Page 33 of Healing Hearts
Turning to face her wrath, “I could ask you the same damn thing! Don’t you dareeverwalk into a room and push a nurse out of the way again. Do you understand me? I’ll have you permanently removed from the hospital.” I turn to walk away from her.
“You embarrassed me in front of my co-workers for no reason!” She ignores my demand as she grabs my arm and pulls me around to face her.
I throw my finger in her face, “No, Vivian. You did that all on your own. Stay away from my patients and from me. Do you hear me?” I wait a breath to see if she does but she doesn’t seem to grasp how serious I am. “Do you?”
Parker walks up next to us, “Everything okay here?” He asks.
“Dr. Travino.” Vivian acknowledges his presence then turns to me giving me an evil eye and walks away.
Parker whistles. “I hope she’s not some kind of witch or something, because if she is, you just got cursed my friend.” We both watch Vivian saunter down the hallway and turn around the corner.
“Oh, she’s a witch all right. Just not the kind you’re talking about.”
Chapter 13
Brooke
The soft, sultry notes on a CD of an indie jazz saxophonist I found when I was in New Orleans for a weekend during college fills my cozy library, wrapping around me as I settle back into my chair, closing my eyes for just a moment. The music seems to wrap around me, seductive and smooth, and somehow, it's not just the jazz setting my skin alight. It's the phantom memory of Trevor's hands, rough and gentle, lingering from last night.
The memory of his touch is still vivid—his fingers trailing lightly across my collarbone, his lips brushing my ear as his low voice murmured my name like a prayer. My body betrays me with a shiver, the warmth blooming in my chest and radiating outward.
“God, what are you doing to me?” I murmur, almost to myself, fingers hovering above my laptop keyboard. When I open my eyes, reality floods back in. The blinking cursor mocks me—a stark reminder of my current predicament. Writer's block. Every author’s worst nightmare, and right now, it’s mine.
I groan, leaning back. "Come on, Sophie," I whisper, usingmy pen name as a kind of motivator. "It’s just another steamy scene. You've written hundreds of them."
But this scene doesn’t feel like any other. It’s flat, uninspired, the spark is nowhere to be found. No matter what I try, I can't seem to capture that electric tension, the raw passion that two people truly wrapped up in each other would feel. And I know why.
My mind is entirely consumed by Trevor. By the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing that matters in the world. By the way his hands find mine so effortlessly, like they were meant to. By the way he kissed me this morning—slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to savor me.
My gaze drifts to the window, where the hibiscus flowers outside sway in the ocean breeze. "Maybe I need a change of scenery," I muse aloud. "Or maybe…"
Trevor's face flashes through my mind, and heat creeps up my neck. His playful smirk, the twinkle in his blue eyes, the way his voice deepens when he’s teasing me. "No, Brooke," I mutter, trying to chide myself. "You can't use him for inspiration. That's... crossing a line."
But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. I’ve already crossed that line in my mind a hundred times. My fingers itch to type, to let the emotions flow, to finally break through the writer’s block.
"Just one paragraph," I bargain with myself. "One little taste, and then I'll delete it. No one will ever know."
My fingers skim the keyboard threatening to set it on fire as the words fly faster than I think possible, each one carrying a little more intensity than the last. I let myself sink into the details, the sensations, the emotions—the sheer want that’s been bubbling inside me.
"His hands traced a path of fire down my spine," I murmur as I type, my cheeks warming. "Each touch ignited a spark, a promise of?—"
My phone vibrates on the desk next to me, jarring me out of the haze. I glance at the screen:Trevor. My heart skips, and a nervous smile tugs at my lips. I swipe to answer, holding the phone to my ear.
“Hey,” I say, trying to sound casual, though my pulse is anything but.
“Hey yourself,” he replies, his voice like warm honey. “Just checking in. How’s your day going?”
I glance at the half-finished sentence on my screen, the heat still lingering in my cheeks. “Oh, you know. Lying in bed just hanging out.”
“Need help?” His tone is teasing, but there’s a hint of curiosity there.
If only he knew. “I think I’ve got it under control.”
“You’re a perfectionist,” he says, chuckling softly. “It’s one of the things I think I like about you.”
His words send a flutter through my chest. “Careful, Dr. Jacobs. You’re dangerously close to distracting me.”
“That’s the idea,” he says, and I can practically hear his grin through the phone. “Dinner tonight? My treat.”
