“Perfect, well—”
“Did you have a good afternoon?”
There was a small pause. “Uh, yeah, I guess. I was at work. A twelve-hour shift. Although, as usual, we were understaffed. And who do they expect to pick up the extra patients? Me.”
Holden’s fingers tightened around the phone. If Briar was working, then it couldn’t have been her. “Can I ask you about Malcolm?”
“Malcolm Trundle? Sure. I heard about his suspension. I should probably be more surprised about what he did than I am.”
“You’re not surprised that he made his patients sick?”
“He was a man whore. Slept around like he was Casanova.”
Holden frowned. “How does that—”
“He’s not a good person. And people who aren’t inherently good obviously do bad things. Plus, all that sepsis treatment fame probably went to his head and he started getting a God complex.” Briar huffed. “Anyway, I need to go. See you next week for the kitchen install.”
She hung up, and Holden lifted the plate and headed toward the bedroom. If Malcolm slept around, could he have pissed off the wrong person and someone was framing him? Or had he pulled a woman in to help him, and that woman had attacked Clara tonight to protect him?
There were too many possibilities.
He stepped into Clara’s room and had just set the food on her dresser when glass shattered in the bathroom.
He cursed and ran, crashing through the bathroom door to find Clara, naked in the tub, broken glass on the tiles.
Clara cried out and pulled her knees up. “Holden! What the hell?”
“What happened?”
“I broke a jar of magnesium.”
He scanned her, needing the confirmation that she was okay.
When his heart rate started to return to normal, he finally focused on other things. The drops of water trickling down her arms. The smooth thighs tucked against her body.
Shit. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’ll clean it up.”
“Aftermy bath, you mean.”
“Now, Clara. I don’t want you to cut your feet. I’ll be quick. I’ve also brought you food.”
Her brows lifted. “Food?”
He smiled as he left the room to grab the plate of food and the dustpan and broom.
There was a small gasp when Clara saw the croissant. “I didn’t have that in my house.”
“Aspen brought it over.”
“Remind me to kiss her feet when I see her next.”
He handed her the plate before squatting to clean up the glass and magnesium. “You don’t get sick of croissants?”
“Do you get sick of breathing?”
He laughed. “Guess not.”
She picked at the flaky dough. “I’ve loved croissants since I had my first, and when I tried my first almond croissant, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Although, I didn’t eat them a lot while I lived in New York.”
