“Connor?” Harlow said, delivering him out of his head and back into the office with a thunk. “Thank you for these notes. We still have a lot of work to do on the budget, of course, but seeing the information right here in front of me allows me to make better sense of things.”
Her words hit him square in the chest, the realization that followed making his heart pound with awareness, and God, how had he not seen this sooner? Talking to Harlow might have opened the door, but caring for people was his livelihood. His purpose. And business was hers.
Connor couldn’t just tell her how he wanted to run things and expect that she’d get it.
He had to show her.
Before he could stop himself, he turned to her and said, “You know what, I can do better than that report. And if you’ll give me a few hours of your time, I can prove it. So, what do you say? Are you willing to give me a chance?”
Harlow sent a gaze over the crowded waiting room and wished she’d eaten her words for breakfast instead of that scone. Not that the scone hadn’t been worthy of a major foodgasm, because—hello—she’d practically had to restrain herself from Hoovering up the crumbs in the bottom of the bag. But after that five-alarm kiss on Friday (oh, God, her toes were still half-curled just thinking about it), she’d expected them to go back to banter as usual. When Connor had brought her breakfast out of kindness, of all things, then done his best to meet her at least partway on the inventory budget? Her guard had dipped just enough for her to say yes when he’d asked for a chance to prove his worth.
The not-a-little cynical part of her that had made her so successful warned that Connor’s actions had been all strategy. But she’d had no less than a hundred different people try to manipulate her a hundred different ways in the past year alone. For God’s sake, it was practically the hallmark of doing business. Harlow knew when someone was trying to play her.
And Connor had been genuine when he’d asked her to give him a chance.
She just hadn’t known that chance would involve her working so closely with patients. Ones who might come in for something small, like some silly headaches they’d been having. Only the headaches might turn out to be one of the largest and most invasive glioblastomas the head of neurology has ever seen, let alone tried to treat.
Oh, God, she couldn’t do this.
“Hey.” Connor appeared beside her at the intake desk, an electronic chart in hand and a smile firmly in place. “You ready?”
Damn it! He looked so relaxed, so confident and in his element, that the faux emergency excuse Harlow had been concocting in her head went up in smoke. Backing out now would make her look weak, not to mention being unprofessional and—okay, fine—pretty uncool since she’d promised to give him a chance. Plus, she’d successfully negotiated multi-million-dollar contracts with cutthroat CEOs more times than she could count. She could do this. If it meant truly getting to a place where she and Connor could work together, instead of against each other, to get the clinic where it needed to be, she would do this.
She’d do anything.
“I am,” Harlow said, gesturing to her feet. She’d taken Connor’s suggestion and replaced her usual stilettos with the pair of much lower, admittedly much more comfortable kitten heels she kept tucked away in the office for late nights or emergencies.
“We do a lot of running around out here. Definitely a good call,” he told her.
“I’m not really sure what you want me to run around after,” she said. “I certainly can’t help with operations.”
Connor shook his head, propping the tablet across one palm as he tapped the thing to life with his opposite hand. “You can’t treat patients. That’s true. But you can observe, as long as the patients consent, and in doing that, you’ll get a better sense of the process. What equipment we use, how often we run labs, what medications and supplies we need in stock, how many doctors and techs we need to make things run efficiently. All of it.”
Harlow had to admit, the idea held merit. “Alright, then. Where do we start?”
“At the beginning, of course. This computer is hooked up to the main portal where patients sign in, in the lobby.” He gestured to the large monitor on the intake desk adjacent to Macie’s work station. “For sick visits, Macie reviews each entry and gets the patients checked in. ID, consent to be treated, insurance information if they have it, chief complaint. That sort of thing. If they’re not emergent, they go into this queue here”—he indicated a column on the screen highlighted in green—“and then a nurse escorts them back to an exam area, takes vitals and a more comprehensive history, and does preliminary tests if they’re indicated.”
“Preliminary tests?” Harlow asked, her mind beginning to turn over the information.
