All good reasons to pay attention now and keep in the front of his mind what happened when he let his guard down.
He rounded the bank of lockers and stumbled, blind luck allowing him to catch himself before he went down.
Sabetta had come in early—earlier than him—and now sat on the bench in front of her locker, attention buried in her phone.
Unlike yesterday, today she seemed fully ready to begin her shift. Thank God. Not half dressed. Less of a strange, unexpected temptation. Theoretically. But that lock of hair still hung free in the front, begging to be tucked back, looking unreasonably silky...
He had to figure out how to handle her. Whether to say something about the day before. He probably should. He came to Sutcliffe to work, not to make friends or win some kind of popularity contest, but he also didn’t like knowing he was entirely in the wrong in a situation. He’d also realized last night how big an ass he’d been to her.
“You’re early,” he said, jerking her attention from her phone, her expression making clear she hadn’t even been aware that he’d entered when he was standing not five feet away from her. The urge to apologize started to fade, replaced by a desire to lecture her about the importance of being aware of her surroundings. Situational awareness was something every New Yorker should learn, but especially those who worked or lived in areas where violence could break out unexpectedly. Like a hospital.
“Morning.” She turned her phone off and sat up straighter, brows pinching as she clearly took a minute to mentally right herself. “I thought the commute would take longer. I also thought my locker door might be sticking again and I’d need to get Maintenance.”
“So, you weren’t hanging out here to see me.” He tried to joke, but the rapid shake of her head said she didn’t hear it as a joke.
“It was just quiet in here, and out of the way,” she said, already moving, already running away. Not the time to apologize for unfairly treating her, clearly. “The cafeteria will be open, and my body wants caffeine.”
He unlocked the locker, then turned to reiterate that she could ask him questions if she needed to, but she was already gone.
He jerked the door of his locker open and something fell out, then slid under the bench behind him.
His heart fell, the déjà vu instantly turning his mood around. Snow might keep psychopaths indoors, but not people from shoving junk into his locker. He should tape the damned vents.
He slammed his bag into the locker, finishing what he was doing before he dealt with yet another Christmas irritation. It had to be related; it fell like a card. Yesterday’s paper had fluttered, this had flopped and slid, weightier and smaller, more compact.
Once he’d collected the various paraphernalia he carried on his shift and sorted them into the appropriate pockets, he bent over to retrieve what had fallen.
Small white envelope. Thick. Heavy. Like the boulder in his gut.
He swore under his breath, immediately glad Sabetta had slipped out. She’d already seen him lose his cool once over this holiday nonsense, although it might make it easier to keep his hands to himself—something that seemed strangely difficult—if she thought him off enough to avoid.
An idea that disgruntled almost as much as another damned Christmas reminder.
He flipped the envelope over, but found no writing, just thick folded paper.
It was small, but heavier than a greeting card. Invitation maybe?
He could throw it out, throw it back or look inside.
Probably a flipping wedding invitation. He’d been trying to dissuade his little brother from rushing in, even gone so far as to remind him about the carnage caused by their parents’ marriage, but Wolfe either had chosen to forget, or didn’t care. A diamond ring had gotten involved no matter Lyons’s helpful advice.
Or another dinner invitation from either of them, in more formal means. Since they’d decided they were blissfully in love with each other and the season, they’d each invited him over for dinner at least once each. Wolfe had done it twice, on the phone and in person. A Christmas card would almost be more welcome at this point.
Get on with it.
Decision made, he flicked the seal open and drew out a generic “Season’s Greetings” card and found a holiday gift card inserted into little slits inside, the name of the little coffee shop downstairs on the front.
He could feel his blood pressure rising.
There were lines intended to be filled out with gifting information, and they were empty. Nothing personal to identify the gift-giver. No one to shout at.
And not a threat, just a reminder of the worst day of his life, which always managed to feel like a threat. Not a threat. Nothing dangerous about it. No matter what the adrenalin spike jittering through his system said.
He repeated the sentiment to himself twice, a habit he’d had to increase since the month rolled to December.
It was just a gift card. A thin slice of plastic with cheerful gold letters and holly leaves. He carefully breathed out and laid the card on the shelf in his locker while regrouping.
Could be Wolfe, but his brother would sign his name.
Could be Conley. She might not sign her name because their relationship, whatever it might be, was more tenuous.
Sabetta?
He glanced down the bench to where she’d been sitting.
An apology, perhaps? Ineffective without a name attached. No, Conley was the most likely suspect. Conley, whom Wolfe had told about last Christmas.
The tension in his head spread over his whole scalp.
But he should still react more civilized than he felt like acting, because that reaction was never going to be socially appropriate. Especially not work appropriate.
Civilized. Take the card. Use it to buy himself and Conley a coffee later. Thank her. Let that be the end of it.
