by Kaylin Evans
Heart of Stone
An Enemies to Lovers Small Town Romantic Comedy
Kaylin Evans
Copyright © 2021 by Kaylin Evans
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
1. Alyssa
2. Sawyer
3. Alyssa
4. Sawyer
5. Alyssa
6. Sawyer
7. Alyssa
8. Sawyer
9. Alyssa
10. Sawyer
11. Alyssa
12. Sawyer
13. Alyssa
14. Sawyer
15. Alyssa
16. Sawyer
17. Alyssa
18. Sawyer
19. Alyssa
20. Sawyer
21. Alyssa
22. Sawyer
23. Alyssa
24. Sawyer
25. Alyssa
26. Sawyer
27. Alyssa
28. Sawyer
29. Alyssa
Epilogue
Epilogue 2
Sneak Peek: What the Heart Wants
About the Author
Free Holiday Anthology
1
Alyssa
This guy just SCREAMS cocky surgeon, I think, resisting the urge to roll my eyes right there in the surgical suite, where half a dozen surgical technicians, nurses and the anesthesiologist can see it.
I’ve been working with Sawyer Stone—God’s gift to women and the patients of Mountainview Hospital, to hear him tell it—for just over six months, and I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.
“Suction,” he says.
A perky blonde surg tech who can’t be more than twenty-two and acts sixteen inserts the suction tube into the patient’s abdomen, clearing blood from the incision site. She stands a little too close to Sawyer, and I can smell her perfume from across the operating table.
“Thank you, Trish, that’s very good,” he says as she steps back and he resumes the bowel resection. Even in a mask, even wrist-deep in somebody’s abdominal cavity, he manages to smirk and be charming as fuck. For a second, I wonder if Trish is gonna swoon.
It’s a damn miracle the hospital hasn’t had a malpractice incident yet, because all the surg techs act like she does around him.
Hell, in the interest of full disclosure, I acted like that around Sawyer Stone when I first met him. He’s got tall, dark and handsome down to a science, and his biceps have a way of straining against his scrubs that’s positively mesmerizing.
But it didn’t take me long to figure him out, and I’m unimpressed.
Sure, he may have some fancy publishing credits for a flashy piece of 3D tech that he worked on during his residency.
He may have graduated near the top of his class at Harvard Medical School—yeah, I dug into his background.
But you know what else he has? Connections. He just so happens to be best friends with one of the co-founders of Mountainview Hospital. Yeah, I sure wish I’d known that little detail before I agreed to take this job.
I also wish I knew I’d be competing against him to be Chief of Surgery next year… another small detail Chief Cane left out when I interviewed here. But what’s a girl to do? My options are A, complain to Sawyer’s BFF, who is Chief Cane’s son; B, complain to the chief himself; C, admit defeat and quit; or D, suffer in silence long enough to get that job and put this guy in his place.
I chose D, for a lot of different reasons, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy watching him flirt with all the women in the surgical department.
“Well?” I ask, still holding the paper mask to my face, damn close to tapping my foot with impatience while I make sure to stay outside the bounds of the sterile field—I haven’t scrubbed in, and Sawyer’s keeping me waiting.
He looks up. “Oh sorry, Grant, forgot you were there.”
Not Dr. Grant—just Grant, like we’re drinking buddies or something. Like I’m standing around the outskirts of his OR because I want to be part of his cheering section instead of because I’m waiting to give the family an update.
“Yeah, I can see you’ve got a lot of distractions today,” I say, looking pointedly in Trish’s direction.
“Twenty more minutes on the bowel resection,” Sawyer says, “then another twenty to close. No complications so far.”
“Thank you,” I say, then turn on my heel and march out of the operating room before he has a chance to tack on something snarky or flirtatious.
That’s how it’s been for the last month—an endless stream of flirty and sarcastic comments directed at me and every other female staff member in the hospital. The only difference between me and the rest of them is that they like it—I just think he’s an ass.
It annoyed the hell out of me for the first week or two, until I called home and talked to my sister, Taylor.
“So he’s an unprofessional manwhore,” she said. “Doesn’t that work to your benefit?”
“How?” I’d asked. “His best friend founded the hospital, for crying out loud. I think he already knows.”
“But what about the other guy?” my little sister pressed. “The hospital chief’s the one who’s gonna be hiring you, so he’s the one you have to impress. I bet he doesn’t want a Chief of Surgery who’s going to be bringing him new HR complaints every other week.”
“That’s a good point,” I’d conceded, and it actually has helped me feel better about this whole situation since then.
Sawyer Stone may have every other woman in this hospital wrapped around his little finger. He may be bursting out of his scrub shirts and his puppy dog eyes may melt everyone he looks at. But I know I’ll be the better Chief of Surgery.
