Heart of Stone: A Small Town Enemies to Lovers Medical Romance (Mountainview Hospital Book 2)

by Kaylin Evans

  I pick up the phone on the second ring, concerned that it might be the hospital calling me in for an emergency even though I’m not on call. But my sister’s name flashes across the screen.

  “Taylor?” I answer. “What’s up?”

  She’s nineteen and the way we grew up has made her mature beyond her years, but a little flutter of anxiety still announces itself in my chest as I wait for her answer. We text each other daily and since I moved to Hemlock Hills, I’ve been calling her once a week… but she rarely calls me.

  “Hey, Al, I’m in a little bit of a bind,” she says, and I already know exactly what kind of bind it is. I can sum it up in the same three words that have been plaguing our family for years. Dad’s gambling again.

  Before that, it was Dad’s drinking again, so I guess thank God for small favors and all that—he’s still an irresponsible asshole when he’s gambling, but at least he’s not violent.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, because sometimes it’s nice to pretend, ever so briefly, to be a normal family with normal problems. Why can’t it ever be the dog got loose or I need help filling out college applications?

  “Dad’s gone,” Taylor says. “He’s been doing good—I actually thought maybe this time he got it all out of his system. But I went to bed around midnight and when I got up, he was gone.”

  “I’m sure he’s just down at one of the casinos,” I say. “If you want to flush him out of there before he blows all his money, you should call Uncle Rusty and see if he’s willing to go fetch him.”

  Rusty isn’t actually our uncle, but he’s dad’s oldest friends, one of a dwindling number of people who are still willing to put up with his bullshit. Rusty moved out of town years ago—about an hour away—because the closer you are to my father, the more destructive he is in your life. But he has remained a friend, and he’s usually willing to lend a hand when Dad falls off the Gamblers Anonymous wagon.

  “I already called him,” Taylor says, “but you know Dad never comes back with more than he left carrying—even when we find him right away.”

  “How much are we talking about this time?” I ask, and the unspoken question—the one we both hate—is where did it come from?

  “I had this coffee can that I was hiding behind the cleaning supplies,” Taylor explains. “I mean, when’s the last time you saw Dad clean anything?”

  “Never,” I snort. Growing up, our house would have been condemnable if I hadn't taken it upon myself to clean it, and look after my little sister. “How much was in the can?”

  “About a thousand dollars I’ve been squirreling away from my job at the coffee house,” she says.

  I let out an audible groan. A thousand dollars may as well be a million in our world, and yet I’ve seen our father blow more than that in one hand of high-stakes poker.

  “It was supposed to be like an emergency fund,” she continues. “Or maybe even the first and last month’s rent on an apartment of my own. I figured the cleaning closet was the safest place for it.”

  Over the years, I’ve seen our dad do everything from hunt for loose change under the sofa cushions to steal the profits from my lemonade stand. Granted, for most of my childhood that money was going toward booze, but the gambling habit that Taylor is best acquainted with is only a marginal improvement.

  At least nobody has to clean up puke after Dad comes home from a hard night at the casino.

  “Well, I’m sure Rusty will find him sooner or later,” I say with a long sigh, “but you might as well just accept the likelihood that the money is gone.”

  I have to admit that I’m happy to hear she’s thinking about moving out. I stuck close to home all through med school and my residency, and I felt terrible about leaving my little sister alone with Dad when I took this job in Hemlock Hills. I keep telling her that she needs to leave or he’s just going to drag him down with her, but this is exactly the kind of thing he does to make sure you can never leave.

  “Well,” Taylor begins, then stops talking. I can practically see her pinching the bridge of her nose through the phone, the universal symbol for Dad is giving me a migraine. “I am worried about Dad. But that’s not the only reason I called.”

  “What is it?”

  “God, I hate asking this… I feel like him,” she says, her tone bitter. “I need money, sis. The rent is due, and so’s the electric bill, and of course Dad already blew through his own paycheck last weekend. I was going to use some of my stash to cover the bills.”

