Page 3 of Tasting Fire
Instead, she grabbed Oliver’s wrist and said to everyone clustered around them, “If y’all don’t mind, Oliver and I would like some privacy.” He actually let her tug him from behind the desk and into a small janitorial closet crammed with mops, brooms, and industrial-sized bottles of cleaner that were supposed to freshen even the most disgusting mess. But all Emmy could smell were bleach and vomit.
Once the door was closed, Oliver snarled, “What was that?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” she demanded. “What kind of person does what you just did? You put me on the spot in front of my colleagues. It was completely inappropriate.” Not to mention completely unromantic. If she had to apply a description to the shit show just now, she’d call it a premeditated ambush.
“You said y’all.” Oliver said in an accusatory tone.
“What?”
“You said, ‘If y’all don’t mind’ in front of everyone. You know how I feel about that backwoods talk.”
This was what he wanted to fight about right now—her inability to rid her personal lexicon of all things Southern? The exhausted, petty part of Emmy wanted to shout out Southern phrases like over yonder, right smack, and might could, which always made Oliver launch into a lecture on grammar redundancy. “You cannot truly think that proposing—no, demanding—marriage in a public place is what any woman wants.”
“People do it all the time at restaurants.”
“Romantic restaurants with wine and candles.”
“You’re more practical than that.” The finger he pointed at her reminded her of a pistol.
Please, no more guns.
“Which is exactly the reason we’re perfect together,” he went on. “I understand you. I understand your work. How many other men can you say that about?”
Not many. But when he put it like that, Emmy realized how cold and pragmatic their arrangement was. And that was what it was—an arrangement. Not a relationship. Not a love match. Something with less spark and passion than a tub of lukewarm bathwater.
“Now,” Oliver continued, “the plan is for a nine-month engagement, long enough for my mother to handle all the wedding details. We’ll get married in November. In Boston, of course. A weeklong honeymoon in Italy should suffice. And then we’ll be back here.”
Because God forbid that he leave the hospital board and CEO alone for too long. They might actually think for themselves.
Why hadn’t she ever realized he would want to manage his marriage the same way? They’d never even discussed children. In fact, they discussed very little. They talked about the hospital, had sex an average of once every two weeks, and when they were in the same bed, they slept back to back.
Not long ago, Emmy would’ve said she was satisfied with that.
Not long ago, she would’ve been lying.
She wanted more than a man who functionally fit into her life. She wanted passion and surprise and fun.
“Of course, you’ll need to stop your little sideline with the state police,” he droned on. “I’ve told you a hundred times it’s too dangerous, and it’s certainly not befitting the wife of an Amory.”
Her medical role with the Maryland State Police Tactical Medical Unit and SWAT team was much more than a sideline. The desperate need for tactical medicine was her entire reason for becoming a doctor, the underpinning of her career. “Are you saying that if I married you, you wouldn’t allow me to be on the tactical medical team anymore?”
“You wouldn’t have time. After all, we’d be expected to entertain more, and hostessing is an art form.”
Hostessing? It might be a source of pride for some women, and more power to them. But Emmy would rather take a breaching ram to the chest than deal with caterers, floral arrangements, and decorators. “No.”
“If you don’t want to handle it all, Mother would be willing to help from time—” he said.
“I mean, no, I won’t marry you.”
“—to time. She knows all the… What did you say?”
Trying to show compassion to the man who’d suddenly reminded her she wanted—no, deserved—more than this, Emmy took the box from his hand and slid it back into the pocket of his lab coat. “You don’t really want to marry me any more than I want to marry you. You think we’re a match because I’m convenient.”
“Untrue. You’re too strong-willed to be convenient. But I abide that because it’s also what makes you a good doctor.”
Maybe she should’ve been flattered that he considered her a good doctor, but it was clear he didn’t consider her an equal. “Then let’s accept the truth. We’re both already married to our work.”
“I selected you, Emerson.”
Okay, that was a little heavy-handed, even for Oliver, but Emmy tried to stay calm. “I choose. My life. My career. My relationships.”
Oliver’s lips flatlined and his nostrils flared. Just once. “You say you’re married to your work? Fine. Then as of now, consider yourself divorced.”
“Excuse me?”
“Dr. McKay, the hospital and I no longer need your services. Pack up your personal items because as of”—he lifted his Girard-Perregaux and studied the watch face—“2259, your contract with Baltimore General is terminated.”
Emmy didn’t say a word as Oliver stalked out of the room, but she thought plenty. Many of them four-letter. At least until she took a breath and realized what this meant she was now free to do.
Go home.
