Doctor Next Door: An Enemies-To-Lovers Romance Read online

  Doctor Next Door

  An Enemies-To-Lovers Romance

  Nicole Casey

  Copyright © 2019 by Nicole Casey. All Rights Reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronically, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the proper written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  1. Edgar

  2. Daliah

  3. Edgar

  4. Daliah

  5. Edgar

  6. Daliah

  7. Edgar

  8. Daliah

  9. Edgar

  10. Daliah

  11. Edgar

  12. Daliah

  13. Edgar

  14. Daliah

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Also By Nicole Casey

  About the Author

  1

  Edgar

  I arrived home around 7:30PM, which was exceptionally early considering the hectic day I’d had. The emergency room at Sacramento Mercy Hospital had been jammed packed, no thanks a multi-vehicle pileup on the freeway. I’d been stuck in the OR pretty much since I started my shift, and should have been there well past nine filing paperwork.

  It wasn’t out of the ordinary for me to stay late to put in overtime, especially now that the Board of Directors was looking for someone to take over the Chief of Surgery position. There was no doubt in my mind that I’d make an excellent chief, but now it was just a matter of proving it. I figured the more hours I worked, the more impressed they’d be. But today, I decided to take a break. Surgery after successful surgery had left me completely exhausted, drained to the point where I could no longer tell the difference between a vein and an artery.

  It was probably best for everyone if I called it a day.

  I stepped into the apartment and pressed the front door closed with a firm palm, listening carefully for the faint click of the lock mechanism. I’d noticed as of late that the warm summer weather had expanded the frame a bit, resulting in a bit of resistance whenever I tried to shut the door. I made a mental note of calling up the landlord to see if there was anything he could do. The last thing I wanted in a massive, busy city like this was to accidentally leave the door ajar during a rushed morning for work, which was practically an open invitation to ask to be robbed. I double checked the lock to make sure the door was secure before turning to head for the living room.

  My apartment was smaller than I would have liked, and its location honestly wasn’t ideal. My commute every morning –provided the traffic was light– usually clocked in around an hour’s drive both ways. But the rent was cheap, and I was always far too busy to remember to look in the classifieds for something new. It wasn’t like money was exactly an issue for me. At a very early age, my mother instilled an incessant need to save up a large portion of each paycheck I earned. Now that I had a significant fund squirreled away, I figured that sooner or later, I could buy out my own property that I was actually happy with. But between scheduled surgeries, my commute, and attempting to get enough sleeping hours in, there really wasn’t any time to conduct a thorough search.

  The first thing I did was turn on some music. Sweet melodic jazz with an easy beat flooded the apartment, drowning out the noises of the busy city just outside. I then made my way to the bathroom where I promptly stripped, clothes pooling at my feet, and stepped into the shower. I stood beneath the hot, strong spray and allowed the warmth to soak into my muscles, beads of moisture dripping down the surface of my body. Closing my eyes, I let out a long, tired sigh. It was a relief to be somewhere quiet, somewhere I could be alone with my thoughts. No needy co-workers, no screaming patients, no paperwork to file. It was just me, the gentle rush of water, and the smooth jazz playing out in the living room.

  I eventually stepped out of the shower and wrapped a red towel around my waist, wriggling my toes against the fluffy bath mat just before the bathroom sink. Dragging my palm over the steamy mirror, I inspected my face in the reflection. There were dark circles beneath my eyes, no thanks to the long hours I worked. It was nothing a good night’s rest and a cup of coffee in the morning couldn’t fix. Reaching for the mirror’s edge, I pulled it open to inspect the medicine cabinet hidden. Everything inside had its place, labels facing outwards for easy reading. I grabbed two aspirin and popped them into my mouth, swallowing dry, in an attempt to get ahead of the headache I could feel coming on.

  There was a singular pillow on the bed, beckoning weary head to sleep. But it was far too early to call it a night. After I toweled off and slipped into a clean pair of grey sweats, nestled into the fluff blankets and grabbed the hardcover book renaissance art history I’d started almost a month ago from off the bedside table. I was normally able to dive right into the words on the page, fascinated by old painting techniques used by some of the greatest renaissance artists in Italy, but for some reason I couldn’t get into it. I kept reading the same line over and over again, found my thoughts drifting from the topic of unique paint pigments to the awful beat of my next-door neighbor’s incessant music.

  I cleared my throat and frowned, shifting on the mattress and adjusting the pillow I’d propped behind my back before returning to the book. I just needed to tune it out, needed to focus. It was time to unwind, to destress. Getting riled up over something so trivial was counterproductive, and I’d much rather learn about how spiteful Michelangelo really was when he’d been commissioned to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Perhaps that was why I liked to read about him so much. He was a master of his craft, similar to how I was the master of my own, who still worked hard and demonstrated talent with every brush despite what the world threw at him. Michelangelo made his art his own, did what he wanted while teetering on a line of expectations.

