Hello Dr Christmas Read online

  Hello Dr. Christmas

  Book Three

  Snowflake Creek Series

  Copyright © 2019 Olivia Noble

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Prologue

  For a moment, when I wake up, I am confused about where I am. There’s a really ornate ceiling above me, decorated with golden leaves and little angels holding trumpets. I stare at it in confusion. Then I notice that a man’s arm is draped across me. And my legs are draped over his. We are tangled up together, and it’s incredibly warm and comfortable. My eyes grow wide.

  Who is this man, and where are our clothes?

  Looking around, I study our surroundings. It’s a hotel room. A really nice hotel room. I slowly begin to remember. Last night, I was feeling reckless and lonely. I had a little too much spiced wine, and one too many Dirty Snowmen at The Drunken Elf, before meeting the extremely handsome stranger who is now lying in bed beside me. Then we came back here.

  I am scared to move much, because I feel so good and relaxed. I don’t want to wake him. I don’t want this perfect, peaceful moment to come to an abrupt end. I think I’ll just lie here for a minute, and enjoy the feeling of not being alone for once. But my curiosity causes me to peer around. There is only one hotel in town, and this is the nicest room. The presidential suite. He must be pretty wealthy to afford this.

  He was also so sweet and kind. Gentle and compassionate.

  I remember that he was a caring, giving lover, and it was a wonderful night. I haven’t been with anyone in a really long time, and I couldn’t have asked for a better experience.

  I don’t even know his name. I wish I could ask, but I don’t want to get attached right before I inevitably lose him. I can’t handle any more disappointment after the past few days. This man seems really well-put-together. His clothes are so nice, and his briefcase. He even smells good—like cinnamon and leather. Better than the mulled wine. He’s the sort of man I would have loved to go on a real date with, or spend some quality time with. Get to know slowly over romantic dinners—go on long walks together while perfect, fluffy snowflakes fall all around us.

  But I can’t even walk anymore.

  I’m a disaster. I’m injured and pathetic. I’m damaged goods.

  A few days ago, I was a prima ballerina. Now, I’m jobless and broken.

  There is no way that a man like this—handsome, successful, and kind—would be interested in a basketcase like me. Not in my current state. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be the same again.

  But it was a beautiful fantasy, while it lasted.

  Gazing at his face one last time, I try to memorize his features. His eyes are closed, but I remember how blue they were last night. Even in the darkness of night, they were so bright. Placing a small kiss on the man’s chiseled cheek, I carefully slide out of the bed without disturbing him. Then I grab my dress, and pull it on, before collecting my crutches and my purse.

  I look around for my panties, but I can’t seem to find them.

  But when I see the stranger stirring awake in bed, I decide to give up and sneak away. I carefully move to the door, as noiselessly as a mouse, using my crutches as skillfully as only a dancer could.

  I sneak out of the room quickly, and prepare for an embarrassing walk of shame, home to my family that will surely ask questions about where I’ve been all night—if they even notice that I was gone. Sighing, I think back at how I ended up in this mess.

  Chapter One

  A few days before…

  “Christmas comes but once a year, and so does Clara.”

  I hear everyone burst out into laughter at this, just outside my dressing room. I don’t know whether my colleagues are aware that I can hear them, but I don’t think they care. Making fun of me after each performance has become their favorite activity. This latest statement has me red in the face, and I want to march out of my private dressing area to defend myself.

  “Seriously, the girl can’t relax and let go,” David is saying. “She does not know how to have fun, or how to have an orgasm.”

  “Poor thing,” someone responds. “All she can do is dance.”

  I am furious. David is one of our best male dancers, who I dated briefly last season—if you can even call it that. I thought he was into me, but it turned out that it was just a dare, or a bet, or something. He just wanted to have sex with me so that he could make fun of me later. I have to really restrain myself from leaving the room and announcing to everyone that maybe I would have been able to climax if David didn’t have the tiniest dick I’ve ever seen.

  Maybe I can start a new trend of calling him tiny-dick David. That would be amazing.

  But I know that it isn’t just David—everyone dislikes me.

  “If I stopped dating, and didn’t spend any time with my friends and family, and just practiced ballet all day, every day, I’m sure I’d be just as good as Clara,” someone says. “But that’s just not healthy. It’s not normal.”

  “She’s like a robot,” someone else says.

  I sigh. Reaching for my phone, I put some wireless headphones into my ears and begin playing some music to drown out the negativity. I start with Echo Beach, a song about nostalgia for a beautiful place. I think about Snowflake Creek instead of any beach, of course, as I take my hair out of its bun. The only difference between my situation and this song is that I actually love my job. I live for the moment those first few bars of Tchaikovsky begin to play, and I begin the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.

  I never feel more alive than when I’m on the stage, with thousands of eyes on me, in total command of the room. Everyone seems to hold their breath in wonder. When I can feel my muscles straining to their limit as I gracefully, weightlessly soar across the floor, that’s my greatest joy.

  The only problem is that my fellow dancers don’t seem to like me very much. We work together well on the stage, but they make things hell for me behind the scenes. Despite the fact that I finish each performance perfectly, and come back to a dressing room filled with flowers and cards from adoring fans, I still feel empty.

  I read all the cards, and smell all the flowers, but they are all from strangers. I don’t have someone who really cares waiting for me after the performance to give me a hug. Someone in the audience to cheer me on. Maybe the others are right, and I am just a robot.

