A year that promised to go downhill even more, since Abigail would definitely not make the next mortgage payment on her house if she didn’t nab this commission. She’d taken too much time off in the past year to help her mother cope with losing Alannah in a kayaking accident, depleting her emergency savings.
“Does anyone have questions about the art installation I’m proposing?” Abigail forced a smile despite the nervous churn in her belly.
At least, she hoped that rumble was nerves and not belated morning sickness. For the last two months, morning had been a relative term.
“I have a question.” The deep, masculine voice at the back of the spacious room caught her off guard.
She’d thought all of the committee members were seated at the large table with a good view of the projection screen. Yet, at second glance, she saw an absurdly handsome man in green scrubs sprawled in a chair by the door in the back. From the leather shoes he sported to the expensive-looking haircut, he had an air of wealth about him that the scrubs and slightly scruffy facial hair couldn’t hide. Even the phone resting on the table beside him cost more than her monthly house payment. She’d been so focused on getting her video up and running that she had somehow missed his arrival.
With a crop of thick brown hair and deep green eyes, he had a body that a professional athlete would envy—his broad chest and strong arms were supremely appealing. And for a woman five months pregnant and battling morning sickness along with a case of nerves to notice—that was saying something.
The hospital administrator who had invited Abigail to present to the committee gestured the newcomer toward a vacant chair at that table, where one presentation packet lay untouched. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Chambers, please join us.”
“Sorry I’m late. My last surgery ran long.” He rose and tugged the plush rolling chair out from the gleaming maple table, joining eleven other members of the committee in judging her. “And, Ms. Stewart, I’m sure you’re very talented, and your gallery of works is certainly impressive, but I’m afraid I don’t see the point of a statue in the children’s ward when we are in need of more staffing and more on-site equipment.”
Her stomach dropped.
The rumbling of reaction around the table gave Abigail a welcome moment to collect her thoughts before responding. She’d thought the commission was a foregone conclusion, whether she won it or another artist did, so she wasn’t entirely prepared for the question. But since no one else jumped in to answer, she needed to field it fast.
“I believe the funds for artwork are designated strictly for that purpose by the benefactor who provided the grant.” She glanced at the hospital administrator in charge of the committee, Belinda McDowell, who served as Royal Memorial’s development officer. When the older woman didn’t correct her, Abigail plowed ahead. “So the funding isn’t something that can be reallocated.”
Dr. Chambers stared back at her, his jaw flexing with thinly veiled impatience. Did he think art was so inferior to his field? Her spine steeled with some impatience of her own.
“Assuming that’s the case...” He glanced at Mrs. McDowell for confirmation. At a nod of the woman’s steel-gray bob, he continued, “Why a statue? Will children really appreciate art at that level, or would we be better served giving them something more age-appropriate that stands a chance of engaging them?”
Resisting the temptation to open his presentation packet for him and point out where she’d addressed this very question, she told herself she was being touchy because she needed this job so much. The visibility, the credibility and the portfolio development were all critical, even without the benefit of the income. Making a living as an artist in Royal hadn’t been easy, even before Alannah’s death.
“The statue would be a starting point since the hospital board would like to unveil the first element of a larger installation in the children’s ward at a party later this month.” She lifted her own presentation packet and flipped it open to the page with her proposed timeline. “There are some further details on page six.”
Okay. So she hadn’t been able to resist temptation.
But Dr. Green Eyes was single-handedly turning her presentation on its ear. He scrubbed a hand over his short beard, looking skeptical.
“Are there any other questions?” she blurted too quickly, realizing belatedly she was probably being rude.
Damn. It. How had she let him rattle her? Probably had something to do with the hospital bringing up bad memories. Or her too-tight skirt and her surprising reaction to the doctor. She’d thought, after the colossal mistake she’d made in sleeping with her former boss at her temp job, she’d effectively sworn off men for a while.
It bothered her to feel very feminine flutters of response to superficial things like an attractive face. Or a beautifully made male form.
That rich male voice rolled through the boardroom again. “Can good art be crafted in such a short time?” Dr. Chambers asked, now scanning through the pages of her presentation folder. “Do you really think you can meet that kind of deadline?”
Could she? It wouldn’t be easy, of course. She had ten days. And she sure didn’t appreciate the implication that “good” art was measured by how long it took to create it. Brilliant works had been crafted over the course of years, and others in the span of hours.
“Of course,” she returned coolly. “Although, obviously, the sooner the committee reaches a decision, the easier it will be for the chosen artist to meet the deadline.”
The committee leader, Belinda McDowell, rose. “And we hope to give you a response as soon as possible, Ms. Stewart. Thank you so much for coming in today.” With a curt nod, she dismissed Abigail before turning her attention to the rest of the group. “I have one more artist I’d like you to meet if you can all remain for just ten more minutes.”
Dismayed that she was already done with her portion of the meeting, Abigail hurried to gather her things before she headed toward the door. Had she blown the most important presentation of her career?
Passing Dr. Chambers on her way out, she felt her gaze drawn to him in spite of herself. Maybe because she wanted to give his chair a swift kick for finding fault in her presentation.
More likely, her artist’s eye wanted to roam all over those intriguing angles of his face, the sculpted muscles of his body. At least, she hoped it was her inner artist that was having those ridiculous urges. Because if it was some kind of womanly desire for her surgeon heckler, who’d been about as charming as a Texas diamondback, then she had bigger worries than a depleted bank account and a baby on the way.
She needed a doctor all right. But only because she ought to have her head examined.
* * *
Vaughn Chambers flipped through the two artists’ presentations side by side at a table in the hospital’s doctor lounge later that afternoon. The lounge was busy at this hour during shift change, with colleagues darting in and out to grab coffee or a bite to eat. But Vaughn had positioned himself with his back to the room, earbuds in place, a coping mechanism he’d started using more often since his return from a military medical deployment with the United States Army Reserves.
Despite being the heir to an oil empire, Vaughn had never been willing to simply follow the path chosen for him. Instead of taking the easy route and accepting a CEO seat in the family company, he’d pursued a medical career. Inspired by his grandfather’s military service, he’d been compelled to make a contribution of his own, signing on after he’d already secured his medical degree. He didn’t regret those choices, but he was still paying for them.