Anything You Can Do

  I don’t have a problem with the war evolving.

  It’s that I have no clue what’s lurking around the corner, what little tricks Lucas has stuffed up his sleeves today, and it’s putting me on edge. It’s making me second-guess every decision I make.

  Monday morning, I slip into a black dress that hits my knees, stand in front of the mirror, and try to see myself from every angle. Yes, it looks appropriate from the front, but what if I have to dip down and retrieve a pencil. Will the seam ride up tastefully, or will it scream out yee-haw?!

  I replace the black dress with pants and a blouse. No danger with fitted wool trousers.

  Except these days, being around Lucas affects my internal thermostat. I’m no longer able to regulate body temperature the way I’m accustomed to. I replace the wool pants with a thin pencil skirt and then leave my room before I toss another article of clothing onto the floor.

  It has been two weeks since Lucas and I started working together at McCormick Family Practice. I’ve had enough time to adjust, and yet when I stroll into the office Monday morning and see him preparing a cup of coffee in the kitchen, the sight of him still shocks me.

  There are milliseconds that pass in which I see Lucas as everyone else sees him—tall handsome doctor with thick brown hair and a perfect white smile—but it’s a mirage, a fictional oasis that disappoints as I draw near and remember that the image belongs to Lucas Thatcher.

  “Having a case of the Mondays?” he asks, suspicious of my inspection of him.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know.” I sigh before urging my legs to propel me into the relative safety of my office.

  Once I’ve dropped my things beside my desk, I open my purse and pull out the items I collected before leaving the house: a bottle of red nail polish Casey fawned over and a hardcover edition of Dark Matter for Gina. They’re not bribes, per se, just gifts meant to elicit support—all part of Phase II.

  After the book and nail polish are gratefully accepted, I float around in a triumphant haze. Giving really can be better than receiving, I think as Lucas and I walk into the exam room to see our first patient. Mrs. Vickers. 56. Ankle pain with slight swelling. I have the lead, but Lucas will undoubtedly cut in at some point to offer his own two cents. I want to smash his piggy bank.

  “Mrs. Vickers, good morning. I’m Dr. Bell and I’ll be taking care of you today.”

  “Jesus! Finally!” She slams her magazine down on the floor. I reach down to pick it up, but she doesn’t want it back, so I clutch it awkwardly. “Where do you get off making people wait? I had an appointment at 7:45 AM and it’s 8:00 AM. Do you think I can just sit here and wait on you all day? I have a job too, you know.”

  I want to correct her—our first appointments of the day are always at 8:00 AM—but I’m still drifting on a cotton candy cloud.

  “I’m truly sorry about that,” I say sweetly. “I understand your time is important, and I want to make this right. After you leave, go across to The Brew and tell them to put your coffee on Dr. Bell’s tab.”

  “Ugh, coffee gives me diarrhea. Listen lady, you think that because you’re wearing a white coat you get to rule over everyone else around you? Well guess what? I won’t stand for it. You better believe I’m leaving a bad review on Yelp.”

  I can sense Lucas behind me, no doubt enjoying the attack. Not so eager to jump in on this patient, are you Dr. Thatcher?

  “Mrs. Vickers, there’s nothing I can do now except get you healed up so you don’t have to waste any more time here, so let’s get to the point: you mentioned some swelling and tenderness on your right ankle?”

  Her arms are crossed and her eyes are narrowed. I can tell she was looking for more of an outburst to feed into her provocation, but I’ve disappointed her.

  “Yes. The right one,” she mumbles, turning away.

  “Then let’s take a look.” I drop her chart and magazine on the counter and step forward. It’s another five minutes of games before she lets me examine her foot. The bruising and sensitivity paired with her story of the tumble down the stairs definitely warrants concern.

  “I think we ought to send you down to the county hospital for a weight-bearing x-ray. It’s definitely sprained, but we need to rule out something worse.”

  “You can’t do that here?! This is ridiculous!”

