Garnet Flats (The Edens)
Garnet Flats: Part 1 – Chapter 1

Part 1 – Round 1

“Thirteen.” The dry erase marker squeaked as I added a tally mark to the inside of my locker’s metal door.

Thirteen. “A new record.”

Thirteen days without a patient yelling at me. Thirteen days without anyone requesting Dr. Anderson, Dr. Herrera or Dr. Murphy in my place. Thirteen days without Rachel, the charge nurse at Quincy Memorial, lecturing me for, well . . . anything.

Thirteen good days.

What were the chances this streak would last through Christmas next week? If I made it to twenty-two days in a row, that would mean I’d gone an entire work month without my intelligence, my education or my skills being called into question.

The door to the staff locker room opened, and Rachel stood in the threshold. Oh, God. Don’t ruin my streak.

“Hi, Rachel.” I forced a smile. “How was your day?”

“Fine.” Her voice was flat. She was in her late forties and might have been pretty if she’d relaxed. Or if she’d let her hair down. But in the three years I’d worked with Rachel, I’d only ever seen her blond hair, streaked with gray at the temples, pulled into a severe bun.

Was it short? Long? No clue. Even the few times I’d bumped into her outside of work, Rachel’s hair had looked the same. Was that why she was so sour? Was that bun giving her a headache? Her frown was as ever present as her hairstyle. Did she ever smile?

“I’ve got a problem with a chart, Talia.”

“Okay,” I drawled.

There was no problem with a chart. I’d spent three years getting lectured by this woman on exactly what boxes to check, how she wanted the doctors to input notes and where her nurses looked for patient details.

Dr. Anderson, Dr. Murphy and Dr. Herrera each had their own charting preferences. They put their notes wherever they pleased. Had Rachel ever lectured them on their charting? No. She also didn’t call them by their first names. I was the lesser doctor on staff and Rachel always found a way to remind me that I was just a resident. sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ FindNʘᴠᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

I was just Talia.

I was just the girl who’d grown up in this small Montana town and who’d loved it enough to move home after medical school. I’d come home to give back to my community and, maybe someday, earn the respect that Dr. Anderson had garnered in his decades as Quincy’s favorite doctor.

Not only was he my boss, he was also the man who’d delivered my five siblings and me into this world. He was a staple in our town. Did Rachel razz him about meticulous charting? Doubtful.

“Should we take a look?” I returned my marker to the locker’s shelf, then closed it up, following Rachel to the nearest nurses’ station.

She took a seat, clicking with fury through the hospital’s records as I hovered over her shoulder. When she had the chart pulled up, she shifted so I could read the screen.

It was Memphis’s chart. My sister-in-law had come in for a routine pregnancy checkup this afternoon. I scanned the information for anything out of place. Medications prescribed? None. Labs ordered? Just the standard urine analysis. Baby’s heart rate? Normal. The nurse had entered in Memphis’s vitals.

“What’s the problem?” I asked Rachel.

“Your notes.”

“What about the notes?” I’d added a few quick sentences stating that Memphis was feeling fine and that her weight and blood pressure were in the normal range.

“I can’t read those notes and know what concerns were discussed with the patient.”

“You can read those notes and see that the patient had no concerns to discuss.” I kept my smile firmly in place, but damn, this woman loved to poke at me. She’d been poking for three years and it was growing old.

This entire encounter was a waste of my time. And she’d just broken my thirteen-day streak.

Why was it always her? Was it horrible that I wished she’d retire early? Her nursing staff was wonderful. They were a joy to work with, and I would bet my annual salary that not a single one of them would have felt misinformed by the brief summary notes in Memphis’s chart.

But nothing I did seemed to be enough for Rachel. She viewed this hospital as hers and I was the too-young, too-inexperienced doctor roaming her hallways, intruding on her turf.

“Anything else?” I asked. “I’ve got dinner plans.”

Memphis had been my last patient for the day and Knox had tagged along. My brother never missed a thing when it came to his wife and kids. After the checkup, they’d invited me to dinner, and I rarely turned down Knox’s cooking. He owned the best restaurant in town, and though meals at Knuckles were always outstanding, the real magic came alive when he was cooking at home for those he loved most.

Lunch today had been a stale granola bar and a protein shake. My stomach had been growling for an hour. As if on cue, it rumbled.

