Page 1 of Lennox
Chapter 1
Lennox
Lennox
Sterile.
That's the first thought that swims through my mind. My eyelids feel weighted down, but I force them open. The world around me is an off-white haze, and the scent of antiseptics burns slightly in my nostrils. I blink a few times, trying to make sense of the room around me—machines beeping rhythmically and the muffled sounds of hospital staff just outside the door.
I shift, and a bolt of stiffness runs up my leg. It's then I remember the surgery. This morning, or was it longer? Time's blurred, but that cold steel table, the bright lights, and the masked faces—those memories are clear.
Pushing through the dizziness, I glance down to see my leg swathed in thick bandages, elevated slightly. The pull of the stitches is tight, almost unbearable. I swallow hard, trying not to think of the long recovery ahead.
Yet, even as the physical pain from the surgery begins to edge forward, the emotional torment of that night that led to this moment resurfaces. The rescue operation gone wrong.
I've been a medic with EmergenSEA for years, saving lives on the water and facing nature's unpredictable wrath. That evening, the call had been frantic—a fishing boat, its crew stranded after an unexpected storm had thrown them into chaos.
Diving headfirst into the situation was second nature to me. I'd been on deck, securing lines, pulling panicked crew members from the water, and administering first aid. But in a cruel twist, the sea fought back. A rogue wave carrying sharp debris from the boat had blindsided me.
EmergenSEA had trained me for countless scenarios, prepared me for challenges. But this? Lying here, vulnerable and sidelined?
It's an unfamiliar battlefield.
A deep breath steadies me, focusing my thoughts. I can't change the past, no matter how much I wish to. But I can, and will, fight through this.
The soft creak of the door distracts me from my spiraling thoughts. A nurse, wearing aqua-colored scrubs and a badge reading "Nora," walks in. Her eyes are kind, but her movements have a practiced efficiency. She moves to my bedside, her fingers cool as they check the pulse on my neck, the monitor continuing its steady blip in the background.
"You're doing well post-surgery, Mr. Gill," she says, adjusting the IV line slightly and jotting down notes on a clipboard. "Heart rate's stable, and the wound seems to be healing nicely."
"Great," I mutter, not really feeling the sentiment. I shift slightly, testing the limits of my discomfort.
Nora smirks, almost as if she reads the sarcasm in my voice. "I know it doesn't feel that way now, but you're lucky. The surgery went smoothly. And you'll have the best chance at a full recovery."
I raise an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. "You sound sure of that."
She glances up from her clipboard, a small smile on her lips. "Well, Charlene will be your physical therapist, and she's one of the best. If anyone can get you back on your feet, it's her."
The name doesn't ring a bell, but the thought of a therapist bossing me around already irritates me. "Oh, joy," I say, rolling my eyes.
Nora chuckles softly, clearly having witnessed such reactions before. "Don't knock it till you try it, Mr. Gill. Charlene's got a magic touch."
A non-committal grunt is my only response. Even if I want to say anything else, I can’t, because just then, a damn ray of sunshine flounces into my room.
“Were you talking about me again, Nora?” A voice, rich and teasing, fills the room. I turn my head toward the entrance, my eyes immediately locking onto the newcomer.
This must be Charlene.
Blonde hair, falling in loose waves around her shoulders, contrasts with her chocolate-colored eyes that seem to dance with mischief. She's dressed in fitted scrubs, accentuating her curvy figure in a way that makes my mouth dry. There's a natural confidence to her, an allure that I reckon most men, myself begrudgingly included, would find hard to ignore.
"Only good things, Charlene," Nora replies with a smile, waving as she exits the room.
Turning her full attention to me, Charlene strides over, her every step radiating a positivity that I find both irritating and infectious. "Hi, I'm Charlene Mitchell, your physical therapist for the day. And every day until you're up and about." She extends a hand, her smile unwavering despite my obvious reticence.
"I've heard," I say gruffly, not taking her hand. Instead, I shift my weight, trying to sit up a bit more. "Listen, I think there might have been a mistake. I'm not ready for—"
"Physical therapy? Oh, trust me, you are," she interrupts with a gleam in her eye. "And I've got just the thing to get you moving."
Every instinct screams at me to resist, to push back against this relentless burst of energy. But as I meet her gaze, searching for any sign of hesitation, all I find is determination. And, whether I like it or not, a magnetic pull that draws me to her.