Page 4 of Take Me Home for Christmas

I took a giant breath. And rubbed my forehead. It had been so hard to support my mom this past year when I’d had so little time off, but my stories had distracted her and given her something to look forward to. Along the way, I’d inventedhappiness in the form of a boyfriend who was kind, funny, handsome, and treated me like a queen.

He greatly resembled Brax times ten—like, Brax if he’d never broken up with me. If he’d said he loved me instead ofCan’t we please be friends?

I marveled that, somehow, I’d managed to do what I’d never been able to do before—fool my mother. And I’d done it spectacularly. I wasn’t congratulating myself for my Academy Award-winning performance or my on-the-spot creativity—every time I added onto the pile of lies, I literally broke out in a sweat.

I’d invented the perfect man. The only problem was, now I had to produce him. ForChristmas.

I’d tried telling my parents back in November that he couldn’t make it. But then my mom, her immune system already weakened, got sick with a head cold that had gone straight into her chest, requiring antibiotics and a brief hospital stay for pneumonia. She’d sounded so discouraged, so weary and tired, that I said he could make it after all.

Yes, I’d panicked. But fortunately, I now had a plan. My pal Gabe offered to play the part, which was just for a long weekend. Eventually, in a month or two, maybe, I’d tell my mom that we broke up, but it wouldn’t be a big deal because by then, she would hopefully be long past this awful health scare.

So it was all going to be fine. I had it covered.

On the ward, Dr. Robin Miller, who was in her first year of practice, sat down across from me at the nurses’ station. She finished a call with another doc and hung up. “Hi, Mia,” she said, “how’s it going?”

“You’re here late.” I glanced at my watch. Almost seven. I was already getting called about night shift admissions from the ER.

She sat back and rubbed her very pregnant abdomen. “Long day.”

Robin was the only female physician in the prestigious BCP Group—named after the founding partners, Drs. Brunner, Curry, and Pendergast—but affectionately called by nearly everyone the Brew City Pediatrics group. Otherwise known as the most well-respected practice in town, it was the practice that ran the smoothest, stayed up to date on all the latest trends, and which invested the most time teaching the residents. It was also the group where Brax and I were both vying for the one open spot.

They were the best group with the highest standards, and I wanted that job more than anything. I loved working with people who loved their jobs, who strove for excellence, and who truly cared about making a difference for kids—everything that checked all my boxes for why I wanted to be a pediatrician in the first place. Come July, I’d be done with residency and ready for the real world, and I couldn’t wait.

She came right out and addressed what was on my mind. “I don’t think we’ll be making a decision about the job until after the holidays. You and Brax are both such excellent candidates.” She took a sip of water from her flask. “All I can say is, enjoy third year, because that’s a dream compared to private practice.”

What?I, along with every other resident, was under the impression that residency might be its own form of hell, but the light on the other side was finishing and having a real job. Life balance was just a few elusive months away.

Robin must have noticed my puzzled expression. “You know how high the standards are in our practice. We all work as long as it takes for our patients. That’s why we choose the hardest-working residents to join us.”

I didn’t want to question her too much, lest she question my dedication, even though her comment struck me as a little intense. So I settled on “Is practice what you expected?”

She hesitated. The tiniest bit. Yet that little pause took me from concerned toreallyconcerned. “I’m the only woman in the practice, so I’d love more representation. Sometimes I feel that it will take bringing on another woman to bring some balance, if you know what I mean.”

I was really confused, but just then, the charge nurse walked over to ask me a question about someone’s medication, and Robin’s pager went off, so our convo ended.

When I finished, Robin was gone, but there was Brax, giving a pep talk to Pedro, a gangly teen of fifteen, who was passing by, dragging his IV pole behind him. They talked ping-pong strategy while Brax took the pole, walking alongside him, deep in conversation.

I got up, grabbed my laptop, and headed down the hall. Brax saw me coming and glanced up. “Hey, Mia,” he said in his sexy, deep voice, “hope you and Bianca have been talking, because Pedro and I have our strategy down.” He fist-bumped with Pedro.

I loved being on call with him. Well, no onelovesbeing on call, but the key here waswith him. He had a way of making even the most awful nights fun.

“Bianca and I are going to win,” I said with confidence. “What are we playing for this time?”

“Ice cream!” Bianca said as she passed by on her tenth lap. She smiled widely at Pedro, and he returned an equally enthusiastic smile.

Aw. Seemed like those two had a little bit of a crush going on.

“Already in the freezer,” Brax said. “Waiting for me and Pedro to feast on it.” He rubbed his flat stomach and licked his chops, making Bianca, Pedro, and me roll our eyes.

A visual appeared before my eyes—I’d seen that flat stomach up close. Those sculpted abs. That lovely chest. And all the restof him. I could attest that every body part was of excellent quality. But oh, how I wish I could erase those images.

Brax’s fun-loving antics with our patients had entertained my mom over the past few months and helped her—and me—through a tough time. Now, I just had to play out the charade until I could end it. My stomach gave a nervous flip, like it did when I knew I was in trouble. I reassured myself that everything was set up perfectly, if a little precariously. What could go wrong?

Chapter Two

Mia

“What do you mean you’re sorry, but you can’t come home with me for Christmas?” I froze in the middle of plopping scoops of snowball cookie dough on baking sheets at my friend Gabe’s sparkling quartz island. It was Wednesday night, and we were in his apartment, listening to Michael Bublé belt out “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” Gabe’s rescue cat, Stupor Queenie (a name we’d given her after a long ICU rotation and too much wine), sat on the roof terrace of her kitty penthouse, flicking her tail and staring at us as if to say,Your people problems are waaay too complicated.

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