  I turned the page, listening to the paper slide against the pad of my index finger. Just as I started to scan the next paragraph, which was located just above an undeniably gorgeous photograph of the Sistine Chapel’s entire ceiling, the next-door neighbor turned up their volume. I quickly lost track after that. There was a terrible pressure behind my eyes and a dryness in my throat. When the words on the page no longer made any sense, I threw my head back and sighed. All I wanted to do was relax. But how was I supposed to do that with all this racket?

  The neighbor was listening to a medley of pop tunes, the bass turned up way too high for my liking. I could feel the vibration of their music pulse through the walls, clashing with the sweet melody of the jazz playing over my own speakers. I realized quickly that I’d started grinding my teeth together, too annoyed by the ruckus –and generally just peeved to have such inconsiderate neighbors– that I closed the book quickly and threw my legs over the edge of the bed. Was it really that difficult to ask for a little peace and quiet after a long day’s work?

  I jumped out of bed, snatched a plain white shirt from off the top of my laundry hamper in the corner of the room, and pulled it on. I momentarily contemplated calling the landlord. They’d be able to handle a noise complaint no problem. But the edge of irritation had settled onto my shoulders, left the muscles in my neck tense. My landlord wasn’t the speediest of people. It’d probably take a good hour before he came upstairs to do anything, and I didn’
t think I had enough self-control to last that long. There was no way I was going to be able to fall asleep with this racket playing in the background. I needed to get up first thing and attend several complicated surgeries, so this wasn’t going to do.

  No, this wasn’t going to do at all. What kind of a delinquent neighbor did I have the misfortune of living next to?

  2

  Daliah

  I was supposed to be unpacking. The stack of cardboard boxes piled four high, spread about chaotically in the empty living room stared down at me, the contents demanding to be sorted and put in their proper place. But procrastination was a part of my DNA, built right into my very bones and every muscle fiber in my body.

  The arches of my feet were still terribly sore from the move, and the constant up and down from the moving truck to my new apartment on the third floor left my legs aching. I was physically too exhausted to move, but mentally still wide awake, so I settled for working on my next art project in lieu of doing the responsible adult thing of moving in and settling down.

  I sat cross-legged on the floor, propped up against a bare wall with my sketchbook on my lap. My charcoals were buried away somewhere, probably lost in the box labeled art supplies on the other side of the room, but I couldn’t be bothered to fish them out. With the nearest labelling marker, I got to work, capturing both movement and lightness with a confident sweep of the arm.

  In all of the mess, I’d managed to find my Bluetooth speaker and paired it to my phone, and was now listening to my personally curated Spotify playlist. I liked music with a good bass line, something I could feel in my chest. I liked the type of music that spoke to me, moved me in an almost incomprehensible way. I’d carefully curated my playlist so that I could easily slip into the zone and just focus on doing what I did best: creating works of art.

  I quickly tied my long red hair up into a messy bun, though loose strands fell wildly down in front of my face. I really needed a haircut. After a few moments, the sketch starts to come alive. My fingers are delightfully warm and tingling, my mind in a state of calm as I fall into a deep trance. I knew from experience that my sketches would start small, but grow and develop as ink filled the paper. I wasn’t too concerned with shading or minute details. This exercise was just a map, a plotline to a story I hadn’t yet told. The image was of a man –faceless for the moment– holding an anatomically correct heart in his hands. I could already see where I was going to use color, bright reds to contrast dark blues. This wasn’t intended to be a gory image, not in the slightest. This man was literally holding someone’s life in his palms. Was it his own? Was this heart symbolistic of his hopes and dreams? He cradled it, treated it gingerly like one would a newborn child.

  Or was this heart a symbol of someone else’s love? It’s fragile. New. It needed to be cared for and fawned over to ensure its survival. I ran my tongue over my bottom lip and frowned, contemplative. I don’t know the man in my sketch, but I’d imagine he’d be sweet. If I gave him my heart, he’d be tender. Not like Todd.

  Fuck Todd.

  I pressed my lips into a thin line and capped the marker, setting it down just beside me on the hardwood floor. Thoughts of the breakup immediately soured my mood. It had been messy, and entirely embarrassing on my part. I couldn’t remember the last time I cried that hard, hot angry tears streaking my face while runny snot plugged up my nose. I didn’t even remember the things I swore at him, and what he cursed back. All I could remember was that my throat was scratchy the next day from screaming and that I was the one who finally ended things.

