‘Please, don’t call me lady. Doctor or Carrie will be fine.’ The frost in her voice could have frozen a lake.
‘I guess it’ll have to be Carrie, then.’ If she wanted to be called Doctor she was going to have to earn it!
She got his meaning loud and clear. And ignored it. ‘I’ll start with what you’ve got,’ she said haughtily. ‘How about you show me around, allocate me an office and I’ll get started?’
Charlie gave a harsh laugh. He couldn’t believe he’d lain awake all night thinking about this woman. Did she have any idea what it was like at the coal face any more?
‘This isn’t some posh city specialist clinic, Carrie. We don’t have offices to spare. There’s only mine and the one opposite.’ He pointed to the door behind her across the hallway and watched the line of her neck and the interesting pull of fabric across her chest as she twisted to check it out.
‘It’s used most days by our regular clinic holders so you’ll have to vacate it during those times. Other than that there’s the staffroom.’
Carrie glared at him. How was she supposed to work being shifted from pillar to post all the time? ‘I need somewhere without constant interruptions.’
Charlie almost smiled at her, half expecting her to stamp her foot. She was annoyed? Good, she was bugging the hell out of him. She didn’t look so prim and proper any more, he noted with satisfaction. So untouchable. She looked ruffled. Like she wanted to swear.
Her chest rose and fell a little faster, straining the button holding everything together. Her teeth bit into the soft fullness of her lower lip. She looked a little frazzled. A little like last night. She looked touchable. Very touchable.
He shrugged. ‘They’re your choices.’
Some choice. ‘Which one will have the fewest interruptions?’
He snorted. ‘Ever heard of the chaos theory?’
Carrie gripped the handle of her briefcase tighter. ‘Gee, no, I must have been off painting my nails or polishing my tiara the days we discussed that in physics.’
He laughed despite his exasperation. ‘All right, OK, sorry. Well, forget it. This place is chaotic and, trust me, there is no underlying order.’
Carrie waited patiently, hand still on hip, barely resisting the urge to tap her foot. She quirked an eyebrow at him.
Charlie sighed. Whether he liked it or not, he was stuck with her. ‘The staffroom’s your best bet.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Follow me. I’ll show you around.’
Carrie stood aside as Charlie brushed past her. She caught a faint whiff of his aftershave and fought the urge to hurry, to keep pace with his long-legged stride. Every sensible cell in her body was telling her to keep her distance. And she was listening.
He was dressed as casually as he’d been last night. Trendy ultra-long shorts that fell just past his knees and another pre-school-inspired T-shirt. Since when had a man’s clothes been so fascinating?
He took her out to the front area first. ‘This is the reception area.’ Charlie checked his watch. ‘Angela should be in soon.’
‘Angela?’
‘She’s the receptionist.’
‘Why isn’t she here already?’
‘She’s a local divorced grandmother who cares for her two grandkids on a permanent basis. She arrives after she’s dropped them at school.’
‘Surely it would be more efficient to have someone here when the clinic first opens?’
Charlie looked down at her. He could see her business brain already writing recommendations. ‘Angela is invaluable. As a single mother yourself, surely you can see the advantage of being flexible?’
Carrie was torn between the emotional answer and the fiscally responsible answer. She gave herself a mental shake. She wasn’t paid to think emotionally. ‘Flexible isn’t always good for the bottom line.’
Hell, he despised bottom-line thinking. There was no room for people in bottom-line thinking. ‘Wait till you meet her. You’ll understand.’
He moved over towards the games area, not wanting to get into a fruitless discussion with a bottom-liner over their obviously different visions. ‘As you can see, we have a ping-pong table and a pool table, a small library, a lounge area and a jukebox.’
Carrie nodded, picking up a ball off the pool table as she watched the two teenagers she’d seen earlier battling it out at ping-pong. ‘The purpose of these being?’
He eyeballed her. Did he have to explain it? ‘Recreation.’
‘Is it a medical centre’s role to provide recreation?’
Bottom line again? ‘This is a drop-in centre, Carrie. It’s not just about fixing people’s ailments. A large portion of our client base is homeless kids, disaffected youth. If they’re in here, listening to music or shooting pool, then they’re not out on the streets, shooting drugs.’
Drugs? ‘Shouldn’t they be at school?’
Charlie snorted. ‘Of course they should but guess what? Telling them they should be at school generally doesn’t work—their parents have already tried that. Look, we get a lot of community support groups come through the centre every day, talking to the kids that are around, helping them to get their lives together. We can’t do that in a sterile judgmental environment. These are kids who have huge trust issues. We have to provide an environment where they don’t feel judged, where they feel comfortable, where they feel safe. In fact, if I had my way, we’d be expanding the services we offer here. This area is crying out for a properly resourced centre.’
Carrie replaced the pool ball and pondered his statement for a moment. She felt a needle of guilt prick her conscience. He was doing what she’d wanted to do in the beginning. The reason she’d become a doctor in the first place. To help people who couldn’t afford the luxuries that a lot of people took for granted. Like health care. Having grown up poor, she’d always wanted to give something back. Then a child had died because of her negligence and everything had changed. Practising medicine had no longer been an option.
Charlie watched her wander around the lounge area, absently touching furniture, caressing books. Pinstripes? Damn it, this was his fault. He’d been sent the usual ‘please give reason’ letter by the hospital board two months ago. He should have just sent the standard reply, heavy on politics and designed to guilt the suits into backing down.
But this time, with all the uncertainty in his life this past year, he’d been indignant and defiant. He’d not only been scathing of their continual attacks but suggested that they leave him the hell alone to do what he did best.
Watching Carrie’s bottom sway in her pinstriped skirt as she ran her fingers over the jukebox buttons, he wished he hadn’t. His recalcitrance had, no doubt, earned him this surprise audit. In short, he had brought this intrusion on himself. Had brought Carrie and her pinstripes on himself.
‘We have a small treatment room,’ he said, and turned to show her the way. He opened the door, hyper-aware that she was right behind him. ‘I do a lot of stitching up in here.’
Carrie looked at the scrupulously clean white room. The rest of the centre was a bit on the dowdy side. The walls were marked, the furniture had seen better days, the lino flooring was scuffed and worn in places. But this room could have done a hospital proud. From the