“Fine, Augusta. I don’t appreciate you cutting me off when I’m telling you what’s wrong with my kid.”
I nodded, because I understood where he was coming from, but I didn’t back down when it came to my patients. Ever. “Noted. I don’t appreciate you butting in when I’m asking the patient a question about their health.”
His brown eyes widened in shock, maybe it was outrage. “Patient? She’s five, what the hell does she know about her health?”
Typical parent. “Did you know she woke up with breathing difficulties sometimes?” The look of helplessness on his face told me he hadn’t known. “Right. She’s five today, but one day soon she’ll be twelve and then fifteen and twenty-three, and she will need to know how to manage her sickness for herself. She needs to know how to identify when something is wrong or when she’s fine. This is her illness,” my voice softened with understanding because I really did understand where he was coming from, “even though it doesn’t feel like it, Mr. Ricci. It’s never too early to start giving Rosie some autonomy over her condition.” I let out a slow breath and arched a brow at him. Parents always had more to say and they always had to have the final word, and I was happy to let them vent when it was appropriate. “Anything else?”
Antonio surprised me when he shook his head and took a step back.
I took advantage of regaining the ability to breath again and walked away, hoping like hell he wasn’t staring at the purple scrub pants I wore that were a little too snug in the thighs.
Antonio
Augusta Thompson was a knockout. And a smartass. The latter didn’t prevent me from enjoying the former, because I stared for a long time as she marched away from me, probably calling me every name in the book in her head as she did so. He purple scrub pants were just tight enough to let me appreciate the roundness of her ass, the slight jiggle that made my fingers itch to touch it. The soft thighs I had too many fantasies about parting with my hips. My shoulders.
Damn those curves, they haunted me with every trip I made to this medical center, which was too often for my liking.
But the smartass made a good point about Rosie. I needed to let my daughter speak for herself when she could. I knew that. Augusta wasn’t the first person to tell me that. In fact, my sister Teddy and my older brother Vincenzo said the same thing to me on a regular basis, but I didn’t want to hear it. It had taken a long time to get a handle on her constant asthma attacks, and now that we had it under control, they couldn’t just expect me to take a step back.
I hated that Augusta had made a good point, but I hated it more that I didn’t have a ready comeback for the know-it-all nurse.
Next time, Augusta.
“Something wrong, Antonio?”
I turned at the sound of Dr. Knox’s voice and shook my head. “Nah, just another run-in with Augusta.”
He let out a booming laugh and shook his head, opening the exam room door with a nod for me to enter first. “You two will figure it out. Eventually.”
I ignored that and took a seat beside Rosie, waiting to hear what the doctor had to say. “Anything I need to worry about?”
“Nothing at all,” he assured both of us with a smile. “Rosie is responding to treatment in just the way we were hoping. There will be small flare ups on occasion, but as long as you can identify them and treat them in a timely fashion, Rosie will be fine.”
Fine. For most people it was such a small word, such a little thing to hope for, especially when it came to a child as lively as Rosie. But she hadn’t been fine back in Los Angeles, and it turns out that it was more than the clean, crisp Oregon air that was responsible for her improved health. It was Dr. Knox. And yeah, it was also Augusta. The medical staff and my family, they were the dream team that would help me keep Rosie healthy and happy. That was my only goal when I packed up our lives and moved back to Jackson’s Ridge.
Not many men would give up a career that was on the rise as a celebrity chef to become what was basically a glorified vlogger. Sure, I was one of the most popular YouTubers within the home cooks sphere, and I had a best-selling cookbook, not to mention guest spots on morning talk shows at the local and national level. The success was a good thing, but it wasn’t working in a kitchen. It wasn’t making sous chefs shake in their chef’s whites for not meeting my exacting expectations. It wasn’t creating menus that critics said made me a culinary genius. The photo shoots and endorsement deals were still there, but they just weren’t the same.