Between Me & You: An Enemies to Lovers Workplace Romance (Remington Medical Book 3)

by Kimberly Kincaid

  She made a noise he supposed was meant as a laugh, only it was a shade too sharp to qualify. “It’s my business to worry. Speaking of which”—she exhaled, her shoulders easing from around her spine as she looked at him—“I need you to be honest with me from here on in, otherwise this partnership isn’t going to work. If there are any more skeletons lurking in your closet, I need to know now.”

  “No, actually. You don’t,” Connor said. He knew—fuck, he knew—that all the stress of the day was coming to a head and flying out of his mouth, just like a tiny little sliver of him didn’t blame Harlow for being pissed purple at finding out about Duke the hard way. But none of that registered in his adrenaline-addled brain.

  “We may be working together, but that doesn’t mean you’re entitled to my closet or my skeletons or any other damn part of me. There’s nothing else that will affect this job,” he said, something dark and hot unraveling in his gut as her lashes fanned up in surprise. “But the rest of me is off limits. Unless you’d like to spill your secrets, too?”

  After a minute that lasted for roughly a month, Harlow slowly shook her head. “No, I wouldn’t. Now go home.”

  Connor’s head whipped back. “Excuse me?”

  “Go home,” she repeated. “There are dozens of reporters camped out in front of the hospital and the clinic, and we need to let them settle down. Both the board and Davenport Industries are issuing statements of support that will focus on your exemplary track record and your military service. But if the press so much as gets a whiff of you today, it’ll only feed the frenzy and turn the clinic into a zoo. So start your weekend a few hours early. You should be able to slip out through a back exit,” she added. “And for the love of all things sacred and sweet, don’t respond to any reporter—in person, on the phone, by carrier pigeon or semaphore, I really don’t care—with anything other than ‘no comment’.”

  Okay, so she had a point, and God knew the attention was the last thing he wanted right now. And yet… “There’s work to be done here.”

  Harlow nodded. “There is. But we have a business strategy to consider. If we aren’t smart about how we do things, what we do won’t matter. Now go home. Catch up on Game of Thrones. Order pizza delivery. Read the latest Steve Berry thriller. Do…whatever it is that you do when you’re not here. Just keep your head down until Monday.”

  “Fine,” Connor said, and funny how knowing he was doing the smart thing still filled his belly with a five-gallon bucket of dread. Two and a half days, alone in his apartment, with nothing but the shitastic memories he’d buried a decade ago.

  But as soon as it was over, he was going to make the clinic a success.

  No matter what it took.

  7

  As it turned out, keeping his head down was far easier in theory than in practice. After he and Harlow had parted ways, Connor had made it back to the attendings’ lounge to ditch his monkey suit (small favors) covertly enough. Shit started tumbling downhill as soon as he’d looked at his cell phone, though—for fuck’s sake, he didn’t even know a hundred forty-six people. How could he have gotten that many emails within the timespan of an hour?

  Thankfully, he’d only received a handful of actual calls, since he’d gone to some pretty serious lengths to keep the number as private as possible from the minute he’d bought the phone. But those handful of callers were persistent little bastards, and after his phone had practically pinged itself into the stratosphere on the ten-minute drive to his apartment, Connor had finally had to turn it off. A few reporters had gotten brassy enough to go full-frontal paparazzi and stake out his apartment, and although he’d bitten out a very clear “no comment” to every shouted question, he’d also given the building manager one hell of a workout when the guy had needed to chase them off. Frank, the security guard? Connor practically owed the guy a kidney for how vigilant he’d been about keeping the inside of the building reporter-free. Connor hadn’t even been able to risk the pizza delivery Harlow had suggested, having to opt for canned chili over the one stray box of pasta that had been living in his cupboard in case of emergencies before crashing into bed for a fitful night’s sleep.

  Now, at barely ten in the morning—less than twenty-four hours post-press conference—he was in serious danger of starving, screaming, and going bat shit crazy, although not necessarily in that order. Now that the news about Duke had rudely surfaced, every memory, every story Connor had read about someone his father had left penniless or homeless or helpless, came rushing back in vivid, gut-clenching detail.

