Chapter 17 17
Harmony's POV
I had been staring at the phone box for forty minutes. I sincerely couldn't believe that something so innocent-looking was ruining my evening. But nothing Roman Foster ever did was innocent, was it?
I paced from one end of the living room to the other, thinking hard.
What kind of person did something like this? What kind of person, on the same day they were being discharged from a clinic, took time out of their schedule to send a brand new iPhone to a woman who had told them not to do just that? Multiple times, mind you, clearly and in complete sentences.
Seriously, what was wrong with that man?
I pressed the back of my hand against my mouth and stopped pacing, as the memory of that kiss suddenly flashed in my mind. My whole body had been a live wire from the moment his lips touched mine, heat running from my mouth down through my stomach and further south. His hands on my waist, his mouth on my neck, the sound he had made against my skin. I felt warm just reliving the memory of it, which was deeply inconvenient and FUCKING embarrassing.
Shaking my head vigorously, I picked up the box, put it back in the paper bag, and folded the top shut. I had way too much to worry about right now, what with the ultimatum that my landlord had given me, and the break I was currently having from work. I really didn't have time to play games with some hockey player. I was going to take this back to Foster tomorrow, first thing in the morning.
I was setting the package at the door entrance when my old phone rang. I looked at the cracked screen, and it was yet another unregistered number. Fear curdled in my chest the moment I saw it, and I had half a thought to not pick the call. It could be Benji again.
But I squared my shoulders bravely and picked the call.
"Did you get it?" Came Foster's voice, easy and amused.
"You?!" I sat down on the couch. "How did you get my number?"
"Did you get the package?" he repeated.
"Oh, come on."
"Yes or no, Sinclair." He goaded me.
"Yes, I got it," I replied. "And like I said before, I don't want a new phone, especially not from you. I'm giving it back tomorrow. Where are you going to be?"
He laughed on the other end, and I wanted to smack him into silence. "Just open it, I got it in deep purple. I think the colour suits you."
I sighed in impatience and pressed my fingers to my temple. "I don't bloody care what colour it is."
"You can't keep walking around with that smashed screen. I saw the crack, Sinclair. The whole screen is split down the middle."
"My iPhone 11 works perfectly fine, thank you."
"Your iPhone 11 is a cry for help," he deadpanned. "Also, before you say anything about the money, I stole it from my mum. Perhaps that would make you feel better about it.
I sat up straight. "You WHAT?"
"Relax, I'm half joking."
"Jesus Christ!" I sank further into the couch, squeezing my eyes shut. "What the hell is wrong with you, Foster?"
"It came from a good place," he argued, and his voice had dropped the laughter. "That's all. There's really no agenda to this, I'm just trying to be nice to someone who had my back. You stood up for me and I wanted to do something back. That's it."
"You cannot buy your way into my good books, I want that to be very clear." I told him. "I'm not someone that can be won over with gifts, and I am not available. Also, whatever you think is happening between us is not happening, because I have a career to protect."
There was a small pause. "Is that what Sherman did? He warned you off?"
"He gave me seven days off to think about my priorities." I replied. "He wants me to pick between fighting for you to stay in the clinic, and my job."
"Are you going to pick the job?"
"Of course I'm picking the job! What were you expecting?"
Foster fell silent for so long that I thought he had ended the call. Then, he finally said: "It's just a phone, Sinclair. I promise this is not a clever ruse from me. Goodnight."
The call ended, and I suddenly felt a crushing weight of having lost something precious. I didn't know why. But then I squared my shoulders and shook it off, put both phones on the table and went to bed. I was returning the expensive gift, no matter what he said.
The next morning I got up early, put the paper bag under my arm and headed to the clinic. I wasn't on duty, so I wore my own clothes, jeans and an old Loyola Varsity jacket, and it felt strange walking through those doors without my scrubs on. The ward had a different, more sterile energy at this hour, the morning handover just finishing up.
Nurse Patricia was at the nurses station when I came in. She looked up and her pleasant expression morphed into one of surprise.
"Miss Sinclair," she called out. "I thought you left on a break. I didn't expect to see you here this morning."
"Oh, no, I'm not working. I just need to drop something off for Mr Foster in room 94," I told her. "It won't take long."
Patricia set her pen down. "Oh, love." Her voice was careful. "Mr Foster was discharged about an hour ago. His mother came first thing this morning. He's gone."
My stomach bottomed out immediately. "Gone? What do you mean, Gone?"
"His mother arranged everything yesterday evening apparently. She sent a chauffeur with a car, and that was that." She looked at me with kind eyes that I didn't particularly want on me right now. "Is there anything I can help you with?"
"No," I muttered, waving my hand flippantly. "No, it's fine. Thank you, Patricia."
I turned around and walked back out through the clinic doors. He was gone just like that, packed up and driven away by his mother before I had even gotten out of bed this morning. He had cakled last night, knowing full well that by the time I showed up he would already be gone.
That crushing feeling from last night was back, pressing down in the middle of my sternum with a persistence that I found annoying.
I looked down at the paper bag and thought about my cracked screen. Then, making a quick decision, I pushed the bag under my arm and started walking.