All I Want For Christmas Is Them: A MMF Medical Romance (The Truth or Dare Series Book 3)

I have no idea how I’m going to tell him.

I stare at the blood panel results in my hands, trying to wrap my head around it.

The results are for Otto Stratton. Otto has been my best friend since we were teenagers. But even after all that time, I don’t know how I’m going to tell him.

“Diego.”

The sound of my name jerks me to attention, and I lift my eyes from the paper.

Dr. Adam Donovan is the dirty-blond forty-nine-year-old CEO of Lighthouse Medical Center. He wears a button-up, a severe frown, and light crow’s-feet around the crinkles of his eyes, but I’ve never seen him crack a smile, so he must do all his laughing off the clock.

He’s also Otto’s dad and my boss. The fact that I’ve known him nearly my entire life doesn’t mean I get an easy ride—if anything, he’s harder on me than anyone. As a new resident fresh out of med school, I have a lot to prove, so I immediately sit up a little straighter in my seat when he addresses me.

“Yes?”

“What’re you doing?”

“Nothing.” I quickly fold the paper up and stick it in my back pocket.

He’s the last person who needs the details scrolled on the page.

His eyes flick to my pocket, but he ignores my obvious deceit.

“We’re seeing a patient in the east wing. Walk with me.”

I’m taller than Dr. Donovan by only a couple of inches, but he’s faster, and I have to pick up my pace to keep up as he speed walks to the elevator and punches the button.

It’s not uncommon for Dr. Donovan to have me tag along. Since I graduated med school, I’ve been something of his shadow, following him around while he mentors me on different cases, coaching me through my residency.

I know it’s nepotism. I grew up with his son. Our families were tight. When my mother passed in March, he tucked me even tighter under his wing.

But extra attention doesn’t mean he’s going to make anything easy for me. Even now, waiting on the elevator, I feel a pop quiz coming on.

“How long have you known Mr. Humphrey?” Dr. Donovan asks.

“Mr. Humphrey’s Hardware?”

“That’s the one.”

“All my life.”

Hannsett Island is a small tourist town. In the summer, we’re packed, but in the off-season, our population dwindles to a couple hundred.

Everyone knows everyone.

The elevator doors open up, and we step inside. Donovan pounds on the Close Door button.

“And how many times have you seen him smile?”

“Once. When Patterson fell off the ladder wrapping wreaths around the lighthouse.”

“Exactly. Keep that in mind.”

The elevator dings. Donovan exits, his white coat billowing behind him, and I follow him down the hall.

The rooms on the third floor are nice. State-of-the-art equipment, comfortable beds, and full-wall windows. When the curtains are pulled aside, you can look out past the white-and-red striped lighthouse, over the cliff top, and beyond the sparkling blue waters. Miles and miles of crystal blue between Hannsett Island and the mainland, only interrupted by the red-and-green blinking buoys, the joyriders in their sailboats, and the ferry that carries tourists to our small, Margaritaville-style beach town.

It’s a good place to sit out the worst days of your life and a reminder that quality of care comes at a price.

At least it did, until Dr. Donovan was instated as the CEO about a decade ago. Half the floor is still sectioned off for people who need anonymity—which often includes celebrities or the rich and famous. The other half is where people go when they’re in hospice care or debilitating recovery, regardless of income.

It’s how my mother spent her last days looking out over the flat blue coast of Hannsett Island, even though she was a single mom on a bartender’s salary.

The point is I owe Dr. Donovan a lot. Which is why I feel even worse holding the secret in my pocket from him.

I follow his lead into room 304. The patient, Hugo Humphrey, is sitting up in the hospital bed. The seventy-one-year-old man is what I’d call “Doc Brown Lite”—he’s got a mess of white hair that explodes from either side of his head. His thick eyebrows are constantly furrowed, his mouth forever pinched in a disapproving scowl.

Except for today. Today, he’s wearing a wide smile that stretches across his face.

“Look at who we’ve got here!” Mr. Humphrey exclaims when he sees us. “Diego, boy, don’t you look spiffy in your scrubs. Come a long way from stealing candies from my jar, haven’t you?”

Then he laughs. It’s a strange sound, like a cat coughing up hairballs. I don’t think his lungs are used to it.

“Thank you, sir,” I say, because I’m not sure how else to respond to that.

This whole thing feels Twilight-Zone-y.

His wife, Helen Humphrey, is a small, slender woman with a gray bowl cut. She keeps her hands in her lap as she sits beside him. Her mouth is fitted with a nervous, pinched smile.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” Dr. Donovan says. The edges of his eyes crinkle with a smile.

Dr. Donovan might be a grump with his staff, but he’s always had good bedside manner with his patients.

“It’s nearly Christmas,” Mr. Humphrey responds. “What’s not to love?”

“You’re right about that,” Donovan says. “Do you mind if Diego stands in while we talk?”

“Not at all.” Mr. Humphrey swings his smiling face between the two of us.

“Great. You wanna tell me what happened?”

“It was the darnedest thing. Helen and I were having breakfast, I got up to fix myself another cup of coffee, and down I went!”