“They order films if it looks like a patient might have a fracture, do throat cultures or flu tests if the patient presents with certain symptoms. Things like that. Then the docs or PAs come in to do a follow-up exam, confirm a diagnosis, prescribe treatment, and release them, and bam. The patient gets care.”
Harlow blinked. “You make it sound so easy.”
She realized after the words had escaped how easily they could be misconstrued, and her face heated. “I’m sure it’s not, of course, but—”
“It’s not,” Connor agreed. He looked past the thick Plexiglas windows and into the crowded waiting room, then back at the list of patients spanning more than half the length of the monitor. “The process is becoming more streamlined now that we’re focused on making things run more efficiently, yes. But we’re still getting used to doing things this way, and the sheer volume of patients makes things challenging. Plus, sometimes the simplest things are the easiest to screw up.”
“What do you mean?”
Connor lifted a brawny shoulder and let it drop. “Procedure is good in most cases, and a standard set of rules and regulations is necessary for well-run ops.”
“Also for any well-run business,” Harlow put in, unable to keep the thought to herself. But come on. Without policy, nothing worked. Not to mention the legality issues of not following standards, especially for a clinic.
Connor smiled, as if he’d expected her response. “I’m not disagreeing entirely. Medical compliancy isn’t negotiable, and I hold myself and everyone who works here to the highest standard where that’s concerned.”
Harlow exhaled in relief as he continued, “But these are people we’re dealing with, and when you work in health care, you tend to see them on their worst days. Sick, hurt. Gravely injured. Dying. That makes things difficult. We’ve got to think fast, stay on our toes, and sometimes, we’ve also got to think outside the box to treat them properly. Speaking of treating people”—he held up the tablet—“our first patient of the day is Katrina Marin.”
Connor made a quick entry into the system, transferring the patient’s basic information into a chart which he then pulled up on the tablet and reviewed with Harlow. His movements were not just well-practiced—he might as well have been breathing or taking a leisurely stroll for how second-nature he made the process look—but genuinely effortless, as if the prospect of treating the patient actually calmed him.
He made his way through the door to the waiting area with Harlow in tow, calling out, “Ms. Marin?” who turned out to be a young woman who looked like she belonged in a commercial for high-powered cold medication.
“Hi, I’m Connor. I’m a nurse, and I’ll be part of the team taking care of you today.”
“Whoa.” The woman blinked up at him, then coughed into the crook of her elbow and winced. “Sorry. I feel like crap.”
“We’ve got a lot of that going around,” Connor told her, his sympathy on full display without being overdone. “Let’s see if we can get you feeling better.”
He went through the steps that he’d described for Harlow, from getting the woman’s consent to have Harlow present for the exam to taking a health history and asking pointed questions, then performing a handful of tests based on his findings.
&n
bsp; But hearing him describe the protocol was a far cry from watching him put it into action. Connor didn’t just go through the motions, although he was clearly following the operating procedure he’d been fine-tuning with the staff over the past week. He really listened to the patient, and even though she ended up having a garden-variety upper-respiratory infection (“good news!” he’d proclaimed, after one of their PAs, Rochelle, had confirmed the diagnosis Connor had suspected. “We have an easy fix for this.”), he took her discomfort with the same seriousness as he did the six-year-old with a double ear infection, the man with the persistent nosebleed, and the teenager who’d gotten whacked in the head with a hockey puck in gym class—who they’d ultimately sent over to the ED for concussion protocol, just to be safe.
“Okay,” Harlow finally admitted, after watching Connor splint a nine-year-old’s badly sprained ankle and reassure the kid’s dad that the boy should make a full recovery with some rest and ice and good, old-fashioned time. “You weren’t kidding about all the running around.”
But rather than gloat or get all I-told-you-so about it, Connor just nodded. “You learn to pace yourself, but yeah. It’s pretty intense, even when the patients aren’t emergent. They’re still hurting.”