The deck was already stacked against Wolfe’s relationship, and he wouldn’t add to it. Plus, he was a little relieved Wolfe wasn’t rushing into the wedding, regardless of what the ring said. He’d tried to talk some sense into Wolfe before it came to declarations and cohabitation decisions, and that hadn’t worked. This was one thing he could not protect his little brother from, but he wouldn’t do anything to speed it along.
One more deep breath and he stashed the card in his pocket, closed everything up and went to make a check of the department. Even with the weather as his ally this morning, he couldn’t begin a shift without identifying all the possible threats.
Christmas messed things up, and somehow people were surprised when it happened. Not him. Not anymore.
* * *
Belle shuffled forward two paces in the lunch line at the cafeteria. It was longer today than yesterday—no one seemed to want to brave the driving snow to get something less institutional-tasting.
The increased number of people around her ramped up the already high stress levels clinging to her. And would’ve even if she weren’t wary of consequences to her Secret Santa program.
She’d spent the entire morning looking over her shoulder, expecting Lyons to figure her out and then come murder her with a shiv he’d spent the morning fashioning out of the gift card.
Or just disdainfully stare her to death. If anyone could murder with a look, it would be that man and his ice-cold eyes.
She definitely shouldn’t carry on with this gifting business on Monday. Last night, she’d spent the evening brainstorming flat, small, skinny gift ideas and mostly coming up with gift cards. Or tea bags she shoved through the vents one at a time—obviously a great idea. After a couple of hours, she gave up and admitted she’d have to rely on the Christmas spirit of her peers and leave the gifts outside his locker should she choose to continue. She just wasn’t sure she should choose.
When she’d slipped the card into his locker, she hadn’t left any indication of who’d bought it. No words.
No promises of more days. No fingerprints. Because she watched true crime documentaries and had an overactive imagination that went wild considering the lengths Lyons would go to for retribution against the gift-giver.
She wanted to ask someone for advice.
She wanted to ask her sister.
Noelle would have an opinion. And her opinion would probably be to continue doing the brave thing, even if Belle seemed to have somehow missed the brave gene during gestation. It all went to Noelle, while Belle got the be quiet and say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ gene. And Lyons had already decreed he’d gotten the oft misunderstood Scottish Sarcasm Gene. Which was kind of funny, in a dry sort of way. Probably the only joke he’d ever told.
Again, the line inched forward.
She could just leave this off, focus her time elsewhere for the holidays, because that part had not changed. She needed a Christmas-shaped distraction. She needed all the distractions, really. And having only been at Sutcliffe all of two days now, she knew two things very well: every single person in the department was nervous or standoffish of Lyons, and the hospital wasn’t going to let her do overtime on the weekends until she’d established herself. So sometime after the holidays. When she’d have much less interest in an overtime distraction. The only other after-hours jobs she’d been able to think of were in retail, and after the days in a Manhattan ER, she wasn’t sure she could handle Christmas shoppers.
Better she focus on the New York Christmas experience. Get pictures to send to Noelle rather than writing another hour-long diatribe about her day at work and the pathetic little picture of the gift card she’d taken before playing insane postman.
She turned her attention to her phone, and the maps of the public transportation system. Where could she go after work for a photo that wouldn’t take too long to get to, and also wouldn’t be risking life and limb in the snow?
“Sabetta.”
The hair on the back of her neck stood up and Belle looked over her shoulder to see the man in question, and all desire to eat her lunch dropped like some internal anvil, right through the organ previously demanding food. Loudly. At inconvenient moments. With patients.
This was it. He was here to skillfully carve her heart out with a sharpened spork.
“Dr. Lyons,” she said, and then blinked and coughed. “I mean, Dr. McKeag. I’m... Forgive me. I learned your first name today, and it’s also a last name, kind of got my wires crossed.”
He looked at her a little strangely but shrugged it off. “I’ve been called worse.”
Probably daily.
“Still.” She gestured in front of her, offering the spot in line. That would both allow her to keep an eye on him and avoid wasting any of his time, which she already knew he disliked.
“No, that’s fine. Ladies first.” He looked far too relaxed, at least compared to yesterday, which was her only point of comparison. Work McKeag was a grenade with the key half-pulled, After Work Lyons could carry on this style of conversation with no yelling, no growling, no icy death-glares. He actually looked in a good mood still. Maybe yesterday had just been an off day?
Or maybe his day had been improved by the little gift left to greet him this morning.
The thought bloomed so deeply, she actually felt physically lighter, as if a breath of warm, tropical air filled her chest.
She stepped forward and he stepped up behind her—not difficult since she was at the very end of the line—letting her hide her goofy smile she felt but couldn’t seem to banish. He’d liked the little gift. It had been a nothing gift, but the kindness of it. This was going to be okay, to be a good thing for him.
* * *
Lyons had considered, briefly, what to say when next he saw Sabetta.
I treated you unfairly...you can shadow me if you like.
Simple. To the point. Not infested with either emotion or too much welcome, so maybe she’d not take him up on it but the courtesy would salve somewhat.