That job is mine, and I’m not going anywhere—except out to the waiting room to update the patient’s family, because unlike Sawyer, I’m a damn professional.
2
Sawyer
The first person I see when I step out of the elevator in the morning, before the sun has even risen above the horizon, is Alyssa Grant. She’s standing by the nurses’ station with a travel mug in hand, and she scowls when she looks my way.
It really ruins her whole vibe.
She’s a beautiful woman—short and petite, just how I like them, with big, wavy brunette curls that she pulls back in a bun when she’s working, and dimples in her cheeks on the rare occasion that she directs a smile my way.
And her curves… incredible. She’s almost always wearing scrubs that are tragically baggy, but I bet she’d be heart-stopping in a pair of tight jeans or, God help me, yoga pants.
I made a move on her when the hospital first opened. I know dating coworkers is frowned upon—Ryder made sure to read me the riot act on that particular subject before I even signed my onboarding paperwork—but I didn’t exactly want to date her at the time, if you catch my drift.
Unfortunately, she turned me down cold—and I do mean slammed her office door in my face cold. She’s been giving me the evil eye ever since.
Too bad for me that only serves to give me a semi every time I see her.
“Morning, Tami,” I say, giving her a wink as I walk behind the nurses’ station to clock in. “Morning, Grant.”
The night nurse gives me a sleepy smile. Her shift is just a
bout to end and from the looks of it, Alyssa’s been here grilling her on the overnight progress of our patients for a while now.
“That’s Dr. Grant to you,” she tells me, and I give her a cheeky salute. Aye aye, captain.
I go into my office—right next door to Alyssa’s, a little way down the hall from the nurses’ station—and drop off the lunch that I may or may not have time to eat, then return to the desk as I slip into my lab coat. “Everything quiet overnight?”
Tami opens her mouth to respond, but Alyssa cuts in instead. “I’ve already touched base with Tami—everyone’s doing well. I also took the liberty of changing the dressing on your bowel resection patient—little bit of swelling but he’s healing up nicely.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say. “Did you empty his colostomy bag too?”
She gives me a wink that turns me on way more than it should and says, “No, I left that for you.”
“Aren’t you a peach,” I say, resisting the urge to give her plump little ass a playful smack as I walk past.
She’s easy to get a rise out of, and honestly, that can be fun… but I stand a little taller, puff out my chest a little bit as I grab an iPad from behind the counter and saunter off in the direction of my first patient of the day.
The truth is that I may cultivate the playboy attitude, and I definitely enjoy the ego boost of having all the female nurses and surg techs swoon whenever I step into a room, but I’m also a damn good surgeon and it rankles a bit to think that Alyssa can only see the playboy.
That’s why, the following Friday night when I’m at The Summit having beers with a couple other Mountainview doctors and in walks Alyssa, I resist the urge to try to pick her up.
“I don’t know,” I’m saying to Finn Carter, pediatrics, and Caleb Decker, internal medicine, when the front door swings open.
We’re sitting around a small table along one wall and my back is to the door, so I don’t notice the new arrival right away. I’m too busy comparing this place to the bars Ryder Cane and I used to frequent back in Cambridge.
“There’s a dance floor and the music’s all right, but a DJ’s always better,” I say, hooking my thumb in the direction of a big digital jukebox in one corner. “And I just think this place has too much of a small-town dive bar feel.”
“I happen to like small-town dive bars,” Caleb says, taking a long pull from his beer bottle.
We’ve been systematically trying out all the bars in Hemlock Hills and the surrounding areas every Friday night since the hospital opened, and so far, we keep coming back to The Summit as our favorite.
“Yeah, it’s… what’s the word?” Finn starts to say.
“A shithole?” I suggest, but he ignores me. Okay, so I miss city life.
“Cozy,” he supplies. “There’s a dart board in the corner, a pool table, and the bartenders know what they’re doing. What more do you need?”
“Okay, so the bartenders are pretty cute,” I concede. “I just wish there were more of them.”
So far, Caleb has been more or less indifferent toward my quest for attractive women, and Finn seems actively repulsed by it. Like right now—he’s curling his lip at me. “Are you actually that much of a caveman, or do you practice in the mirror before you go out?”
I’m about ready to throw the towel in on the whole night—great set of wingmen these two are. They’re both single, attractive and straight, so for the life of me I can’t figure out what they’ve got against going on the prowl.
“I’m getting another beer,” I say, frustrated. “You two ready for another round?”
Finn downs the last of his beer, and Caleb’s been dry for a few minutes already because he sucked most of his bottle down in one long pull. I get up and head in the direction of the nearest bartender, and that’s when I finally notice her.
Alyssa is with a couple of women I recognize from the hospital—nurses, I think. They’re at the pool table and I thank the gods that baggy scrub tops are not appropriate Friday night attire. Instead, Alyssa is bending over the felt in a tight little shirt and what’s pretty obviously a push-up bra.