“That kid was in a lot of pain,” Harlow said, her heart catching involuntarily as her gaze moved to the curtain area that the boy and his father had just vacated.
“The sprain was nasty,” Connor agreed. “But he’ll be okay, and we were able to treat him pretty quickly. Those are good things.”
“My mother would have liked that he got such attentive care.”
The admission came out of nowhere, surprising them both equally, if the look on Connor’s face was any indication, and God, she needed a redirect. Fast.
“And I’m pleased to be able to tell the board that the new system seems to be running efficiently.” She squared her shoulders. Yes. Business. This, she knew how to do. This was familiar. It made her feel strong. “I assume there’s a similar procedure for well visits?”
Connor nodded after a beat. “Why don’t I show you?”
They made their way to the intake desk, where Connor showed her a column of names on the monitor, highlighted in blue. “These are our well-visit appointments. We get everything from sports physicals for high school students to people needing sutures removed to folks requesting flu shots. Usually one PA handles all the well visits on any given day. But we’re going to snag this patient.”
“Marta Atwell?” Harlow asked, her eyes traveling over the name Connor had pointed to on the screen.
“Yep. I think you’ll like this one. Come on.”
He moved to the threshold between the triage area and the waiting room. But instead of calling out the patient’s name, as he had with everyone else they’d seen today, he walked over to a blond woman sitting nearby and gave her a big smile.
“Hey, Marta. How are you feeling?”
The woman brightened. “Oh, hi, Connor! I feel like there’s a rugby match going on in my belly, but other than that…” She gestured to her roundly pregnant midsection, and Connor carefully helped her to her feet.
“Well, you look great. Let’s get you set for your appointment.”
He clearly knew the woman, which, Harlow supposed, made sense. Connor had volunteered at the clinic when they’d sponsored various wellness events, and he’d certainly been a jack of all trades over at the hospital, too. Still, something squeezed, low and deep in her chest, as she watched the easy camaraderie unfold.
“I heard you’re in charge of things over here now,” Marta said, following Connor into one of the clinic’s four private exam rooms, separate from the triage cubicles and more open curtain areas.
“Some things,” he amended. “But on occasion, I still get lucky enough to treat patients, too. This is my colleague, Ms. Davenport. She and I are co-directors.”
Harlow tested out a smile and a polite hello, which the woman readily returned, and Connor continued. “We’re working together to try and make the clinic even better. To that end, I was wondering if you’d be okay with her observing your well check today. It’s completely up to you,” he stressed.
“Oh, no. I don’t mind.” Marta shook her head and laughed. “I’m having a baby in three weeks, so I guess I should get used to a room full of people when I’m being examined, right?”
“Only if you’re comfortable with it,” Connor said. He helped Marta up onto the exam table, taking her vitals and transferring the data into her chart. “So, any pain or discomfort since your visit last week?”
Marta snorted. “I’m thirty-seven weeks pregnant. At this point, even rolling over in the middle of the night is uncomfortable.”
“Fair enough. Anything new?”
“Actually, I had some weird pressure way down low, right here”—she placed a hand on the low curve of her belly—“about an hour ago. On and off for like, I don’t know…twenty minutes? But the baby is still moving around and everything else is normal.”
Connor took a hand-held monitor out of one of the drawers in the small supply cabinet beside the sink, then grabbed a container of gel from the counter. “Huh. Did the pressure hurt?”
“Not really? I don’t know, maybe a little. It was mostly just squeezing. Why? Is that bad?”
Marta’s voice pinched in concern, making Harlow’s heart stutter.
But Connor didn’t bat so much as a single auburn lash. “Usually not. I’m just trying to figure out if you were having Braxton-Hicks contractions. Those are perfectly normal, especially for someone in her thirty-seventh week. Why don’t we take a listen to the little guy before Dr. Mendoza comes in, just to be sure everything is on the level?”
“Okay.” Marta nodded. “It would make me feel better to hear the baby’s heartbeat.”
“Well, in that case, let’s make it happen.”