He opened his mouth to say so, but something made him pause. Small talk was something Lyons hated on principle. Small talk meant nothing to him and didn’t ever convey anything of substance. It was a waste of time and breath.
But...maybe he should say something to her before just blurting out the invitation. Ease the way. Although, that might encourage her to take it.
Would it be so bad to encourage her to take him up on it? Nothing too dangerous could happen if he kept his focus...
Before he worked out what he actually wanted to say, what result he wanted, she’d returned to ignoring him and the entire world around her in favor of staring at her phone. Again.
He tilted his head to see what she was doing. Not texting. Tracking a subway line along a map.
“Are you planning a shopping excursion?” he asked, breaking the silence again as they shuffled forward toward the actual food and not miles of trays and silverware.
“I’m looking for somewhere to go get a picture.”
She didn’t look at him, just kept scrolling around, flipping back and forth between screens in between telling the worker behind the counter what she wanted on her sandwich and what kind of soup to dish up.
And didn’t explain what she meant at all.
“A picture of what?”
“A Christmas picture. For my sister. I already sent a Rockefeller Center tree picture to her the day before yesterday, but yesterday I didn’t get out anywhere to get a good picture.”
He gave his order quickly, then turned to look over his shoulder to the bank of windows separating the ground-floor cafeteria from the patio, where people could sit and eat when the temperatures weren’t made of frosty death.
Presently, all he could see was the vague outline of furniture through the driving snow and the blue cast everything took from the wintry onslaught.
“Going anywhere to get pictures in this is ridiculous,” he muttered. Helpfully. It was helpful to tell people they were being stupid if it was to their benefit to be told. Caring. Protective. “And obviously not something you’re excited about—you’re scowling into your phone.”
“No, I’m not.” Her voice had a sharpness he hadn’t heard before, and which seemed out of proportion to his mild observation. Even when he’d snapped at her, her response had been even and measured...
She stashed her phone in her pocket, took the dishes handed to her over the protective glass casing, then moved closer to the cashier, saying nothing else. But if shoulders could have a tone, hers did. A sharp tone. She stood so stiffly he wanted to touch her, jostle her, put her back to rights.
But he also wanted to make her see sense. “Tell your sister to come visit you if she’s so demanding of the New York Christmas experience.”
The words were barely out, and she turned to glare at him. Her dark eyes, which seemed vulnerable and far too young every other time he’d looked at her, now drilled into him. He’d been an ass to her and she hadn’t looked like that. So baleful.
Damn. This was not how this was supposed to go.
And he cared, for some reason. Maybe because she hadn’t written him off even after he’d been a jerk. Maybe it was a protective instinct. He had no idea. But it had been a long time since he’d thought of anyone in a positive light. A long time since he’d even been tempted to believe the best in anyone. Or wanted anyone to believe the best in him.
“I’ve got that,” he said over her shoulder to the cashier. “This is together.”
“No, it’s not.” She waved a hand at the woman ringing up their lunch. “We’re not together.”
“We’re not together,” he echoed, but added, “but I am paying for both lunches. It’s... It’s a... Christmas...thing. Merry Christmas.”
He didn’t know where the words came from, and clearly neither did Sabetta, who appeared so thrown by his statement that she stopped arguing. Her eyes rounded and stopped the neon Go to
hell sign he’d seen there. For a second, she almost looked happy, of all things.
It took her almost as long to answer as it had taken him to sputter the words out. “Thank you. Merry Christmas to you too.”
She grabbed her tray and fled, weaving through the tables at lightning speed in an obvious attempt to get away from him.
Buying lunch wasn’t going to make up any ground, even as much as his Merry Christmas had. And he wasn’t finished. He had a half-formed plan to complete.
He paid quickly, keeping an eye on the tables to see which way she headed, and set out after her as soon as the money left his hand.
It only took a moment to find her in the thickly packed tables. She’d chosen a small table, out of the way, and sat with her back to the room. A terrible habit. A dangerous habit. And it was his moral responsibility to say something, even if it made her angrier.
“If you’re trying to run away from me, you shouldn’t sit in such a manner that it’s easy for me to sneak up on you,” he said as he put his tray on the table beside hers and sat. “I’m trying to be friendly.”
She grabbed the edges of her seat and gave a little hop, and then another, opening up a little distance between them at the small table. “You just called me stupid for trying to make my Christmas away from my sister more bearable.”
Her words took a bite out of his righteous indignation and the distancing technique shamed him. If the cafeteria weren’t packed, he had no doubt she’d move to a different table. Still might, by the look of her, if he didn’t fix this.
“You’re right. I’m out of practice making conversation, and I hate talking small.” He took a moment to consider how to continue and took it as a good sign that she didn’t flee. “I didn’t mean to belittle your difficulties, but everyone is their own kind of miserable during the holidays. So, don’t feel like you’re alone in that, by being away from family this year.”
Healed Under the Mistletoe Page 5