There’s a stern look of concentration on her face as she lines up her shot. It seems like that’s one of only a few go-to expressions for her. I’ve rarely seen anything else.
Brows furrowed, eyes narrowed, bitten lower lip means I’m focusing hard.
Soft features, widened eyes, slight smile is her compassion face—never directed at me, almost always reserved for patients and their family members.
And the one I’m the most familiar with—one eyebrow arched, hooded eyes full of judgment, half a smirk on her plump lips. That is the look she has assigned to me, and it pretty much always means are you serious right now?
On the break, she sinks a stripe in the side pocket, and the moment the ball disappears, she looks beyond the pool table and our eyes meet. For an instant, I think she likes what she sees, and then she must remember she hates my guts because she turns her attention back to lining up her next shot.
It’d be rude not to say hello to coworkers, I think, giving myself permission to approach the trio.
“Evening, ladies,” I say. Ordinarily, this is when I’d check out the other two, maybe take my pick before I attempt to bring them back to the guys, but this time, I hardly notice anyone but Alyssa. She sinks another ball and walks around the table, conspicuously increasing her distance from me. “Nice shot.”
Arched eyebrow. Unimpressed with my presence here, probably ruining her Friday night.
“Thanks,” she says grudgingly.
“You’re Dr. Stone, right?” one of the other girls asks, looking up at me through her lashes. “I’m Holly and this is Caitlin. We’re pediatric nurses. And this is Alyssa–”
“We’ve met,” Alyssa cuts her off.
“Oh, duh,” Holly says. “Surgeons—you two are probably quite well acquainted.”
She gives Alyssa a coy smile that is not returned. As my cold-shouldered coworker sinks another stripe, I say, “Are you going to let anyone else play?”
Alyssa flashes me a look with some fire in it and I can tell that in spite of herself, she’s enjoying showing off her pool skills. She says, “I was thinking about just cleaning up the table all by myself, actually. Unless you think you can catch up?”
“Is that a challenge?” I ask, even though I already know the answer—everything with Alyssa is a competition. Lucky for me I’m up to the task.
“Here, you can take my cue,” Caitlin says. “I’m no good at this game anyway.”
I accept it and step up to the table, waiting for Alyssa to miss a shot and give me a chance. She makes an easy straight-on shot to the corner pocket, leaving three stripes and all seven solids still on the table.
We had a pool table in the basement of my fraternity house back in undergrad, and I got pretty damn good playing by myself between classes and with whoever was hanging around in the evenings. I’m confident I can catch up if Alyssa doesn’t break and run.
While she’s lining up her next shot, I sidle up next to her and slide my hand along the glossy wood top rail right where her hips are leaning up against it. My hand is just inches from her and even I get a little distracted thinking how easy it would be to grab her by the belt loops and pull her toward me.
Alyssa steps back, giving me a confused and irritated look, and I put on an innocent face, holding up the cue chalk I was reaching for.
As I dust it over the tip of the cue, I make no move to back away from her and say, “Well, what are you waiting for, pool shark?”
She hip-checks me, bumping me out of her personal space while she lines up her shot, and as much as she tries to maintain that I’m focusing hard face, I catch her looking at me out of the corner of my eye. She misses her shot and I step up to the table.
3
Alyssa
Sawyer plays pool as well as he does surgery—that is to say, maddeningly well.
Why can’t he just suck at something, anything, or be
a smidge less Adonis-like? As I watch him pocket five solids in a row, I think it truly is unfair that this man is so talented in so many ways. At least there’s his personality to ward reasonable people off. It doesn’t appear to be doing anything to dissuade Holly or Caitlin, but I can’t stand the cocky doctor thing Sawyer’s got going on.
When he misses a bank shot that’s admittedly pretty tricky, I go on the offensive again. I accepted this invitation from the peds nurses to check out the Hemlock Hills nightlife because I’ve had a long week and I wanted to get away from Sawyer. I have no intention of letting this drag on long enough to open the door for him to join us for the whole night.
“Hope you had fun,” I say as I step back up to the table, “because that’s all the pool you’re playing tonight.”
I’m as good as my word—pocketing three stripes in a row and then sending the eight-ball home in short order. Sawyer sets down his cue and holds out a hand.
“Good game,” he says. “Although I definitely want a rematch one of these days.”
His hand is warm and soft, and his cologne fills my head for a moment. It’s not something I’ve smelled on him at the hospital—he usually just smells freshly scrubbed—but it’s nice, like new leather.
“I’ll kick your ass any time you like,” I say.
“Is that a promise?” he asks, and when I roll my eyes, he steps it back a bit. “Can I buy you ladies a round of drinks?”