  “I’m sorry. We’re a small family practice clinic. We don’t have the equipment—”

  “Oh save your bullshit for someone else, Blondie. My Yelp review is only getting longer,” she snarls, pulling out her rhinestone-encrusted smartphone.

  “All right, that’s enough.” Lucas’ voice booms from behind me and I go pin straight. “You’re obviously having a bad day, but if you can’t treat Dr. Bell with the same respect she’s showing you, I think you should take your healthcare needs somewhere else. When you get there, I’d also suggest starting with a weight-bearing x-ray.”

  My eyes are so round with shock they must take up half of my face. For maybe the first time in her life, Mrs. Vickers is speechless; she is clearly more accustomed to bullying teenaged cashiers at Dillard’s. She stares at Lucas in silence for a few seconds before she turns to me, not quite meeting my eyes. “Which hospital did you say?”

  Lucas is back in the kitchen pouring his second cup of coffee when I walk by later that morning. I stop and turn to him, aware that we’ve already stood on these marks this morning: him with his coffee cup in hand and me lost for words.

  From anyone else, I would have openly appreciated the show of support, but I don’t want Lucas to see me as some damsel getting her first taste of distress. Being in medicine has exposed me to far more and far worse than Mrs. Vickers, and I’ve learned to handle it in my own way.

  “Did you explain what happened to Dr. McCormick? I’ll corroborate your story if needed,” he says, like I need an alibi in a murder investigation.

  I shrug, trying hard to ignore the urge to thank him. “He wasn’t surprised. She’s apparently caused trouble here before. I don’t think she’ll be back.”

  “Good, and by the way…” His brows are furrowed and he’s wearing a troubled expression. “I know you had it covered back there, but I couldn’t just sit there and let her talk to you like that.”

  I tilt my head and study him. “So is that it? You’re the only one allowed to bully me?”

  Silence follows unlike any I’ve heard before. It’s not the absence of sound, more like a held breath, or nervous words caught in a nervous throat.

  He turns to me and for a few seconds we’re locked in a staring contest. His brows furrow again and then I think, He’s beautiful. The thought springs up out of nowhere and I try to shove it back in its box. Too bad it doesn’t fit anymore. There’s no use in trying to deny it. He stands there staring at me with chiseled features and punch-you-in-the-gut brown eyes. My breathing picks up and Lucas notices. He’s staring at me like he wants something.

  Like he wants me.

  I tremble. I want him to answer my question so I can bolt into my office and barricade the door, but instead, he leaves his coffee and pushes off the counter. He steps into my personal space. It’s an intimate approach, one with intent, and when I realize I’m backed against the wall, my heart rate attempts a Guinness world record. Hummingbirds have nothing on me.

  I have to look up to see his face and even then, I don’t see much. His features are indecipherable. Have I insulted him? Turned him on? I nearly laugh at the second option, but then his gaze flicks to my lips and I don’t feel like laughing anymore.

  He bends low and my stomach flips. For some incomprehensible reason, I wonder if he’s going to kiss me. Right here, right now, after 28 years of this war. Maybe he realizes he doesn’t stand a chance going up against me head to head so he’s employing the other parts of his body, but he should know that the street he’s pushing me down goes both ways, and all the swords he’s playing with are double-edged. Sure, he’s no longer the scrawny Lucas from a decade ago, but even with his new Body by Pub
ertyTM, he has to have calculated the risk in playing a game of sensual chicken with me.

  I lean in close, trying to show him that proximity doesn’t bother me. My body brushes his, and I suppress my revulsion—or is that lust? Either way, I am in it to win it. I will mash my face into his if I have to.

  His body is pressed against mine and the hallway is noisy. Someone will round the corner and he will have to step back.

  “I asked you a question,” I say, and then I regret it. My voice is shaky.

  Is this a part of our war?

  He looms over me as he raises a hand to my throat. I think for one horrible second that he is going to strangle me, but his finger brushes across my collarbone instead. Gently. Painfully.

  “If you come any closer, I’ll scream,” I warn.

  “I don’t think you will.”

  I squeeze my eyes closed, preparing for death, and instead his lips press against mine. I am still alive.