Rachel’s eyes dropped to my waist as her lip curled.

This was a test, right? Maybe Rachel was simply putting me through some sort of resident physician hazing. Maybe she wanted to make sure I had the backbone to be one of Quincy’s doctors. Why else would she be so nasty? What the hell had I done to make her dislike me so much?

Nothing. The answer was nothing. So this had to be a test.

Well, hazing ritual or not, Rachel would need to come at me with more than nitpicking and frowns. My dream was to work at Quincy Memorial. This was just as much my hospital as it was hers. My family had founded Quincy, and generations ago, the Edens had donated money to help build this hospital in the first place.

“Have a great night, Rachel.” My tone held more sugar than a kid’s Halloween bag. With a quick finger wave, I walked away from the desk and retreated to the locker room.

It was empty, so I let out a groan as I spun the combination on my lock and ripped the door open. Then I grabbed the microfiber cloth I kept on the shelf and erased my tally marks.

Zero. “Gah.”

Hopefully Rachel would back off after my residency was over. Was that what I needed before she’d treat me like the other doctors? A full-fledged medical license?

I was close. I was so close. I’d been lucky after medical school. Many small-town hospitals weren’t accredited to take on residents, but Dr. Anderson had jumped through the hoops years ago so that he could have a resident on occasion. Dr. Murphy had been the first. Then I’d applied and Dr. Anderson had taken me under his wing.

We hadn’t talked about the timing of me taking my licensure exam, but I assumed it would happen this spring. And after another few years, I hoped to earn my board certification in family medicine too, just like Dr. Anderson.

If I earned a certification, would that stop patients from giving me the side-eye when I walked into an exam room? It didn’t happen all the time. It happened less than it had a year ago. But it still happened. I still overheard the whispered questions.

Is she old enough to be a doctor? Are you sure she knows what she’s doing? Isn’t one of the other doctors available today?

Most of the pushback I got was from men, especially older men. Even at twenty-nine years old, I was still viewed by some of Quincy’s good ol’ boys as Harrison Eden’s girl.

I was a good doctor, right? Dr. Anderson would have told me if I’d been doing a bad job. He wouldn’t let me treat people if he thought I’d do them harm.

My insecurities always flared up after a confrontation with Rachel.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and silently counted. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Pity party over. With my black puffer coat over my baby-blue scrub top, I slung my purse over a shoulder and headed for the door.

What I needed was a nice family dinner. Knox and Memphis were waiting for me in the lobby, and a warm meal at their place plus an hour of quality time with my nephew Drake would surely lift my mood.

Instead of taking the hallway that led to the employee exit, I pushed open the door into the lobby. The reception desk was empty. Jenny, the nurse who worked weekdays, had probably left right at five. This entrance was for scheduled appointments and the occasional walk-in. The doors here would be locked soon, and if a patient came in after hours, they’d have to go to the emergency room for help.

Knox and Memphis were standing together in the center of the lobby, talking to a man whose back was to me.

The man was the same tall height as Knox. He had broad shoulders and a narrow waist. Even a hoodie couldn’t hide his muscled frame. And damn, his ass was worth a second look. There weren’t many guys in Quincy with that sort of physique, at least none who weren’t related to me. Who was that guy?

“I’m looking for a doctor who works here,” the man said. “Talia Eden.”

I froze. No. No, this wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be him. Except I’d recognize that voice anywhere. Even if I hadn’t heard it in seven years.

A jolt of panic raced through my body and I flew toward the reception desk, practically leaping behind the counter. My knees cracked against the hard, glossy floor, and I winced, gritting my teeth so I wouldn’t make a sound.

Damn it. What was he doing here? Why was he looking for me?

“You might try the ER,” Memphis said. I’d hug her for it later because I was sure she’d seen me from her periphery when I’d walked into the lobby. “Maybe they can track her down for you. Just head out the doors and down the sidewalk to the other side of the building. You can’t miss it.”

I inched closer to the counter, careful not to brush the chair and make a noise.

“Appreciate it.” Footsteps, then the swish of the double doors as they opened and closed.

Phew. I blew out the breath I’d been holding, but my heart stayed stuck in my throat.

“Coast’s clear,” Knox called.

I inched up, my eyes barely over the counter’s ledge. “Is he gone?”

