Chapter 16
Tim’s POV
The day begins with a tantalizing thought: it could have gotten even better than it already was if I’d acted on the moment Brielle unknowingly presented earlier in the morning. When she reached for the cup, the flash of bare skin hinted at an unspoken invitation. For a fleeting second, my thoughts ran wild, my pulse quickened, but restraint overpowered impulse. What if I’ve misread her? Mixed signals stir confusion, and I can’t afford the risk of turning wishful thinking into a bold move misconstrued- and it’s been a while since I’ve waded into the murky waters of romance. As tempted as I was, I opted
for caution.
Breakfast together was pleasant. The simplicity of shared moments carried a quiet intimacy, yet the brief glimpse of her apartment felt like a barrier I shouldn’t cross-only without being invited. By the time she returned to her penthouse for the day, my focus shifted toward work. Two surgeries and rounds awaited me, a schedule hardly exciting but always rigorous and intellectually absorbing.
“Good morning, Doctor,” chirps the too-familiar nurse, the one who’s cornered me a few times before with her overt attempts at flirtation. Her posture, her leaning, even her smile-it’s all meant to seduce. To me? It’s a display less alluring and more awkward, bordering on embarrassing. Honestly, she has the demeanor of someone suffering a gastrointestinal issue under the guise of subtlety. Half amused, half annoyed, I respond curtly.
“Morning. Mrs. Grellan’s chart, please,” I say, ensuring no warmth lingers in my tone. Any kindness risks misinterpretation from her. Two staff members, persistent and oblivious, receive the same treatment-the cold shoulder-not out of malice but necessity. I keep a distinct line drawn between professional interactions and personal entanglements. It’s unspoken yet rooted in wisdom; I’ve seen relationships between coworkers unravel and morph into workplace headaches that linger for months.
By the time I greet Mrs. Grellan, her familiar presence immediately lightens my mood. Her resilience impresses me-it’s been just over a week since her operation, and despite the natural delay in recovery caused by diabetes, her determination shines brighter than ever.
“Good morning, Mrs. Grellan,” I say warmly, “How are we feeling today?”
Her response is music to my ears. “Fine. When do I go home?” There it is-a sentiment signifying progress. She’s itching to regain her independence-a sign of recovery, unmistakable in every underlying tone. A patient longing for home rarely does so idly; she’s far from the worst-case scenario.
“Behave as you have been, and next week we can talk about arranging some home care to get you back sooner. How does that sound?” I inspect her wound, noting encouraging signs of healing. Her voice, seasoned in wisdom, interrupts with a playful subtlety.
“What happened last night, Doctor? You’re different today,” she observes almost coyly.
Caught off guard but unruffled, I respond lightly while adjusting her chart. “Why would you think something happened last night?”
“The glint in your eye. Wasn’t there yesterday,” she quips. Her sharp perception surprises me less than
her directness.
“I had a relaxing day off, visited an art gallery, grabbed a nice meal with a friend,” I admit. The words are careful, deliberately omitting any reference to Brielle’s gender.
11:08
Mrs. Grellan offers no reprieve. “Was she nice? Or a sister perhaps?” Her intuition knows no bounds; she is, after all, an old family friend. Anything shared with her could easily circulate back to my mother before lunchtime. A woman in my life would invite undue scrutiny, and unfortunately for Brielle, I’m unwilling to subject her to familial intervention-not now.
“Just a friend,” I stress, locking her gaze. That seems to satisfy her. She doesn’t press further.
What follows is her familiar persistence: “Good. Now, can I leave… or not?”
I shake my head with a warm smile, deflecting her insistence masterfully. “Not yet. You’re stuck enjoying my fine company a while longer, though you’ll likely find me insufficiently entertaining.” She meets my humor with a mock huff that elicits my chuckle. As I exit the room, the softer echo of the nurse chirps behind me, “Shower time.” Mrs. Grellan’s voice carries faintly, playful as ever, asking for a bath instead. Whether she gets her wish, I don’t hear, but odds are in her favor.
From there, the workday blurs-a rhythm of rounds, tomorrow’s surgery placements scanned, and patient meetings handled efficiently. The memory of Brielle lingers, however, seamlessly lifting a permanent smile across my face.
Evening arrives, bringing pizza time. Navigating the choices feels almost comical-I never asked Brielle about her preferences for toppings or sides, and the uncertainty leads to over-ordering. Garlic bread? Sure, why not. Her company makes it worth every indulgent bite, though I resist dipping into the notion that last night’s intimacy deserves pressing further now. Slow is better. Slow safeguards attachment from reckless paths that rebound emotions may crave. Stepping into the wrong category- a friend or fleeting repair-isn’t the conclusion I want, not for her and definitely not for me.
I like her. I genuinely want to discover Brielle’s truth beneath the resilient facade. My mother insists that when you meet the right person, you’ll know; and that fleeting tug the moment I collided with Brielle sparks curiosity I refuse to dismiss. Could she be more than a fragile figure in need of mending? Well, time will tell.
The morning brings relentless business. An emergency unfolds-a high-profile case of a heart attack rushed to our private hospital. Eight grueling hours later, the man survives despite odds stacked steeply against him. The aftermath leaves a sobering insight: his recovery will demand utter transformations in lifestyle.
Additional surgeries, ward figures, and preparations consume the rest of the day before exhaustion overtakes me. By the time I step through my front door, I’m a shell of spent energy. The routine wraps: shower, leftover pizza inhaled without ceremony, and bed sought as a refuge. As tired as I am, though, I welcome the weight of night knowing today-and yesterday-lingers warmly beneath it all.