  Maybe more than ever.

  My hands reach up to push him away. After 28 years, it’s instinct. Self-preservation. To their credit, my hands do make it to his chest, but then my synapses must get crossed, because Lucas Thatcher is kissing me and I’m not pushing him away. Lucas Thatcher, bane of my waking life and lead role in my nightmares is kissing me, and my good hand is wrapped around the collar of his white coat and tugging him.

  Hard.

  Against me.

  My brain hums at max capacity, but all my neurons are bumping into each other, trying to reason out this exchange. Can you kill someone with a kiss? I think that’s what he’s doing—slaying me with his mouth. He leans in and bites my lip, and it’s not gentle. I know the only hope of retaliation is to overwork his brain as well. I slide my tongue past his lips and deepen the kiss.

  Take that.

  He lets out a husky groan and hauls me against the wall. I’m pinned by his hips and I’m vaguely aware that either the tile floor has ceased to exist, or I’ve been lifted off of it. He’s got me right where he wants me and my body, obeying a lifetime of training, refuses to back down. My breasts feel heavy and full against his chest. Even my nipples reach for him. My panties need to be changed and I’m ashamed, but not ashamed enough to stop. Lucas pulls back for a second, dragging in a haggard breath, and I jump on him, bringing his mouth back to me.

  I say when this is over.

  His hand wraps around the base of my neck, twining in my loose strands. I shiver and he tightens his hold. God, he’s a good kisser. Of course he is. There is nothing Lucas Thatcher doesn’t excel at and I find myself appreciating just how adept he is at mouth-to-mouth combat.

  Too good. He tilts my head. Grips my neck. Presses. Deepens the kiss until I’m panting. Until a heaviness settles between my legs and I feel him against my stomach. It’s a shocking sensation, a hardness I’d never considered.

  He tastes like a guilty pleasure, one that will undoubtedly sour once I’m alone again. We are enemies. Foes. And yet when Lucas takes my waist in his large hands and rolls his hips with mine, I feel like we’re working together to build something. Mutually assured destruction.

  “I’ve paged them three times.”

  I register Mariah’s voice, but it seems far away, miles at least.

  “Really? Let me go see if I can find them.”

  Now it’s Dr. McCormick. He’s rounding the corner into the hallway we’ve been using as our weapons testing facility and Lucas leaps back so quickly, I don’t have time to get my footing. I collapse back onto the tile in a heaping pool of desire and useless limbs.

  “Daisy? Why are you on the ground? Mariah’s been paging you.”

  “She lost a button.”

  It’s Lucas who offers the insane explanation.

  My mouth is open. Red. Bruised. Most definitely incapable of communication.

  Dr. McCormick, shockingly, doesn’t question us. He’s too swamped with patients to consider that every button on my white coat is accounted for and my hair is sticking up in every direction. “All right, well look for it later. You two have patients waiting.”

  He turns back and leaves us, and I look up at Lucas, expecting to find him wearing his signature I’m-so-pleased-with-myself smirk.

  Instead, his eyes are dark brown pools. Heated.

  His breaths are as audible as mine and his brows are knitted together, almost like he’s angry. His lips are a flat line of confusion, and then I think, I kissed those lips.

  Oh my dear god.

  I kissed Lucas Thatcher.

  Did the earth just quake?

  He reaches down to help me up and I wish I had thought quicker and stood by myself. I’m not ready for him to touch me, not when I am still coiled like a spring under pressure. He keeps hold of my bicep until I’m steady. I stare down at his muscled forearm, studying the tight grip he has on me. It’s sizzling.

  Gently, he brushes a bit of dust off the back of my white coat and then steps back. He looks like he did ten minutes ago. Dr. Thatcher, M.D. Poised. Handsome. Terrible. Me? I am a poor excuse for a human being standing on shaky knees.

  “To your earlier question: yes.”

  “What?” I ask, my voice raspy.