  “I won’t let you get evicted,” I say. “How much do you need?”

  “Five-fifty,” she says. “I know it’s a lot, but we’re a few months behind on the electric, actually. I’ll pay you back–”

  “No,” I say firmly. “Keep your money. Start saving for your own place again—and keep the cash somewhere safe this time. A lockbox at the bank, if you have to.”

  Both of us learned a long time ago that a simple checking or savings account was no deterrent at all because our dad has no qualms about forging his daughters’ signatures on checks.

  Taylor let out a long sigh of relief. “Thank you, big sis. This helps so much.”

  “I’ll wire you the money today,” I promise. “But you know this is just going to happen again, right? The three great certainties in the world are death, taxes, and Dad blowing all our money. You gotta get out of there.”

  “How can I leave him?” Taylor asks. “You know he needs somebody to take care of him, keep him in check.”

  Guilt twists in my gut—I spent a long time thinking that too, but that’s just what codependent parents want their children to think. “He’s a grown man who’s perfectly healthy other than the addiction that he refuses to confront. He can take care of himself, but he never will if he knows one of us will step in and handle everything for him. He’s not your responsibility, Tay.”

  She lets out a strangled noise, like part of her was hearing what I said and the other part couldn’t get past the guilt that was surely gnawing at her. “Yeah, sure,” she says, not at all convincingly.

  I’ve said everything I can for today—any more and she’ll start to resent me. I tell her to expect the wire transfer in an hour or two, then end the call with, “I love you, sis.”

  “I love you too,” she says. “I’ll call you when Dad shows up again.”

  Goodie, I think, then immediately feel guilty for the sarcasm. I pour my soggy cereal into the garbage disposal then grab my keys—I’m pretty sure there’s a Western Union in town.

  6

  Sawyer

  It’s a beautiful day and the weather’s starting to feel like spring. I’m on call, but so far my phone has been silent.

  Honestly, I kind of prefer it when my days off get interrupted by crises at the hospital because it gives me a sense of purpose and a distraction from the fact that I moved my whole life out to the middle of nowhere as a favor to my best friend. It turns out that if I’m not working, studying, or trying to pick up women, I don’t really have any hobbies.

  I’ve checked out all the townie bars, and I’ve pretty much drained the pool of attractive women who aren’t Mountainview employees in this town… but I have learned one thing on my days off. It’s surprising because I’ve always been a city boy, but it turns out I fucking love nature.

  Over the last few weeks, as soon as the weather has allowed, I’ve been hiking through the forests and mountains around Hemlock Hills. One day I found a gorgeous half-frozen lake out in the middle of the woods, and another day, I accidentally stumbled on Caleb’s cabin out there in the forest and we had a couple beers around a bonfire as we watched the sun set over the mountains.

  Woulda been romantic if I wasn’t sharing the moment with a bearded, burly mountain man.

  Today I set out early, determined to find out how high up the nearest mountain I could climb without any special gear—and without breaking my damn neck.

  It turns out the answer is not all that far. The Hemlock Mountains become vertical pretty fast, a
t least in places accessible from the valley. I’d worked up quite an appetite just hiking to them, and I didn’t feel brave enough to pull any Cliffhanger-esque stunts, so I turned back a little before noon.

  I’m close to ravenous by the time I get back into town and I’m marching up Main Street, pack still on my back and my shirt sticking to my torso while everyone else walks around in coats. I’m sure I’ll feel the chill once I start cooling down, but right now, I’m single-mindedly focused on one thing: getting my hands on the biggest, meatiest Atomic Sub on the menu.

  And about a gallon of water.

  I’m about halfway to the sub shop when I see Alyssa walking up the other side of the street toward me. She looks harried and not at all happy, and I’m just debating whether making my presence known would improve or worsen her mood when she stops at a side street.

  She looks up it, not noticing me, and she’s scowling. Then she turns on her heels and stomps her way up the side street.

