’s presence meant the party could begin, so Langston moved to the podium. He was clearly as experienced at public speaking as he was comfortable with it, and he delivered his welcome speech with affable ease. Connor took the opportunity to study the crowd, acclimating further with every breath. The reporters in the room recorded and thumb-typed, while the handful of photographers clicked away. Even Marty Mattigan, who had a widely known history of sensationalizing even the most mundane stories, seemed to be looking on in actual interest, and okay, this might not end in a total cluster fuck.
Langston proceeded to talk about the good the clinic could do, and gave a brief but heartfelt account of the woman for whom it was named. Although Harlow’s expression didn’t change from the pleasantly attentive gaze she’d slipped on as soon as they’d taken their seats, Connor felt her go still beside him during the remembrance, and it smacked him in the face that if they’d been close, this was probably tough for her.
Both the oddness of the concept and the weird-ass twang in his chest took a backseat to the fact that Langston was introducing him as the clinic’s new co-director, though, and he stood to take the podium. Connor looked out over the crowd, his stare catching on the half-dozen seats close to the back where his friends all sat, wearing smiles that ranged from genuine to goofy. Tess gave him a big thumbs-up and a cheesy, overdone smile, while Mallory—the ass—held up a bag of popcorn he must’ve grabbed from a vending machine, and Connor’s ease took over.
“Thank you, Dr. Langston, for that kind introduction, and for trusting me with this position. For the four years I’ve been part of the Remington Memorial community, providing quality care to all who need it has been my biggest priority. I’m honored to accept the role of co-director. I’m ready to do whatever it takes to make the Marlene Davenport Memorial Clinic a place where the residents of Remington can get the healthcare they deserve.”
Enough applause rippled through the room to bring a sizeable grin to his face. Harlow’s expression was pure, sweet I-told-you-so, but she smiled, too, before switching places with him. Okay, fine, he thought as he reclaimed his seat and listened to her begin to field questions from the throng of reporters now vying for her attention. The focus was far more on the clinic itself than on Connor, specifically. The only interest outside of that seemed to belong to Davenport Industries, with a few people asking questions about the partnership between the company and the hospital. Harlow answered each one with confidence, until finally, no more hands were raised.
“Alright,” she said, pausing for a brief second to smile over her shoulder at her father before turning back to the podium. “If there are no more questions—”
“Actually, one more, if you wouldn’t mind, Ms. Davenport?” Marty Mattigan, who had been uncharacteristically quiet thus far, stood presumptuously without waiting for Harlow to acknowledge him, leaving her no choice but to give him the floor.
Her smile tightened just enough to let the reporter know he’d pissed her off, and hell if that didn’t make two of them, because Connor was right there with her. How she managed tell the jackass, “Of course,” with such poise, he really had no clue.
Unease funneled into Connor’s chest at the reporter’s smirk in reply, but he did his best to squash it. Mattigan was probably going to highlight the clinic’s failures so he could end on a bit of drama. In truth, Connor was semi-shocked the guy hadn’t tried to twirl up any shit yet.
Mattigan flashed his impressive dental work for the crowd. “You say that you chose your co-director, here, after careful deliberation, is that right?” he asked, flapping a hand in Connor’s direction.
Everything about Connor stilled but his pulse as Harlow answered.
“The board went through a thorough process to find the right person for the job, yes.”
“And you stand behind him personally?” Mattigan asked.
No, no. No, no, no…
“I’m co-directing the clinic with him,” she replied, her tone wordlessly punctuating the statement with “you idiot”. “So, yes. It follows that I stand by Connor Bradshaw personally.”
Mattigan smiled silkily, and ice filled Connor’s chest as he braced for impact.
“You mean Daniel Bradshaw. Junior, of course,” the reporter corrected. “Or were you unaware that you’ve just personally endorsed the son of the businessman behind the biggest medical fraud in Remington’s history?”
6
Harlow couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think, speak, or move, her feet rooted to their spot behind the podium and her heart wedged in her windpipe. Daniel “Duke” Bradshaw was one of Remington’s slickest and most successful business magnates, having started his firm, Bradshaw Consulting Group, twenty-five years ago. Harlow knew all the history, having studied Davenport Industries’ competitors inside and out before she’d even graduated college. Duke Bradshaw’s reputation for high-risk, high-reward investments had burned him a few times in the beginning before paying off big, kick-starting his firm into Remington’s top ten businesses within ten years. He was flashy and prone to impulse—not at all Harlow’s style, but it had served Duke well. When he’d expanded from financial services into healthcare consulting just after that, no one had batted a single lash.
Which was probably how the bastard had managed to steal millions of dollars’ worth of retirement money from thousands of Remington’s doctors, nurses, and other healthcare professionals, to the point that he’d left many of them destitute.
Never mind the fact that he’d fucking gotten away with it.
And Connor was his son.
Reality rubber-banded into place, depositing Harlow back at the podium with a rude snap. She was vaguely aware of the collective gasp that had rippled through the room, the shocked expressions quickly giving way to a thumb-typing battle royal to see who could Tweet the news the fastest. She was definitely aware of the fact that Langston had leaped—almost literally—into action, hustling Connor off the stage and through the exit to her right before stepping up to the podium beside her.
“That will be all for today. Thank you,” he said, his voice carrying with cool authority even over the din. Mattigan went all wolf-in-henhouse with his smirk, and truly, Harlow was going to go thermonuclear on that SOB someday.
But for now, she had more pressing things on her agenda; namely, doing everything in her considerable power to have Connor’s pink slip drawn up immediately.
If not sooner.
“We need a meeting to discuss this,” she said to Langston through her teeth, as soon as they were out of the microphone’s range. “Right now.”
Her father fell into step beside her. “I agree,” he added tightly, and Langston nodded, just once, in quick concession.
“This way will offer more privacy.” He gestured to the same exit Connor…Daniel…whoever he freaking was…had gone through. But judging by their increased excitement, the horde of reporters in the audience was going to quickly go from a clamor to a crush, so Harlow took the risk that she might end up face-to-face with Connor/Daniel/Son of Satanicus and moved off the stage to head through the door.
The hallway beyond was empty. Which was for the best, really, because Harlow couldn’t be responsible for what she might say to him if he turned up in her path right now.
God, how could she have been so galactically stupid?
They went off the beaten path to arrive at Langston’s office, but the longer, more roundabout trip afforded both concealment as well as the opportunity for Harlow to file down at least a tiny bit of her anger. Not that she wasn’t seriously hacked off, because holy shit, she so was. But she had to be smart about this. She had to stay calm. Focus on the facts. Good business was born of strategy, not emotion, her father always said.
Between Me & You: An Enemies to Lovers Workplace Romance (Remington Medical Book 3) Page 5