  Christ, he’d forgotten how much he hated the old man.

  A knock on his front door had his heart going from what-the-fuck to oh-no-you-didn’t in about two seconds flat. He got up from his couch without making a sound—thank you, military training—edging his way through the open-concept living space to arrive at the door in the span of a few seconds.

  “Connor, it’s Natalie. Open up.”

  Blinking twice, he undid the chain and deadbolt, then opened the door a few inches. Sure enough, Natalie Kendrick stood on the other side, bundled to the nines in a red wool coat and holding a rectangular box with a familiar logo stamped over the front. She waved with her free hand, which was encased in a red and cream-colored mitten, and okay, there was a fifty-fifty shot that he was hallucinating, here.

  “Hey, buddy!” she said, just as brightly as she would have if she didn’t know who his father was, and Connor’s pulse reverted back to what-the-fuck territory.

  “How’d you get past the security doors downstairs?” Not the most eloquent thing he could ask his friend, but not really the worst, either.

  And apparently, not unexpected, because Natalie’s answer was at the ready. “Oh, Addison was going out when I got here”—Natalie gestured down the corridor to 19G, where Connor’s neighbor, Addison Hale, lived—“so she let me in.”

  Figured. Addison was as nice as Natalie, and also a part of the larger group of first responders and doctors who hung out together at The Crooked Angel bar and grill downtown. Connor was certain Addison had only let Natalie in because she knew her, though. The woman might be kind, but she was also a detective in Remington’s elite intelligence unit, and that black belt she’d earned in Krav Maga? Would drop a guy, even as big as Connor, before he could even blink or beg for mercy.

  Connor looked at Natalie dubiously. But he was going to have to deal with the fact that he’d kept a massive secret from his friends, and now they all knew who he was. He might as well get shit out in the open. “So, you drew the short straw, huh?”

  “Please.” She rolled her eyes, but grinned afterward. Such a Natalie move. “I volunteered.”

  Of all of them, she was the biggest caregiver of the group, and under normal circumstances, Connor wouldn’t be surprised at all that she’d reach out to him after a rough day. But his rough day had included being outed as Duke Bradshaw’s offspring, so yeah, he was shocked as hell to see Natalie on his doorstep. She should hate him for what his father had done, yet here she was. Checking on him.

  “And you brought donuts.” Connor’s heart thwaped against his sternum as he gestured to the box in her hands. Sweetie Pies bakery was totally his happy place. “You don’t fight fair.”

  “I’m not fighting. I’m hungry,” Natalie replied. “Also, I’m coming in so we can talk.”

  And there it is. Connor knew there would be no stopping her, so he didn’t bother trying, even though talking so wasn’t in his plan of attack. “Suit yourself.”

  He stepped back to let her in, closing and locking the door behind her. They juggled the box of donuts between them as she took off her mittens and coat, then let Connor lead her to the kitchen.

  Natalie moved to the sink to wash her hands. He couldn’t help but notice that she’d dropped a little weight and gained a few shadows beneath her eyes, and his gut gave up a hard pang. She seemed to be fighting the cancer she’d been diagnosed with last month incredibly well, and despite her sweet demeanor, Connor knew she coul
d be pretty damn fierce when she put her head to it.

  Still… “How are you feeling?” he asked, pulling out one of the two chairs at his breakfast bar and nodding her into it.

  “Tired,” she said truthfully. “And I had my chemo port placed, which kind of hurt like a mofo. But we caught the cancer really early, and the first round is done. My prognosis is better than most cancer patients’. Jonah’s been amazing, albeit a total mother hen.” She paused to light up the room with her love-struck grin. “So, even though I miss being with you guys every day, I know it’s only temporary ’til I knock this shit back into remission.”

  “That’s a pretty great outlook.”

  “Ah, I did it once. I can do it again. Especially since I have great friends and family around me, ready to hold me up if I need them. Speaking of which”—Natalie flipped the box open and plucked a glossy Boston crème donut from inside—“you’ve been dodging everyone’s texts and calls.”