  “What the hell?” I mumble as I watch. I should just let her go about her business—she’s a grown woman, and as she’s so fond of reminding me at work, she’s got no use for me in her life.

  But I’ve done a fair amount of exploring around Hemlock Hills on my days off over the last few weeks, and I know that even in a small town like this, there are some undesirable areas. And the street Alyssa is on is one of them.

  I jog across the street, my stomach giving a loud rumble of protest at the detour from the sub shop. I’m just going to keep an eye on her from a distance—make sure she’s okay, I tell myself as I walk up the street. There’s a check-cashing place and a used tire store where all the tires on display are a few millimeters away from bald, and an internet café with a row of obnoxiously large Now Open flags flapping on the sidewalk in front of it.

  Alyssa is standing across from it now, her arms folded over her chest. That scowl is still on her face, and she doesn’t stand still long—to my surprise, she marches up to the door, throws it open, and disappears inside.

  I actually stop in my tracks, trying to figure out what the hell she’s up to.

  I know a couple of surgeons whose favorite way to blow off steam after a stressful surgery is gambling, and I’ve heard it said that all the seedy little ‘internet cafés’ that pop up overnight and disappear sometimes just as quick are nothing but fronts for video slots and poker—illegal gambling. But Alyssa just doesn’t seem the type.

  And that scowl… it’s the sort of face you make right before you throw a punch.

  That’s what gets me in the building. Whether she likes my company or not, I’m sure she’ll appreciate my intervention if I stop her from getting into a career-ending altercation in there. Maybe when she cools down, she’ll thank me, and if I’m really lucky, she’ll tell me what the hell the problem was in the first place.

  I go inside and the first thing I notice is that the place is dark. There are overhead lights but none of them are turned on—the only things illuminating the small space are about a dozen computer screens and a tacky green rope light strung up all the way around the top of the walls.

  More than the sleazy lighting and the half-dozen people seated at the computers, though, my attention is drawn to Alyssa. As is the attention of everyone else here, because she’s currently screaming at a man I can only assume is the owner.

  “This place is illegal, and I’m sure you know that!” she’s yelling at him. “You weasel your way in with that bullshit sweepstakes loophole and use it to take advantage of people who have addiction problems—these people sure as hell have better things to do with their money than line your slimy pockets!”

  The people at the computer terminals look surprised, maybe even alarmed, but the guy behind the counter is pissed.

  “Who the fuck asked your opinion?” he shouts back. “Are you the cops, lady? Can I see your fucking badge? Yeah, I didn’t think so. Get the hell out–”

  He takes a step toward her and my heart leaps into my throat at the possibility of this turning physical. I couldn’t even hazard a guess about which one of these two will be the one to take the first swing—I just know it’s time to step in and stop it.

  I try to take Alyssa’s hand and she wrenches it away from me, spinning around and the first punch damn near lands on the bridge of my nose. When she sees it’s me, though, some of the fight drains out of her. “Sawyer?”

  “Oh good,” the angry dude cuts in. “You her boyfriend? Get the crazy bitch out of here.”

  “Hey, watch it,” I snarl, and he actually takes a step back, even with the counter between us. I turn back to Alyssa, careful not to say her name as I put on a gentle tone and suggest, “Let’s get out of here, okay?”

  The last thing she needs is this guy figuring out she’s a doctor at the shiny new hospital up the road and deciding to sue her for making threats. That could put her medical license in jeopardy. I tug softly on her upper arm, trying not to draw her wrath again as I nudge her toward the door.

  This time, she seems to see the wisdom in leaving and she lets me guide her away from the counter. As we go, though, she looks at each and every one of the people in the room, making eye contact. Most of them look away, unwilling to meet her gaze—whether because they feel guilty for their presence here or because they think she’s crazy, I don’t know.