“Yeah.” Knox nodded. “Want to tell me why you’re hiding from Foster Madden?”

“Nope.” Definitely not. I didn’t talk about Foster Madden for a reason.

I stood and tiptoed around the desk, my eyes glued to the windows in case Foster made a return appearance. But the only thing I saw on the sidewalks was snow. “I should go.”

“What about dinner?” Memphis asked.

“Rain check.”

Before they could stop me, I bolted. Sprinting had never been my forte, slow and steady distance races were more my speed, but there was no way I’d risk bumping into Foster. So I tore out of the lobby, and after one quick check down the sidewalk to make sure he was gone, I hoofed it to my car.

My hands gripped the steering wheel with so much force that my knuckles were white before I’d even pulled out of the darkened parking lot. I checked my rearview mirror no less than two hundred times as I drove through town, searching for headlights that might be following me home. It wasn’t until I was inside the house, sagging against the kitchen counter with a glass of wine, that I let myself breathe.

What was he doing here? His life was in Las Vegas, exactly where I’d left him. Exactly where he’d stayed after breaking my heart. Why was he looking for me now? Why, after all this time, had he come to Montana?

My stomach plummeted. I didn’t want to see him. I didn’t want to hear that voice or look into his stormy blue eyes. Seven years and I still wasn’t ready to face him again. If I managed to avoid him long enough, would he leave?

“No,” I muttered. Unless Foster had undergone an entire personality change, he would eventually track me down. His nickname was the Iron Fist for a reason. He was tenacious and persistent. Unshakeable.

But at least I’d avoided him tonight. He hadn’t been able to take me by surprise. I gulped from my wineglass, then took it with me upstairs to my bedroom, where I stripped out of my scrubs and took a shower to rinse off the day.

My dark hair was wet and twisted into a knot when I returned to the kitchen. My scrubs had been traded for leggings and a ratty University of Washington sweatshirt when I opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of eggs. It wasn’t a Knox Eden meal, but for tonight, an omelet would have to suffice. If I’d gone to dinner, Memphis and Knox would have peppered me with questions.

Questions I wasn’t prepared to answer.

Dad knew about Foster, but only because he’d been there in the aftermath. He’d flown to Las Vegas to help me move and seen me at my lowest. Mom knew because Dad didn’t keep secrets from her, but the one and only time she’d brought up his name, I’d begged her never to speak it again.

That had been during the raw days. My wounds had healed, mostly, but that didn’t mean I was ready to relive the pain. It was too hard. Too humiliating.

Why was he here? After all this time, hadn’t he forgotten about me?

The eggs didn’t sit well in my knotted stomach but I forced myself to eat. It would be the same meal I’d have for breakfast, sans the wine. I was just rinsing my plate when the doorbell rang.

The dish brush slipped from my hand, clattering into the sink.

It was him. I couldn’t see the door, but somehow, I knew it was Foster. The doorbell rang again, followed by a knock.

Why hadn’t I dried my hair? Why hadn’t I dressed in anything else? Scrubs would have been better than facing him with a bare face and bare feet. There was a hole in the knee of these leggings and this shirt would have fit my brothers loosely.

If I didn’t answer the door, would he leave? Or would he stay here all night, knowing I was hiding inside? If I ignored him tonight, would he come to the hospital again? The last place I wanted to talk with Foster was at my work.

So I lifted my glass, draining the rest of my wine for liquid courage. The moment I swallowed the last drop, I squared my shoulders and walked through the house.

The sooner this was dealt with, the better. I’d find out why he was here, then send him on his way. With any luck, Foster would be gone from Quincy by morning.

My heart beat so hard it hurt. Every pulse resounded through my limbs. I sucked in a breath and held it as I inched through the entryway, my footsteps silent. When I reached the door, I stood on my toes and pressed an eye to the peephole.

Foster stood in profile, his gaze cast across the covered porch. He’d grown a beard. It was a nice beard. Short trimmed, so you could still make out the sharp corners of his jaw. But my Foster hadn’t had a beard, just stubble on the days when he hadn’t shaved.

A stab of pain pierced my heart. This wasn’t my Foster. There was no version of Foster that belonged to me. Not anymore.

He raised a finger and pushed the doorbell again. Then he ran a hand through his chocolate-brown hair, something he’d obviously been doing a lot tonight because the ends were sticking up at odd angles.