  Not having a landline, he’d had to suck it up and turn his phone on a few times last night to make sure no true emergencies had gone down. He’d seen the dozens of texts and voicemails from his friends, ranging from Charlie’s concerned “I’m just checking in” to Tess’s more to-the-point “don’t make me worry about you, Ginormica.”

  “I’ve been kind of swamped,” Connor said, busying himself with taking a cake donut out of the box.

  Natalie sighed. “You’re also kind of full of shit.”

  He couldn’t help it. He laughed, just a little. “I’ve missed you, Dr. K.”

  “Look, can we please talk about this?” she asked. “I get that it’s personal, and yeah, that I’m pushing. But we’re worried about you, Connor.”

  “You shouldn’t be worried. You should all hate me,” he said, hearing the words before he fully realized he’d let them past his lips. “After what my father did—”

  “Is that what you think?” Natalie blinked. “That we’d hate you if we knew that Duke Bradshaw is your father?”

  “He stole millions of dollars from medical professionals. And make no mistake. Just because he got off doesn’t mean he’s not guilty.” Connor’s huff of laughter was all irony, bitter in his throat. “He bankrupted who knows how many hard-working people, people just like you and Jonah, and Charlie and Parker and Tess. If I were you, I’d hate me.”

  Natalie put down her donut, folded her hands, and calmly said the one thing that could slice both his argument and his fears clean in half.

  “But you’re not me, Connor, and you’re not your father. You’re you. And it doesn’t matter who you’re related to by blood. You’re still our family, me and Jonah, and Charlie and Parker and Tess. We know you’d never hurt anyone like that, and we’re not going to punish you for something you didn’t and would never do. We’ve got your back.”

  Connor’s pulse jabbed at his throat, tightening his words. “I don’t deserve that.”

  “Oh, horse shit. You’re a good man. A little stubborn,” she added, blond brows arched. “And a total smartass. But you’re a good man. Even if your father isn’t.”

  For a second that turned into a bunch more, all Connor could do was process what Natalie had said, letting the words, the emotions behind them, find order and settle in.

  Finally, he said, “This is why they sent you, isn’t it?”

  “Because they knew I’d distract you with donuts?” she asked, her smile as sweet as the pastry between her fingers.

  “Because you’re all nice on the outside, ruthless on the inside,” he corrected.

  “Oh, that. Yeah.” She nodded. “It is. Sorry, not sorry. I am totally ruthless. I’m also right.”

  Connor’s smile was small, but there. “Thank you, Natalie.”

  He should say so much more, he knew. But she was right. They were family—the only kind that mattered. And damn, right now, he needed them.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, grinning. “So, what can we do to help?”

  Connor shook his head, digging into his donut in earnest. “Not much, I’m afraid. At least, until this blows over.”

  “Yeah, there’s been, um, a lot of coverage.” The way Natalie bit her lip in punctuation told him very little of it was good news. “But it seems to be settling down a little. I didn’t see any reporters outside just now. The hospital’s statement was really clear, and honestly, everyone knows Marty Mattigan is a complete assmonkey.”

  Connor snorted. “That, he is. But it doesn’t change the fact that he just made my job a whole lot more difficult.”

  “I know. It’s still pretty self-affirming to call him an assmonkey, though.”

  They ate in silence for a few minutes, with Connor downing three donuts to her one (was it really his fault Sweetie Pies’ donuts were so damn delicious?) and putting on a fresh pot of coffee to go with them. Natalie cradled the mug he’d filled for her between her palms, but not before gesturing across the breakfast bar to the open living space beyond.

  “What’s all this?”

  Connor followed her gaze to the stacks of papers spread over his coffee table, his laptop smack in the center. “I promised Harlow I’d lie low for a couple of days, but that doesn’t mean I can’t work from here.”

  To preserve his waning sanity, he’d talked her into having a courier bring over copies of the reports they’d been working on before the press conference. Not all of the records had been kept online as they should’ve been, and getting things to match up or make sense was proving pretty daunting.

