Craving Her Rough Diamond Doc

She felt the burning in her eyes before she got to the door but managed to hold back a well of frustrated tears—they got no further than her lashes. Horrified didn’t begin to cut it.

Shaking started deep in her shoulders, after-effects of adrenaline. A simple walk up the hill wouldn’t suffice. She had to move.

Once clear of the building, Imogen broke into a jog. For a few minutes the scorching embarrassment from nearly coding poor Mr. Smith deadened the soreness that had racked her body since yesterday.

Wyatt’s repeated warnings that she wouldn’t fit in had sounded like a bunch of excuses before today. All her efforts to engage the patients, all the resisting of correcting the pronunciation of her name, all her good work…gone, in the wake of one well-intentioned mistake.

It figured that he’d be right about her fitting in but wrong about her having cell reception at the top of the hill. No bars again. The mountains rejected both her and her cellphone. What was she even doing here?

The surge of energy left as quickly as it had arrived, and rather than walk back down to the bus and chance an encounter with the blue grandpa, she hopped over the ditch on the shoulder of the road, walked into the trees and sat.

Day One—Epic Failure. Would he even allow her to attempt Day Two? Should she count herself lucky if he went ahead and fired her spectacularly later?

When Mr. Smith had been gone for twenty minutes and Imogen still hadn’t returned, Wyatt stored any loose items and started the bus. Not the greatest day on record, but at least she hadn’t started chest compressions and broken Mr. Smith’s sternum.

Wyatt considered the thought and dismissed it. Imogen might be a little culturally clueless for the region, but she was a good nurse. When the situation had failed to compute for her, she had come for him. It had been the right call.

He found her sitting beside the road, right where he’d told her to go, knees up and hand to forehead, propping it up. With little enough traffic on the country road, he stopped. A few seconds later he heard the bus door open and close, and finally she joined him.

“You all right?” Wyatt asked, not starting the bus again yet—no one waited behind them and he wanted to look at her. No anger, though the set of her shoulders and her refusal to look at him said enough. Dismay. Disappointment. Maybe even defeat.

“I’m fine. Can we go?”

She wasn’t fine, but was obviously not ready to talk about it. When they reached the motel and had settled in, he’d try again.

She buckled in and he got the bus moving, letting her soak up some peace as they made the forty-five-minute drive to the nearest little town and the motel he usually stayed at.

Family-owned motels were what Wyatt preferred. They were tiny, but they were also friendly, not connected to the interstate so they felt safer, and the owners happily learned his route and saved a room for him. The colors the rooms sported had probably been hideous even when new, but for some reason their homeliness tickled him. Something he appreciated after years of a cosmopolitan lifestyle. They were also extremely clean. Another selling point.

Pulling off into the gravel lot of his usual stop, Wyatt realized two things: no Wi-Fi, so he was going to have to get Imogen to talk at least enough to explain what happened with Mr. Smith; and the Trout Derby might have filled his usual room. Ten rooms in the whole building, and by his count there were ten vehicles in the lot.

Shutting off the ignition, he climbed out of his seat and headed for the door. “Wait here. I’ll make sure they still have the room waiting.”

Imogen had given no indication she intended to move, but he said it anyway.

“Okay.”

One-word answers from the talkative woman…From the number of cars, if they had a room saved, it was going to be just that: one room, which was what they always saved.

Imogen watched Wyatt cross the lot and enter the office before it dawned on her that he’d said “a room.” Singular. One. Did he intend on staying in the bus?

She should stop him before he spent money on the wrong accommodations. Moving quickly was off the menu for the foreseeable future—her body ached more than ever after sitting still for so long—but with a cup of effort and a bushel of unladylike noises, she peeled herself off the seat and made her way off the bus.

Wyatt stood at the counter, talking and laughing with the rosy-cheeked, grandmotherly innkeeper, charm personified. Another new mask. Were they gossiping? He had never once tried to charm her. Because he didn’t want her working for him. And maybe he also just didn’t like her. She didn’t rate Charm Face. Well, she didn’t particularly like him either, so whatever.

“Dr. Beechum.” Screw him and his renaming her. She’d still say his name however he wanted—regardless of the spelling. It was called being a professional. “Pardon me, did you say a room?”

When he turned to look at her, the smile left his deep brown eyes. “Yes, and Miss Arlene has saved the room for us.”

“To share?”

“Double room.”

“To share?” she repeated, leaning heavily on the second word to drill its importance into him. Why couldn’t she have promised Amanda that she’d just come and take care of her, not her job? Then she wouldn’t be stuck about to share a room with a man who…who…who…was bossy. And stuff.

“Amanda never minded.” He cleared his throat, smiled at Arlene And leaned away from the counter to approach Imogen.

“You’re her cousin! She has to like you well enough to share a room. And she’s Amanda. Even if she minded, she wouldn’t mind.” Why was she yelling? Imogen stopped the flow of words and rubbed the tension from her forehead. Maybe she’d just sleep on the bus. There weren’t any blankets, but there were pain relievers and really uncomfortable vinyl exam tables.

Sigh. Too tired. Way too sore.

“She had a long day and dragged felled timber for me yesterday,” Wyatt said to Arlene, making more excuses for her behavior. This day just kept getting better.

“Come on.” Key in hand, he winked at Arlene and then steered Imogen out of the office and to the nearby room. “Run a bath and soak, it’ll help. I’ll put your bag outside the door and fetch dinner.”

“There aren’t any other rooms available, are there.” She couldn’t manage more than the faintest trace of a question in her tone, just giving the realization a voice.

“Not for about thirty miles.” He paused inside the room, hand on the knob, ready to exit again. “Want to go there?”

Imogen looked around the room, the full weight of the décor hitting her at once. “Do they film porn in here?”