I dropped to my heels and waited through another three agonizing heartbeats, then I flipped the dead bolt and opened the door to Foster Madden.

The man I’d dated for one year, two months and eleven days.

The man I’d loved with my whole heart.

The man I’d vowed to forget.

The view from the peephole hadn’t done him justice. He was every bit as handsome as I remembered. Maybe even more now that he’d grown that damn beard.

Age had only enhanced his rugged features. He was bigger than he’d been, years spent honing his body into the perfect fighting machine. His black hoodie stretched across his broad chest, molding to his shoulders. His jeans hung on his narrow hips and pooled at the hem above a pair of motorcycle boots.

How many times had I traced the bump in the middle of his nose with my fingertip? How many nights had I drowned in those deep, ocean-blue eyes? How many kisses had I given the soft pout of his lips?

“Talia.”

God, that voice. Raspy and deep. My name had never sounded as good as it did out of Foster’s mouth.

“What are you doing here?”

He studied my face. “You’re not surprised to see me.”

“No.” I crossed my arms over my chest as the chill from outside seeped through my clothes. “I saw you at the hospital.”

His jaw clenched. “You saw me.”

“What are you doing here?” I repeated. “And how did you know where I lived?”

Not that it would be hard to figure out. Quincy hadn’t entirely transitioned into the modern age, and the local newspaper still printed an annual phone book along with putting the information online.

“It’s been a long time,” he said. “How are you?”

It’s been a long time. How are you? “Small talk? Really? Does your wife know you’re here?”

He lifted his left hand, wiggling his naked ring finger. “I’m not married.”

When had he gotten divorced? This was the problem when you vowed to forget someone. It meant that in the past seven years, I hadn’t once let myself search for Foster.

I hadn’t peeked at his social media accounts or typed his name into Google. I hadn’t watched any of his pay-per-view fights, and if his name came up on ESPN, I’d either shut off the television or walk out of the room. My brothers liked to rent UFC fights. I’d lied more than once about being on call to avoid one of their parties.

“Why are you here?” The growl in my voice surprised us both.

Pain clouded his beautiful eyes. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, then dropped his chin.

What had he expected? Me to open my arms and welcome him back into my life?

The hurt in his eyes vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. And all that remained was sheer determination. The focused stare. The steeled spine. The flexed jaw. It was the look Foster wore in the boxing ring, usually before he won.

He shoved a hand into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out a single silver key. “Here.”

I took it from him as he held it out, careful not to let our fingers brush. He wasn’t mine to touch. Not anymore. “What’s this?”

“My building.”

“Your building.” I narrowed my eyes. He’d better be talking about a building in Nevada.

Foster’s hand dove into his jeans again, this time coming out with a small slip of paper. He took my other hand and pried it open.

Electricity zinged up my arm. The calloused tips of his fingers sent tingles across my skin.

His eyes flared, like he’d felt that charge too, as he placed the paper in my palm, then let me go. “That’s the address.”

At the street name, my heart sank. “This is in Quincy.”

“Yep.”

“Why do you have a building in Quincy?”

“Come tomorrow and you’ll find out.”

“No.”

He dug into his other pocket this time, pulling out a small velvet pouch in a familiar shade of teal. “I’m guessing this will make it a yes.”

“What is this?” I asked as he handed it over.

Foster didn’t answer and he didn’t wait for me to open the pouch. He spun on a heel and marched across my porch, jogging the few steps to the sidewalk. Then he rounded the hood of a gleaming black truck, started the engine and drove down the block.

I inched away from the threshold as his taillights disappeared, kicking the door closed. With every passing second, the pouch got heavier.

Don’t open it.

Foster was counting on my curiosity. He hadn’t answered a single question of mine tonight, instead leaving me with even more than I’d started with.

Don’t open it.

“Gah.” I stretched the top of the pouch and turned it over, the item inside dropping into my palm beside the key.

A ring. A two-carat, emerald-cut diamond inlaid on a gold band.

I gasped as the diamond glinted from the overhead light. How did he have this ring? Why?

In my other hand, I crumpled the paper into a tight ball, squeezing as hard as possible.

Then I pried it apart.

Damn him. I should ignore him. I should pretend he didn’t exist. But considering I hadn’t managed that in seven years, I doubted I’d forget Foster Madden by morning.

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