Dr. Forget-Me-Not

The orderly pointed to the rear of the salon. “I just saw him going to bed 6.”

“Thank you.”

Melanie lost no time finding just where bed 6 was located.

The curtain around the bed was pulled closed, no doubt for privacy. She was angry at Stewart, not whoever was in bed 6, so she forced herself to be patient and waited outside the curtain until the doctor was finished.

As she stood there, listening, she found that Dr. Stewart was no more talkative with the hospital patients than he was with the women and children he’d examined at the shelter.

It occurred to her that if he was like this all the time, Dr. Stewart had to be one very lonely, unhappy man. Obviously he was living proof that no matter how bad someone felt they had it, there was always someone who had it worse.

In her opinion, Dr. Mitch Stewart was that someone.

* * *

Mitch had been at this all morning. Rod Wilson, who had the ER shift right after his, had called in sick. Most likely, Wilson was hung over. The man tended to like to party. But that didn’t change the fact that he wasn’t coming in and that left the hospital temporarily short one ER doctor. Which was why he’d agreed to take Wilson’s place after his own shift was over.

As far as he was concerned, this unexpected event was actually an omen. He wasn’t meant to go back to the shelter, this just gave him the excuse he needed.

He’d felt out of his element there anyway, more so than usual. Here at least he was familiar with his surroundings and had professional people at his disposal in case he needed help with one of the patients.

That wasn’t the case at the shelter and even though he knew his strengths and abilities, he didn’t care for having to wing it on his own. Too many things could go wrong.

Finished—he’d closed up a small laceration on the patient’s forearm caused by a wayward shard from a broken wine glass—Mitch told the patient a nurse would be by with written instructions for him regarding the proper care of his sutures.

With that, he pulled back the curtain and walked out.

Or tried to.

What he wound up doing was walking right into the annoying woman from the homeless shelter.

His eyes narrowed as recognition instantly set in. “You.”

He said the single word as if it were an accusation.

“Me,” she responded glibly.

Since he’d started walking, she fell into place beside him. She wasn’t about to let him get away, at least not until she gave him a piece of her mind—or a chance to redeem himself, whichever he chose first.

Mitch scowled at her as he pulled off the disposable gloves from his hands. “You realize that this is bordering on stalking, don’t you?”

Her eyes narrowed into slits. “You’re not at the shelter.”

“Mind like a steel trap,” he marveled sarcastically. He paused to drop his gloves into a covered garbage container. “Tell me, what gave you your first clue?”

There were things she wanted to say to him, retorts aimed straight at his black heart, but she had to make sure first that there wasn’t the slimmest possibility that he could be convinced to come back with her.

She gave him one last chance. “There’s a room full of people waiting for you.”

Mitch frowned. “Didn’t your director give you the message? I called,” he told her.

“After the fact,” she pointed out since he had called almost an hour after he should have been at the shelter.

“Better than not at all,” Mitch said sharply, wondering why he was even bothering to have this discussion with this annoying woman. He didn’t owe her any explanations.

“Better if you came back with me,” she countered, going toe-to-toe with him.

Her display of gall completely astounded him.

“Better than what?” he asked. And then his eyes widened. “Are you by any chance actually threatening me?”

She would have loved to, but she was neither bigger than Dr. Stewart was nor did she have anything on the doctor to use as leverage, so she resorted to the only tactic she could.

“I’m appealing to you,” she retorted.

“Not really,” Mitch shot back.

The moment the words were out of his mouth—and he was glad he’d had the presence of mind to say them—he realized that they actually weren’t true. Because, strangely enough, she did appeal to him. What made it worse was that he hadn’t a clue as to why.

If he’d had a type, which he’d long since not had, it wouldn’t have been a mouthy little blonde who didn’t know when to stop talking. He liked tall, sleek brunettes with tanned complexions, dark, smoldering eyes and long legs that didn’t quit. Women who kept their own counsel rather than making him want to wrap his hands around their throats to stop the endless flow of words coming out of their mouths.

So why the contradiction in his head?