Taming The Beastly MD

Rita eyed him suspiciously. It wasn’t like Matthew Grayson to forget things. And it wasn’t like him to avoid anyone’s gaze. What was up with him today? He seemed a little…off.

“Is everything okay, Dr. Grayson?” she asked before thinking. “You don’t seem like yourself.”

His gaze shot back up to meet hers, and only then did Rita realize how familiarly she had spoken to him. Boston General didn’t have rules against such behavior, but Dr. Grayson did. And everyone knew it, because he’d made it clear over the years that he was not the kind of person who spoke about personal things. But Rita couldn’t help it. It was in her nature. Family matters were a big deal with the Barones, and were generally discussed quite candidly.

Still, she should have known better with Dr. Grayson. She didn’t know what she was thinking to have asked him such a question and offered such a remark about his well-being.

“And who do I seem like, Rita?” he asked coolly.

“Uh, no one in particular. Just…you know…not yourself.”

“And how does myself usually seem?” he asked further.

“Uh… I, uh… What I meant was… It’s just that…” Great. Now she’d done it. How did one get oneself out of a painted corner without messing up one’s shoes? she wondered.

“Yes, Rita, everything is fine,” Dr. Grayson finally interjected before she gave herself enough rope for a self-inflicted hanging. And in doing so, he simultaneously put her out of her misery, and put her back up in the process. “Not that that’s any of your concern,” he added sharply.

Another point to the beastly Dr. Grayson, Rita thought.

She bit her lower lip to keep in a tart retort. Instead, she nodded silently and glanced momentarily away. But when she looked his way again, she noticed his eyes weren’t meeting hers, though his attention was lingering on her face. More specifically, on her mouth, she realized. He was noticing how she was anxiously biting her lip and…

…and probably thinking her the worst kind of neurotic.

Immediately, she ceased her fretting and forced herself to attention. “I’m sorry,” she said, though even she couldn’t detect a trace of apology in her voice. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Didn’t you?” he asked.

She shook her head, knowing she spoke the truth. Why would she want to pry into Matthew Grayson’s life? Just because she found his seemingly inexplicable gruffness intriguing? Just because he had such dreamy green eyes? Just because he seemed to be as dedicated to his work as Rita was to hers? Just because he had such dreamy green eyes? Just because she’d been wondering since the day she started working in CCU what his story was? Just because he had such dreamy green eyes? Just because she wished she could work up the nerve to ask him about those scars on his face and neck?

And had she mentioned his dreamy green eyes?

Get a grip, Rita, she told herself. This was Matthew Grayson, MD, whose green eyes she found so dreamy. He was a distinguished cardiac surgeon and an eminent curmudgeon, probably almost ten years her senior and too serious by half. He wasn’t the kind of man she should be wondering about in any way. He wasn’t her type at all.

Not that she had a type, she quickly reminded herself. But if she did have a type, it wouldn’t be Matthew Grayson, MD.

Even if he did have dreamy green eyes.

“No, I didn’t,” she said, recalling now that he had asked a question. “I didn’t mean to pry. I was just a little concerned, that’s all.”

Dr. Grayson studied her for a moment more, long enough to make Rita think he was wondering something about her, too. Then, in a brisk, that-will-be-all kind of voice, he assured her, “You needn’t be concerned about me.” Before she had a chance to comment further, he spun on his heel and walked away.

Point three to the Beast.

Rita was a Barone, though, and Barones always got in the last word, no matter how many points behind they were. Always. So, quietly enough that he couldn’t hear, and to his retreating back, she said, “Trust me, Dr. Grayson, when I say that I won’t be concerned about you. Ever.”

Point to the Barone. Finally.

Then Rita returned to both her chair and her work. Still not feeling as if that last word was quite enough, however, she glanced back up in time to see Dr. Grayson’s imposing figure disappearing around the corner at the end of the corridor. And she fired off another last word to punctuate the others.

“Beast,” she said.

For some reason, though, it didn’t make her feel any better.

Matthew Grayson managed—barely—to make it back to his office in the medical towers adjoining Boston General before his knees finally collapsed beneath him. He staggered over to his desk and toppled into the leather chair behind it, then inhaled a deep, ragged breath in the hopes that it might quell the rapid-fire banging of his heart. Then he called himself every kind of fool.

Rita Barone had come this close to catching him this time. When he’d seen her leave the nurses’ station, he’d thought she was taking a longer break than a few short minutes, so he hadn’t been in any hurry to slip the little package from the pocket of his jacket into her mail slot. Plus, he’d had to wait for another nurse and a visitor to conclude their conversation near the nurses’ station and walk off before he could even approach. He couldn’t risk anyone seeing him anywhere near Rita’s station when he did what he had to do.

He’d only just managed to leave the gift and steal away before she’d returned. Lucky for him she’d been entirely focused on not spilling her coffee as she’d walked down the corridor. Had she glanced up, even for a second, she would have seen him standing there, then would have found the gift after he left, and then would have had no trouble deducing who had been leaving her mysterious presents for the past two months.

And damned if Matthew didn’t feel like the biggest buffoon on the planet for leaving those mysterious presents. Here he was, a thirty-three-year-old man, one of the most noted surgeons in New England, and a member of one of Boston’s most illustrious families, and he was behaving like a goofy junior-high-school kid, leaving secret gifts in the locker of the girl he liked. What in God’s name had reduced him to such behavior?

