Dueling Drs: A Small Town Hospital Romance

She was lying to me, I knew it as sure as I knew anything. “Zola.”

“Drew,” she shot back in the same questioning tone I shot at her. Hands fisted at her hips, she waited. “Well?”

“You’re lying to me.” I knew that, but what I couldn’t figure out was why she was lying. “What’s wrong?”

“Drew,” she sighed. “I’m just a little under the weather and rest is the best medicine. Isn’t it, doctor?”

My lips responded with a smile. “Smart ass.”

She shrugged. “It’s been said, once or twice.”

“You should have called me.”

“Why? I’ve been sick plenty of times in my life and I’m sure this won’t be the last.” Zola’s smile lit up her face, making me forget her lies, at least temporarily, and she put a gentle hand on my arm. “It’s sweet that you’re worried Drew, but I’m a big girl and I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.

“No one should be alone when they’re sick.” Those words took me back, to another time and another place with another woman who was just a stubborn as the one before me. Sarah would never admit to being sick, never mind asking for my help, asking me to do anything for her. It was one of the things we fought about most often.

“It’s not the first time I’ve been alone while sick, either.”

Maybe so. “Well I’m here now. Go lie down and I’ll make dinner.”

“Drew, you really don’t need to do that. I appreciate the offer but I know that’s not what this is and I’m sure you have better things to do than take care of a sick woman after spending all day taking care of patients.”

I heard the words and she was right, our arrangement didn’t involve bringing soup over when the other was sick and nursing them back to health. Yet here I was, doing just that. “I’m hungry and I’m guessing you haven’t eaten in a while, right?”

She nodded, eyes darting around in search of another excuse. “It may have been a few hours.”

Just as I thought. “Couch. Now.”

Zola’s lips curled into a small smile and she shook her head. “I can’t believe I ever thought this bossy side of you was sexy. I probably need a trip to the psych department.”

“Funny. You might have a side gig as a comedienne.” I pushed the door closed and walked further into the guest house. “If you’re not going to lie down, you can keep me company while I whip us up some dinner.”

“Why?”

“Because food is fuel and life sustaining. What are they teaching in medical school these days?”

Zola pointed to herself and slid into a chair. “Surgeon not nutritionist., in case you didn’t get the memo.” Another yawn split her jaw and Zola cradled her face in her hands. “You really came here to check on me?”

“I did. It’s that so hard to believe?” Was I that much of an ogre that she was surprised I’d come to see her after a few days without contact? That thought disturbed me as I rooted through her fridge for dinner ingredients.

“It is, actually. It’s appreciated, nice to know someone cares, but I you were the last person I expected to see on my doorstep.”

“And now I’m in your kitchen, making stew.”

“Stew?” She let out a pretty, melodic laugh. “How very domestic of you, Dr. Wright.”

“A man has to eat, doesn’t he?” My gaze locked with hers while I waited for the next objection but it never came.

“I guess he does. I like my stew extra thick.” Zola flashed a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes and a second later, another yawn escaped. “Sorry. I’m just so tired lately.”

Something was definitely going on with Zola and whatever it was she didn’t want me to know, which of course only made me even more curious. “You should talk to Persy.”

She froze. “About what?”

“This exhaustion. Could be vitamin deficiency, autoimmune problem or chronic fatigue.” I watched her carefully in between chopping carrots and potatoes and celery for the stew but Zola’s expression was inscrutable.

“Maybe I will.” Her expression, the tense set of her shoulders and clenched jaw, said she wouldn’t.

We fell into a mostly comfortable silence while I got the stew bubbling on the stove, which was odd on its own. Other than Suzie, I hadn’t cooked with anyone other than Sarah in years and just as Zola had accused, it was a little domestic for my taste. Even with Sarah, neither of us had done much cooking due to our hectic work schedules and her constant need to seek out the next adventure. “Do you have any bread?”

“In the cute little wooden box over there.” She pointed to a decorative oak box with the word BREAD written across the front in cursive. “Gavin’s decorator did a good job with the details.” Her words were bland, unemotional, as if she was making conversation just for the sake of it.