  I should have seen the breakup coming. Todd was never there, never really cared for my work and what I stood for. I still felt stupid for wasting two whole years on him. I sighed, lamenting for every wasted kiss, every fruitless compliment, all the time and energy I’d spent trying to be better for him. Todd never seemed to put in the same amount of effort. When I told him about the art fellowship in Sacramento, I thought he’d be happy for me. The fellowship was my golden ticket, the perfect opportunity to give me an edge in the competitive world of the fine arts. But instead of hugging me, or congratulating me, or doing anything a supportive and loving boyfriend should, Todd simply scoffed and rolled his eyes.

  Like it’ll do you any good.

  I balled my hands into tight fists. When we first started dating, Todd had pretended to be interested in art. He tried his best to impress me, reading up on popular art movements to dazzle me. But then he got lazy, started showing up less and less to my exhibits. Sure, they were small art shows. I knew they weren’t anything to write home about. But I’d worked day in and day out to secure my place at galleries, at libraries, and any other place willing display local artists. I was damn proud of my work. It was just a damn shame that Todd was not.

  Tilting my head back, I closed my eyes and listened to the song playing over the speaker build up to the guitar bridge. At the end of the day, I supposed I should be grateful that things ended between us. The T in Todd really stood for toxic. With him nowhere near me, I’d finally get the chance to explore my artistic creativity. There’d be no more arguing about my art supplies being everywhere. No more bickering about getting another part-time job so we could pay the bills. I always found the money somehow. I didn’t see why he was so worried. I was a tried and true artist who could make a decent living off her paintings, not some con artist making a statue of sponges and demanding compensation.

  This was my chance to truly shine. I was no longer tied down by his negativity, but the lack of room to grow in the small town I’d been born and raised in. What better place to spread my wings and try my luck than in the big city? Sacramento was alive, filled to the brim with beautiful colors, plentiful sounds, an array of smells, and decorated with unique textures that I couldn’t wait to study and try and apply in my work. I promised myself that when I moved out here, I was going to let the city serve as a bowl of inspiration. All I had to do was drink from it.

  I glanced down at my sketchbook and admired the sharp lines I’d created. First thing tomorrow morning, I was going to dig out my wooden easel –which I was pretty sure was in one of the bigger boxes in the apartment hallway– I’d go out to town to grab a bagel at the local café just down the street, and I’d come home with a fresh canvas so I could work my magic. Now it was just an issue of finding a local and reasonably priced art supplies shop so I could get my hands on some beautifully rich paints. In the rush of the breakup, I’d left the majority of my oils behind.

  Just as I was about to decide that supply shopping was tomorrow me’s problem, three heavy knocks came from the front door. I frowned. It was awfully late, and I wasn’t expecting any visitors. I stood and made my way to the front, peeking through the peephole first to make sure this wasn’t one of those home evasions my mother used to warn me about after watching late-night news.

  To my utter surprise, it was a man. He was incredibly tall and lean, standing at about six feet with broad shoulders that practically screamed power. His dark brown hair was slightly overgrown, bangs just framing light brown eyes. If I had to venture a guess, I’d estimate the man was in his early thirties, but the serious expression he wore with a seemingly permanent frown made him appear much older.

  I cracked the door open an inch.

  “Turn that crap off,” he hissed before I could even get a word out. The harshness in his deep voice took me aback, leaving me momentarily stunned.

  “Excuse me?” I bit back.

  “I have had a very long day,” he continued bitterly. “And I need to get up at five tomorrow to get to work. Turn that infernal racket off, or so help me.”

  “Infernal racket,” I echoed, the start of a giggle bubbling up from my chest. “Are you kidding me? What are you? An eighty-year-old man?”

  “Turn it down or I’ll call the landlord.”

  “You mean my cousin Paul?”

  “Paul’s your cousin?”

  “Are you hard of hearing, too?” I joked. “He’s the whole reaso
n I managed to get this apartment in the first place. I would have had a hard time beating out other applicants otherwise.”

  “Turn your music down, or I’ll call the cops and file a noise complaint.”

  I shook my fist in the air and exaggerated a frown. “Get off my lawn!” I teased, lowering my voice to sound like a grumpy old man.

  The stranger’s stern expression cracked slightly, the tiniest and briefest grin ghosting across his lips. There was a challenge in his brilliant eyes, something electric in the way he held my gaze with confidence. He opened his mouth for a moment, like he was about to say something, but pressed his lips into a thin line.

  “Just keep it down,” he grumbled before turning on his heel. He stomped down the hall and quickly disappeared behind the door of the apartment next to me.

  “Nice to meet you, too!” I shouted after him. “I’ll be sure to let the senior home down the street know you’re missing.”

  I closed the door and broke out into a tiny fit of giggles. I got a good crack out of that last one. And I secretly hoped Mr. Grumpy managed to catch my quip before settling in for the night. I turned the music off entirely, deciding I should open at least one box that evening. I trudged over and reluctantly picked up the smallest box labelled toiletries.

  3

  Edgar

  “You look like crap,” said Joe. “Didn’t get enough beauty sleep?”