Connor went to adjust the exam table so Marta could recline without having to lie all the way down, but the mechanism stuck, and he had to work at it. Marta bit her lower lip, her expression still laced with concern, and Harlow scrambled for something that might put the woman at ease.
“Do you know if the baby is a girl or a boy?” she tried, and Marta gave up a small smile.
“Boy.”
“Oh.” Connor had just said little guy, Harlow realized belatedly. Ugh, unless she was making a business plan for what brand of diaper the kid should wear or negotiating the terms of his college fund, she was seriously bad at peopling. “Have you, um, chosen his name?”
“Not yet.” Marta warmed a tiny bit. “It’s between Ethan and Declan. My husband is kind of superstitious. He says we’ll know which one fits when we see the baby.”
Connor got the exam table locked into place—fifth time was a charm—and grinned. “Hey, I have a buddy named Declan. Great choices.”
He let Marta slide back and get comfortable. She lifted her shirt while Connor snapped a pair of nitrile gloves into place, and he squeezed some gel onto her belly, then followed it with the hand-held monitor that seemed to be some sort of high-powered microphone.
The machine let out a burst of static that startled Harlow. But then the static settled, the steady, rapid whump whump whump whump of the baby’s heartbeat pulsing through the speaker, and her breath slipped out on a soft laugh.
“There he is,” Connor said, smiling, too. But Marta’s face was bent in sudden pain, her body completely rigid as she gasped.
“Oh, ow! That pain is back, but it’s worse than before.”
Harlow’s heart slammed, but Connor simply said, “Show me exactly where,” his tone turning the demand gentle. Marta flattened a palm across the same spot she’d indicated before, and Connor lowered the monitor to the counter in favor of pressing a call button on the wall.
“We’re going to change up the plan just a little, Marta. I’m going to get Dr. Mendoza in here to—”
“Connor.” Harlow’s heartbeat had gone from a slam to something she couldn’t describe, and Mar
ta’s eyes went round and wide as she realized what Harlow had just seen.
“Oh, my God,” the woman whispered. “I think my water just broke.”
14
Connor took a deep breath, but his lungs made him earn every molecule. Adrenaline slithered through his veins like the sneaky bitch that it was, but nope. No chance. His only priority was his patient, and he would take care of her.
“Okay, Marta. Dr. Mendoza will be here in a second. But we’re going to need to check you before we get you to the hospital to make sure everything’s okay.”
He grabbed a gown from the drawer beneath the exam table, along with some large lap pads. Chances were pretty low that she was crowning, or honestly, even close. But since Connor had also once helped Natalie deliver a baby in the back of an ambulance, he knew far fucking better than to trust a newborn’s sense of timing.
Marta, whose contraction seemed to have ended (another good sign), served up a look of pure panic. “What? No! I can’t go to the hospital. It’s too early. I’m not due for another three weeks!”
“Marta, hey. Hey, hey, look at me. There we go,” he said, grateful that she actually did. “Your baby is full term. It’s perfectly safe for him to be born now. But we need to check you out real quick just to be sure everything is going as it should. Harlow”—he turned to give her a blink’s worth of a glance—“can you call Macie on that phone, right there on the wall, and ask her to call over to Remington Mem’s ED and tell Dr. Michaelson we’re coming over with a patient in labor?”
“Of course.” Harlow scooped up the phone, and by the time she’d hung up, he’d helped Marta into her gown and Mendoza had appeared in the doorway.
“Hey, Connor. What—ah.” Mendoza’s demeanor slid into seriousness at the sight of Connor helping Marta back up onto the exam table. “Can you give me the bullet, please?”
“Marta Atwell, twenty-nine-year-old female, thirty-seven weeks pregnant,” Connor replied, relaying the rest of her medical information in one breath. “Macie’s on the phone with Mem to let them know we’ll be on the way.”
Between Me & You: An Enemies to Lovers Workplace Romance (Remington Medical Book 3) Page 13