  I open the door and a harsh slice of sunlight cuts into the darkness, and just before we leave, Alyssa tells them, “Go home to your families. These games are unregulated and rigged against you—you’ll never win. Get some help–”

  She’s still talking even as I pull her onto the sidewalk and let the door swing shut behind us. Only when the latch clicks into place does she finally look up at me, embarrassment washing over her face as if she just now realizes what she was doing.

  “Oh my God, Sawyer,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear and smoothing down a few flyaways that had gone wild while she was doing much the same inside. “What are you doing here?”

  I gesture up the street. “I was on my way to Atomic Sub and I saw you go in there. It seemed like you might be in trouble, so I followed you.”

  The look she’s giving me demands an apology, but I’m pretty sure I just saved her from a nasty verbal sparring match at the best, and assault at worst. So I don’t apologize—I just study those steely eyes, trying to figure out what the hell’s going on inside her head.

  She takes a deep breath and seems to clear her mind, the last of the anger melting away, then says, “Well, thanks. I had quite a few more choice words for that asshole, but it’s probably good that you dragged me out of there.”

  “Want to tell me why an internet café makes you see red?” I ask. “You got a gambling problem, Grant?”

  She presses her lips together, shaking her head, and I can see emotion welling behind her eyes again—only this time, it’s pain.

  This is not a conversation for the sidewalk, and because I’m so hungry by now that my stomach has resorted to trying to digest itself, I take a chance and ask, “You want to walk down to the sub shop and tell me about it over lunch? I’m buying.”

  Alyssa’s lips are still firmly pressed together, a look I know well from watching her in the operating room. It’s her thinking face, and right about now she’s probably weighing the pros and cons of being seen with me in public. She probably hasn’t even gotten around to considering actually sharing whatever’s going on with her. I mean, I’m practically her nemesis.

  But against all odds, maybe just because it’s a nice spring day and anything is possible, she says, “Okay, fine. But I want a meal combo—not just the sandwich.”

  I laugh. “Would I cheap out on you?”

  She smirks. “Probably.”

  7

  Alyssa

  As Sawyer and I walk the couple of blocks to Atomic Sub, the full weight of what I’m doing right now settles on me.

  Having lunch with the cocky surgeon? Not great.

  Getting rescued from a fight by said cocky surgeon?
Embarrassing to the highest degree.

  But what I’m about to do—going on to tell him exactly why he had to rescue me back there—well, I’ll just mark that down as an out-of-body experience.

  It has to be done, though. It’s not like I can just walk away and pretend none of this happened next time I see him in the hospital. That internet café owner called me a crazy bitch, and without any sort of explanation about my actions, I have to agree that’s exactly what I looked like back there.

  So as distasteful as it will be, I owe Sawyer Stone an explanation. Hey, at least it comes with a free lunch.

  We go into the sub shop, which is just dying down after the lunch rush. I get my usual—a turkey club—and Sawyer orders a spicy Italian sub, and then he lets me choose where to sit. I find the most isolated booth I can, tucked into the back corner of the restaurant near the kitchen, and slide into one side.

  He sits down on the other, and for a couple of awkward minutes, we occupy ourselves with poking straws into cups, unwrapping subs, opening chip bags. It feels almost like surgery, only we’ve got a table between us instead of a patient, and no masks to hide behind.

  “Thanks for lunch,” I say.

  “You’re welcome,” he answers.

  I notice the backpack he’s got on the bench beside him and say, “I didn’t interrupt your day off, did I?”

  “Nah, just got back from a hike,” he says, and I smile because that would explain why he’s already inhaled most of his sub. “More importantly, what the hell were you getting up to on your day off, other than inviting yourself to an ass-kicking?”

  “I could have taken that guy.”

  Sawyer snorts. “He was twice your size.”

  “He was a bully,” I say. “Bullies fall apart the minute somebody fights back.”

  The rest of his sub gone, Sawyer sits back in his seat and studies me like my face alone will tell him everything he wants to know. His eyes tracking over me is an interesting sensation—one that gets me hot under the collar.