  The fact that Connor still wondered what Harlow looked like with her head tipped back in pleasure, despite being wildly annoyed with her, hadn’t helped in the sanity department, either.

  “Ah, Harlow.” Natalie’s smile slid into cagey territory, and holy shit, he needed a better poker face. “How’s that going?”

  “Fine.”

  But the answer had barged out too loud and too fast, and Natalie pounced.

  “Well, thaaaaat’s interesting,” she sing-songed, and oh no. Hell no. He had to nip this in the bud right now.

  “It’s not interesting, Natalie.”

  His friend laughed hard enough to necessitate lowering her coffee mug to the counter. “Oh, it so is.”

  “It’s not,” Connor argued. “In fact, it’s completely boring. It’s practically trigonometry.”

  “I loved trigonometry!”

  He resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, but man, it was real. “Harlow and I work together. There’s nothing interesting about it. I don’t even like her. I’m ninety-nine percent sure she doesn’t like me, either, and truth? I think I’m going to lose that last one percent once we really dig in on Monday.”

  “Mmmm. She is really intense,” Natalie agreed, sobering a little. “And it wouldn’t surprise me if you two have differing opinions on the best way to run the clinic. How to make the business side work with the patient care aspect was definitely my biggest concern when she offered me the job last month.”

  Connor’s jaw took a one-way trip south. “What?”

  “Oh, shit,” Natalie murmured, her eyes rounding. “I’m sorry, Connor. I thought you knew. Harlow offered me the director’s position just before Christmas. I found out about my leukemia right after, so I turned it down, obviously. But the truth is, I wouldn’t have taken the job even if I wasn’t on medical leave.”

  “Yeah, the clinic is a pretty big mess,” Connor agreed, but Natalie shook her head.

  “That was actually the only reason I had for wanting to take it. The place really does need help.” She paused to sip her coffee thoughtfully. “But, while I’m happy to volunteer there, actually running the clinic didn’t feel like a good fit for me. Almost like—and don’t make fun”—she paused, and Connor nodded in agreement—“the job was made for someone else.”

  Okay, so it did sound a tiny bit woo-woo and cosmic. “And you think that person is me?”

  “You’re there, aren’t you?”

  Damn. Leav
e it to Natalie to truth-bomb him with a smile. “Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m made for the job. Or that I’ll even be good at it,” he pointed out.

  “You’re already good at taking care of people. You’ve got great experience with operations. Experience I don’t have. And you’re clearly determined to make the clinic a success.” Her gaze flickered to the papers covering his coffee table, and she did have a point. Connor might have had a rocky-ass start with yesterday’s press conference, but he couldn’t let anything, or anyone, get in the way of his goal.

  “I’m going to remember you said that,” he promised.

  Natalie laughed. “What, that you’re already good at taking care of people?”

  He let the grin he’d shelved over the past twenty-four hours slide back over his face. “No, that you’re happy to volunteer. I’m going to need all the help I can get to make the clinic run my way, and I’m not going to stop until I get there.”

  8

  Harlow rolled over and hugged her covers to her chest. She’d never been one of those I-hate-Mondays types. Not because she was the kind of person to tackle her work week with chipper enthusiasm and bright affirmations. No. It was more a combination of the facts that she never took a day off—therefore Monday was just like all its compatriots—and that she was the CEO’s daughter, determined to make it to the top of the company on nothing but her own smarts and hard-ass work. As such, she preferred to take on her job with methodical precision rather than sappy platitudes.

  Her only affirmation was to be a shark. She chased what she wanted. Bared her teeth when she had to. And never showed anything even resembling an emotion, in her words, her actions, or her expressions.

  Not even when she felt them all the way to her soul.

  Releasing a slow exhale, she looked at the clock on her bedside table. 4:19 AM. While Harlow might not be a stranger to long days, she and sleep had an elusive relationship at best, kind of like a friend with benefits who came around every once in a while for a booty call, but never stuck around long enough to be reliable for anything other than unreliability.