“He fainted,” Helen interjects, her voice thin as she fidgets with her hands. “I got him up and immediately took him here.”

“Have you been feeling woozy?” Dr. Donovan asks. “Any dizzy spells prior to this?”

Mr. Humphrey shakes his head. “I’ve been right as rain.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

Dr. Donovan plucks his penlight from his pocket. He leans over Mr. Humphrey, and I watch him test the man’s pupils. He has Mr. Humphrey follow his finger, then clicks off the light and pockets it.

Dr. Donovan asks if Mr. Humphrey has had any changes in his medication, any other accidents. It’s a “no” on both accounts. I take mental notes as I watch them work.

Donovan straightens up once his exam is complete. “Diego will take a blood sample from you, and we’ll run some tests. Find out what’s going on. You just hang tight and let us know if you need anything in the meantime, alright?”

“Thank you,” Helen says. She keeps looking between all three of us, her eyes batting around anxiously.

Something doesn’t feel right.

Before we leave, Mr. Humphrey stops us with “Is…Jason here today?”

I can practically see Dr. Donovan’s bones stiffen. But he presses on a smile. “I can check. Why do you ask?”

“Hold on—Helen, get my bag.” Helen lifts his satchel from the floor and sets it on the bed. Mr. Humphrey starts rummaging through it. He pulls out a book and hands it over.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” he says, “do you think he could sign it? My daughter-in-law is a big fan. I thought it’d make a good Christmas present for the girl.”

It’s Dr. King’s book, Cut Out Negativity: Mindfulness & Life Lessons from a Surgeon. It’s got a picture of the doctor on the cover—tall guy with a winning smile.

Dr. Jason King is our own mini celebrity. His book hit the bestsellers list, and he’s done the talk show gamut. Honestly? It’s pretty cool.

At least, to everyone except Dr. Donovan. He frowns at the book but then takes it and nods. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks,” Hugo says, still smiling wide.

Donovan and I break out of the patient’s room.

“What do you think is wrong with him?” I ask.

Donovan’s blue eyes meet mine. “You tell me.”

This is a test—one of many he likes to throw at me.

Being a resident underneath Donovan is like learning to drive on the highway. Scary as hell—but you learn fast, and you learn how to do it right.

“Seems like he’s got…a bad case of Christmas spirit?”

“Alright. What else? This is your case now.”

I think. “A sudden change in behavior could be the result of a brain injury when he fell.”

Donovan just listens and nods. “Mmhm.”

If he has any better ideas, he doesn’t share them.

“So…we should give him a CT scan to make sure,” I continue.

“Put it in the system,” Dr. Donovan says. “And pull some blood samples.”

“Will do.”

I start to head down the hall to get the kit, but Donovan turns and adds, “Oh, Diego?”

“Yeah?”

“While you’re there, check in on Otto’s results, will you?”

Now, my heart does an Olympic-worthy three-point turn in my chest.

Because I’ve already checked Otto’s results. They’re sitting in my back pocket.

They’re screaming, High potassium levels. High sodium levels. Toxicity in his blood.

But Donovan can’t know that. Because if he knew, he’d freak out. Then Otto would freak out. And then Otto would never talk to me again.

I’m a terrible liar.

I can’t play poker. I can’t organize surprise parties.

Everything I feel is always written in big, looping letters on my face.

You have honest eyes, Otto once told me. It’s a good thing.

I’d blushed—I’m sure he saw that, too.

Fucking honest eyes.

“Okay,” I say, trying my best to be stoic. “Will do.”

Dr. Donovan, luckily, is in too much of a rush to overthink my painfully panicked response. He just nods and then exits into the elevator.

I exhale a breath as soon as he’s out of sight.

The paper in my pocket is practically burning.

Liar, liar. Pants on fire.

My phone buzzes, and I reach into my pocket to pull it out. His nose must be itching, because Otto’s contact picture (Otto, standing behind the wheel of his father’s boat with big sunglasses, shirt open, a captain’s hat, and a goofy smile) lights up my screen.

[text: Otto] Don’t forget, Savage tonight.

I frown at the text. Then I respond:

[text: me] Wouldn’t forget.

[text: me] Hey. Just so you know.

[text: me] I’ve got your results.

[text: me] We have to talk.

Three bubbles pop up. Then nothing. Then three bubbles again, before:

[text: Otto] Later. Let’s just enjoy tonight.

I press my lips together. I want to tell him there might not be a later if we don’t have this conversation.

But that’s not something you can say over text. So I just reply:

[text: me] Okay.

I mean to leave it there, but Otto keeps going.

[text: Otto] What are you wearing?

I snap a selfie of my current state—hospital greens.

He sends back:

[text: Otto] Wear that blue button-up you got from Coleman’s. It looks good on you.

He adds a couple of “fire” emojis for good measure. I can’t help the smile that crosses my lips.

Even when Otto frustrates the hell out of me, he still manages to make me smile.

That, in a nutshell, is why Otto is, has always been, and will always be my kryptonite.

I give his text a thumbs-up react and get back to work, trying to steer clear of thoughts about tonight.