  “I’m the only one,” he says before walking away.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ever since our little hallway mishap, I’ve started having what we in the medical field call “intrusive thoughts” involving Lucas. They are referred to as such because they are unwelcome, typically of an inappropriate nature, and completely impossible to suppress. The fact that I’m having them about Lucas is especially distressing because, apart from one NyQuil-induced dream I had in eleventh grade, I can honestly say I’ve never thought about Lucas in that way.

  I’m eating my lunch locked inside my shoebox of an office while I casually dispatch Lucas’ CV to high-ranking hospitals around Alaska. After I’ve hit send on the fifth submission, I start to digest both my turkey sandwich and Lucas’ motives for kissing me. I know he is trying to get inside my head. What was once a childish chess match has turned into an X-rated game of capture the flag, except our underwear are the flags. I’m seriously considering going commando for a few weeks, but I don’t think that will dull the intrusive thoughts.

  Lucas innocently filling a cup of water becomes Lucas turning and drizzling it down the front of my white coat.

  Lucas politely bending down to retrieve my dropped pen becomes Lucas on his hands and knees, begging for me.

  Medical talk becomes dirty talk. Stethoscopes and blood pressure cuffs become sex toys.

  By closing time on Tuesday, I want to tap out. I’ve gone 28 years without so much as a second glance at the dweeb I used to call “Lucas the Mucus”, and in the matter of one morning, he’s rattled me. I need to go home and exorcise whatever demon he’s awoken in me. I need to Amazon Prime some sage and perform an ancient cleansing ritual under a full moon in the center of town. I need to Google how to erase a few hours from someone’s memory so I can go back to the way I was B.K. (Before Kiss).

  I am cracking and I want to flee, but I still have to talk to Dr. McCormick before I leave. I have a plan for community engagement (Phase II) that will knock his socks off. I’ve planned a time to talk to him alone, near the end of the workday, because I am a coward.

  At 5:58 PM, I tug open my office door and look to the left to see if Lucas is still here. His office door is closed, but the sight does little to calm my nerves. I tiptoe out into the hallway—carefully sidestepping the spot where the incident happened—and then I knock on Dr. McCormick’s door. He’s transcribing notes into his ancient computer but welcomes me in with a mustached-smile and an exaggerated wave.

  “Heading out for the day?”

  “In a second.” I smile and hold up another bag of cookies. “I wanted to give you these before you left.”

  His eyes light up at the perfect blend of cinnamon and sugar. “More snickerdoodles?”

  “My mom’s recipe,” I gloat. “I told her I needed to butter you up, and
she said she knew just the recipe.”

  I swear he blushes. “There’s a reason that woman was the top fundraiser at the Hamilton High bake sale while you were in school. I think I’ve purchased every damn doodle she’s ever baked.”

  Yes. I remember.

  He tears open the bag as soon as I bring it within reach and I use the opportunity to launch into my well-rehearsed speech.

  “So I’ve been thinking about what you said the other week, about community engagement, and well, I took the initiative and booked a booth at Hamilton Founder’s Day Fair next Saturday. It’s up at the high school. We can do free blood pressure and BMI checks, low-cost flu shots, that sort of thing.”

  He leans back in a chair so worn I fear it will keep tipping until he’s on the ground. Somehow, it stops just before he’s horizontal. He points at me with his half-eaten cookie and nods. “That’s fantastic. Our office hasn’t sponsored a booth like that in ages. It’s just the sort of thing I was looking for.” I beam, but then Dr. McCormick ruins my moment. “You’ll both go.”

  “Oh.” I shake my head vehemently. “That’s not necessary. The fair really isn’t all that big. I’m more than capable of manning the booth all on my own.”

  His gaze falls to my cast for only a brief moment, but it’s still long enough to tell me he doesn’t think I can manage the booth without Lucas’ help. If I could, I would gnaw the cast off with my teeth just to prove my capability.

  “Oh I know you can, but I think it’s best if you both go,” he repeats, closing the discussion. “I trust you’ll give him all the details.”

  And like that, my genius idea is splintered in two. I saunter out, dejected at the thought of having to share the booth with Lucas. Even on the way home, the promise of fried chicken can’t lift my spirits.