Well, of course, he knew that. And he felt like an even bigger buffoon admitting it. It was the simple presence of Rita Barone in the coronary care unit at Boston General. The “beastly” Dr. Grayson—yes, he knew quite well what his nickname was around the hospital; he had ears, after all—had a crush on one of the nurses. And not just any nurse, but a nurse who was young and pretty and vivacious. A nurse who would surely be shocked and repulsed if she ever found out the identity of her secret admirer.

Talk about your Beauty and the Beast scenarios. Without even meaning to, Matthew had reduced himself to a cliché.

Gingerly, he lifted his hand to his left cheek, tracing his index finger over the scars that even the most talented plastic surgeons and the most sophisticated cosmetic surgical techniques couldn’t erase. The deepest of the wounds had gone straight down to the bone. Well, the deepest of the physical wounds, at any rate. Over the past twenty-three years, Matthew had undergone more surgery for his face than he cared to think about. Really, he supposed he looked pretty good, considering the viciousness of the attack and the depth of the damage. Physically, any scarring that was left was relatively superficial. Emotionally, however…

Well. Those injuries had gone straight down into the bone, and in many ways, had been even more damaging than the physical ones. Nor were they as repairable. Although he knew no one was perfect, Matthew was imperfect in ways that most people were not. He couldn’t imagine someone like Rita Barone—someone who was very nearly perfect, at least in his eyes—ever wanting to get any closer to him than she had to.

He propped his elbows on his desk, closed his eyes, and buried his face in his hands, hoping that by doing so, he might be able to think about something else, visualize something other than Rita’s dark, soulful eyes and her lush mouth. But he couldn’t stop replaying the image of her nibbling her lip the way she had, and he couldn’t halt the heat that swept through him when he remembered it. He could still hear the sound of her soft sigh and her reverently whispered “Oh, my” as she opened the box with the crystal heart, and that, too, filled him with a strange sort of warmth unlike anything he had ever felt before.

She had liked her gift, he realized, relief coursing through him like a slowly thawing springtime stream. And she had been wearing the bracelet and pin, too, just as she had worn them at work every day since he’d left them for her. Something about that gladdened Matthew, as if there was a little part of him she kept with her every day, even if she didn’t realize it herself.

Surely, he thought further, there was something wrong with him, finding a guilty sort of pleasure in a secret he was sharing with no one.

No, he immediately corrected himself, dropping his hands from his face to place them resolutely on his desk. He did not have a crush on Rita Barone. It wasn’t that at all. He focused his gaze on the opposite wall of his office, the one hung with his degrees and awards and commendations. He wasn’t the kind of man to have crushes. He was far too pragmatic and accomplished.

He admired Rita Barone, he told himself, that was all. Admired her on a professional level, and nothing more. Surely there was nothing wrong with admiring a co-worker. Nor was there anything wrong with being unable to verbally articulate that admiration. There were plenty of people who were uncomfortable expressing such sentiments. Matthew had never been one for the touchy-feely sharing of emotions—none of the Graysons were—and God knew he wasn’t about to start now.

He admired Rita Barone, he told himself again, more adamantly this time. He respected her dedication to her work, and he appreciated her ability to relate to patients in a kind and caring fashion.

Take last February, with a homeless man named Joe. Rita had calmed the man’s fears, and stayed by his side throughout his open-heart surgery. Because of her, the old man had made a total recovery.

Matthew had been amazed by her kindness and nurturing during that time. He’d envied her then—and still did—the gift she had for relating to and sympathizing with others, two things he’d never been able to master himself. Of course, there was a reason for that, but it didn’t keep Matthew from feeling diminished in that regard. As he’d watched Rita interact with Joe, Matthew had been touched on a level where he’d never felt anything before.

Back in February, he’d wanted to do something to let Rita know how much he had appreciated her help with Joe. Since he was uncomfortable vocalizing such things, he’d decided to leave some small token of his gratitude in her mail slot instead. He’d seen the bandaged heart pin in the hospital gift shop, and he’d thought it would make an appropriate gift. He’d written a note of thanks to leave with it, but the day had been so hectic, he’d forgotten to include it. He’d also forgotten that the day in question was Valentine’s Day.

It was only later, when he began to hear the rumors about Rita Barone’s secret admirer that he realized what he had done. The last thing he’d wanted to do at that point was identify himself and risk being labeled Rita’s secret admirer by the hospital grapevine. That would have only led to teasing, and Matthew hated to be teased. There was a reason for that, too, but no one would have cared. All he’d known then was that he couldn’t let himself be fingered as Rita Barone’s secret admirer. So he’d tossed the note in the garbage and kept his mouth shut.

Of course, that didn’t explain why he’d felt compelled to leave her another gift last month, on her birthday, or a third gift this evening, on the anniversary of her start at Boston General. Hell, it didn’t explain why he even knew those dates. And it certainly didn’t explain why he’d deliberately made sure those gifts were given anonymously. What did explain that, Matthew thought now, was…

Ah, dammit. He didn’t have an explanation for it.

Sure, you do, he told himself sarcastically. You admire her. On a professional level. There’s nothing more to it than that. Even if she does have the kind of dark, soulful eyes a man could get lost in forever and never find his way back.

Oh, stop it, Matthew commanded himself. You’re getting maudlin in your old age.

And old was often how he felt around Rita Barone. Old and scarred and beastly.