"You're gonna be fine, boy," I mutter. "More than I can say for your asshole owner."
The bitter words roll off my tongue like an old song. I've said worse about Beau Blackwell these past two years, usually when Jack Daniel's loosens my mouth at the Drunken Spur. Hell, half the county's heard my thoughts on that particular subject.
A soft knock cuts through my brooding like sunshine through storm clouds. "Dr. Mercer? Everything okay in there?"
Lucy.
Just the sound of her voice hits me somewhere below the belt. Sweet as honey but with that New York bite underneath that promises she's got claws when she needs them.
"Coming," I call out, taking one last look at Dusty before heading for the door.
I push through into the reception area and stop dead.
Holy hell.
Lucy's standing behind my desk wearing a pair of my surgical scrubs that are about three sizes too big. The pants are rolled up at her ankles, the top hanging off her small frame like a tent. She looks like she's playing dress-up in her boyfriend's clothes.
Seeing her wrapped in my things sends heat straight to my groin.
The reception area looks like someone waved a magic wand over it.
What was a disaster zone when I went into surgery is now organized within an inch of its life. Files sorted by color and date, appointment book open with Lucy's neat script filling the margins, even the dying plant by the window looks like it might survive another day.
Mrs. Cross perches in the waiting area with her bear-sized rottweiler sprawled at her feet, chatting with Lucy like they've been friends since childhood.
"Dr. Mercer!" Mrs. Cross lights up like Christmas morning. "Praise Jesus you found yourself some real help. This little angel's been worth her weight in pure gold."
Lucy's cheeks flush rose-pink, and I have to clench my fists to keep from stepping closer to see how far down that blush travels.
"Mrs. Cross, I'm not really—"
"Nonsense, sugar. Look what you've accomplished." The old woman sweeps her arm around the reception area. "Poor Dr. Mercer's been drowning in his own mess since Emma went on leave. High time someone with actual sense stepped in to save him."
I scan the space again, cataloging details. Phone messages sorted by crisis level. Appointments juggled with detailed notes explaining every change. Hell, even the ancient magazines are lined up like soldiers.
"You did all this?" I ask, and the amazement in my voice is real as dirt.
Lucy tugs at the sleeves that hang past her fingertips. "Hope that's all right. People kept showing up for appointments, and the phone rang off the hook.” She glances down at the oversized scrubs.
"Had to change out of my clothes…they were covered in blood from Dusty. Found these in your supply closet, hope you don't mind..I didn't want to interrupt your surgery, so I just..."
"Just what? Performed miracles?"
Her blush spreads like wildfire, and something primitive and possessive roars to life in my chest, demanding I stake a claim right here, right now.
"How's Tyson doing?" I ask Mrs. Cross, forcing my brain back to safer territory before I do something stupid.
"Still got the bellyache. Been off his feed for two solid days." She frowns down at her mountain of a dog. "Lucy here thinks it's something he's been eating out in my flower beds."
I swing my attention to Lucy, caught off guard. "You know about dogs?"
"Not much." She lifts one shoulder in a way that makes my scrub top shift enticingly. "But Mrs. Cross mentioned he's been tearing up her garden. Some plants are toxic to dogs, aren't they?"
Smart girl.I would've wasted time running through the usual checklist, but she zeroed in on the real culprit like a natural.
"Damn good instinct," I tell her, watching her whole face transform at the praise. Makes me want to discover all the different ways I can put that glow there.
I guide Mrs. Cross and Tyson into the exam room, every nerve ending aware that Lucy's eyes are tracking my movements from the desk.
