Her Knight Under The Mistletoe. Annie O'Neil

      Matthew squared up to his boss—grateful there was a desk between them. Never in his life would he dream of laying a finger on him—or anyone, for that matter—but this was news. He wasn’t here to quibble over butter vs. tangy toast toppings.

      He might as well have stayed in Iraq if he’d wanted things to be straightforward. Wake up. Survive. Sleep. Repeat.

      He’d come back to London to work. Help patients. Make sure the SoS wing opened. Maybe process a few of his own demons while he was at it. But mostly to work. When he worked there wasn’t a thought in his head other than doing the best he could for the patient he was with.

      Dr. Menzies rose from his chair and walked round and perched on the edge of his desk. “I know this isn’t what you wanted. What either of us wanted,” he hastily corrected himself, “but this other candidate has got a helluva lot of experience.”

      “I have a helluva lot of experience.”

      He silently ticked off the countless years of medical school, the military training, working in combat conditions. Turning his father’s plastics factory into an award-winning center for prosthetics. Getting a knighthood for turning the bulk of the profits into a charity for soldiers trying to reintegrate themselves into society. What more did the world expect him to give before he’d proved himself?

      “Who is he?”

      “Actually...Matthew...he’s a she.”

      * * *

      “Job share?” Amanda’s cheeks, pink from the icy walk to the hospital, turned hot and her eyes widened as the A&E department’s PA raised her hands in a don’t-shoot-the-messenger gesture.

      “From the look on your face, I am guessing our beloved Dr. Menzies didn’t make that clear? Hot tea? It’s freezing out there. Or gingerbread?”

      She pushed a plate of decorated ginger biscuits—stars, bells, Santas and something she couldn’t identify—across her desk and rolled her eyes.

      “My mum’s on a mission this year to be the Christmas biscuit champion of her WI group. The weird one is a submarine. My dad.” She offered as a means of explanation.

      Amanda accepted a star-shaped biscuit with a smile, her eyes flicking to the PA’s nameplate: Deena Stokes. She looked no-nonsense enough, even with her nails decorated like Christmas tree baubles. She also looked as if this wasn’t the first time she had delivered unwelcome news to someone who should already have been in the loop.

      Her dry tone intimated a certain world-weariness with her boss and his lack of communication, but her body language spoke volumes, too. She was the gatekeeper to the director’s domain—and right now the drawbridge wasn’t anywhere near close to landing on the other side of the moat. So it was suck it up and take a biscuit or...

      “Your mum’s in with a good shot if these are anything to go by.”

      Amanda lifted the half-eaten cookie as evidence, though with her nerves jangling round her like elves on hyperdrive even the finest pastries in the universe would taste like cardboard.

      She looked toward the closed office door and tilted her head back to Deena. “I’ve not met with him yet. I’ve only had meetings with the board.”

      Amanda shook her head in disbelief and finished her biscuit. You had to laugh, didn’t you? Just when she’d thought she’d had all her ducks lined up in a row...

      “I’d been under the impression this meeting was just a formality. That the job was already mine.”

      Deena quirked an inquisitive eyebrow.

      Humph! Looked as if someone knew better than to assume anything.

      Rookie error. Amanda silently chastised herself for going soft in her time off from “the big leagues.” If you could call raising a child and taking every locum shift in every inner city A&E on offer time off.

      She shrugged away the thought. She had her Auntie Flo. And an entire floor of Flo’s big old tumbledown four-story house right in the center of one of London’s smartest neighborhoods. It might look like the hands of time had not moved since the first Wakehurst had set the grandfather clock up in the central entryway back in 1749, and it still lacked central heating, but it was more than most single mothers had. A lot more.

      She parted her lips, about to ask how deep a salary cut she’d be taking, then thought better of it. The job was round the corner from her house, in a department that brought her to life in a way no other area of medicine did. And right before Christmas beggars couldn’t really be choosers. Just thinking of putting herself up for more overnight locum shifts made her tired.

      Deena flicked her pen in the direction of Dr. Menzies’s office. “He’s just finishing up with an appointment. If you’d like to take a seat, he shouldn’t be long.”

      “The other candidate?”

      The PA gave a shrug, but with enough leeway for interpretation that Amanda knew that was precisely who was inside.

      Amanda watched as Deena’s eyes traveled from the door to some mistletoe hanging above her desk.

      Hmm...

      From what she’d heard, Dr. Menzies was old enough to be Deena’s father, so... Her job share partner must be good-looking. She cleared her throat and sniffed. Didn’t matter. She was immune to romance. Whoever was in that office was the competition, and nothing was going to stand in the way of providing for her son.

      Amanda’s gaze shifted toward the door. She tipped her head to the side, wishing she possessed some sort of lopsided superhero power to see through hard wood. There was the muffled flow of voices. Both male.

      Most likely the old boys’ club. She could picture it perfectly. A promise of the top job made over cigars and tumblers of whiskey in an exclusive members’ club, no doubt. She could almost hear the tinkle of ice cubes against heavy crystal as they toasted the new Divisional Medical Director in front of a roaring fire.

      She shuddered at the thought. It was how her father always did business...

      So much for stuffing herself into this stupid form-fitting suit and tippy-toeing across the square in these ridiculous high heels. She should have just worn scrubs and her favorite running shoes, because from the looks of things she was going back to locum shifts at whatever trauma center would take her. The regular hours of this job would have been a godsend, but...

      As per usual, it seemed that heaven was putting a hold on doling out any brownie points she might have earned up to this point.

      Both women started at the eruption of a huge chorus of laughter coming from Dr. Menzies’ office.

      Just as she’d suspected: Old Boys’ Club.

      Her fingers tightened round the straps of her handbag. If she was going to go down she was going to go down fighting.

      Having Tristan had necessitated dropping out of “the game” for a while. For the first three months Amanda’s entire life had revolved around diapers, breastfeeding and laundry. Once Tristan had got the knack of sleeping through the night she’d started picking up shifts here and there, without bothering to take part in the “let’s meet for a drink” charade. Why should she when her number one priority was her son?

      Work. Parenting. That was all she had time for. Before that it had just been work. And before that...

      She screwed her eyes tight and pressed her fingers to them, as if it would squish the memories away. Before that nothing.

      She gave herself a quick shake and pasted on her smile. Another laugh sounded from the room, chased up with more rapid-fire male conversation she couldn’t make out through the thick door.

      Suddenly exhausted at the idea of going through the mockery of this “interview,” Amanda was sorely tempted to lean in, scratch her name out in Deena’s appointment book and scarper when the door handle turned and the door opened.