  As I remove my makeup and change out of my glittering dance costume, the song playing in my ears switches to Blue Bayou. Another one about homesickness and longing for a different place. I sigh as I tug on my jeans and other street clothes. Then I reach for the calendar in my purse, where I have a list of our remaining performances, a countdown until I can leave these people a
nd go home to my family.

  Only one more performance in New York. Four in Chicago. Toronto. Los Angeles. How am I going to get through all of that? I grab a red marker and cross off today’s performance with a big X. Then I lift my fingers to press against my tense forehead, which is knotted up in a frown.

  A loud knock on the door behind me makes me jump. I remove my earbuds as a female dancer walks into the room.

  “Clara, why don’t you just quit and let me take over?” asks Amy Sanders. “It doesn’t seem like you want to be here anymore. I know all the steps just as well as you do.”

  I sigh. Amy is my understudy, and she has been gunning for my job for years. “Why would I quit The Nutcracker? This is my favorite ballet. It’s a lot easier on my feet and ankles than Swan Lake.”

  “With a much bigger paycheck,” Amy says. “I just feel like you aren’t a great fit for the company. We all have a certain… comradery between us here, and you never seem to want to participate. You never come out with us for drinks, you never hang out with anyone. People are talking, Clara. It’s just weird.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “I’m sorry, but I came here to dance. I didn’t know that I had to socialize with anyone. Also, I don’t drink when I’m dancing. I get dehydrated too easily. This is my job, Amy. I’m good at it, so what’s your problem?”

  “You should really just quit,” Amy says quietly. “People seem really bothered by you. I don’t think they want you here.”

  “Is that a threat?” I ask her.

  “No,” she says awkwardly. “I’m just looking out for you, Clara.”

  With that, she turns to leave. I sigh. Sometimes I really wish I could just quit and go home to Snowflake Creek. As wonderful as it is to perform in front of thousands, I never feel happier than I did when I was a little girl, dancing alone in my bedroom. Or a teenager, practicing in my basement studio, with my family as my only audience.

  Well, I should have listened to Amy.

  Lying in the hospital with my ankle swollen and turning fifty shades of black and blue, I replay the accident in my mind, over and over again. It was just a routine part of the show. I was doing the pas de deux with David, and a few lifts where the guys had to toss me around in the air. Amy was part of that number too, and I swear that I noticed her nudge one of the guys off balance just before he was supposed to catch me.

  The next thing I knew, I was crashing to the floor and seeing stars.

  Amy apologized immediately after, and she seemed really shocked and upset. It’s hard to believe she didn’t intend for this to happen. It doesn’t matter now.

  She took over my role, and after a brief recess, the show continued without me.

  I’m sure it will be all over the newspapers tomorrow.

  When the doctor returns, he places the x-ray images up on the wall. “It looks like you’ve done a lot of damage here, Clara. First of all, there’s a spiral fracture of the fifth metatarsal shaft, which is common in dancers, along with some pretty severe tears in the Achilles tendon. It might not be a complete rupture, but you’ve also torn the anterior talofibular ligament, and you can see over here that—”

  “How long?” I ask, interrupting him. “How long until it’s fixed and I can dance again?”

  “I don’t think you understand how bad this is. We are going to have to operate. It could be six months before you can even walk on it properly. You may never be able to dance on it again.”

  No. I didn’t hear that. I’m going to forget that he just said that. “I need a second opinion,” I tell him, swallowing. “Please. Bring me another doctor. I need to find someone who thinks he can help me dance again.”

  The doctor sighs and turns to leave the room. “Sure. But we are probably going to need to send you for an MRI, too.”

  When I’m left in the room alone, staring at my x-rays, I begin to feel really alone. You never realize how alone you are, until you’re in a hospital room all by yourself. Reaching for my phone, I do what I think most people would do in a situation like this. I call my mother.

  She picks up after a few rings.

  “Clara?” she answers with surprise. “Aren’t you supposed to be performing now?”

  “I got injured, Mom,” I say, fighting back tears. “I’m not going to be able to finish the production.”

  “Oh, no! Sweetie, that’s terrible. We were hoping to come see you in Chicago.”

  “I know,” I tell her. “But that’s not going to happen now. I am going to need an operation of some sort.”

  “Don’t worry, Clara. You are young, and you will heal. You will dance in many more shows, for many years to come, after you heal from this.”

  “I hope so,” I say miserably.

  “Come home as soon as you can, sweetie,” my mother says. “I will take care of you while you heal. Mary and Eve are already home, and we’ll all do our best to make you feel better. Although Evie has some of her own drama going on, and she showed up completely drunk out of her mind.”

  “Really?” I say with surprise. “Wait—Mary is there too? I thought she was still in L.A..”

  “I asked them to come home sooner than planned, because Dad has been having some memory problems.”

  “Memory problems?” I say, sitting up. “Mom, you never told me.”

  “I didn’t want to worry you, honey. I know you’re under way more pressure than the other girls, with your hectic schedule of performances.”

  “You should have told me,” I say with concern, temporarily forgetting about my ankle as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. I wince at the pain this motion causes. I knew that Eve was heading home, because she was texting me updates about a guy she was seeing. She even called me from the plane to tell me that he broke her heart. Poor Evie. I wonder if she feels half as heartbroken as I do. “I will head home as soon as I can.”

  “We can’t wait to see you, honey. Please take care of yourself—and dress warmly. It’s very cold up here in Minnesota.”

  I smile weakly. “I remember, Mom. I’ll see you soon.”

  Hanging up, I move to text Mary and Eve, just as a different doctor enters the room.

  “Unfortunately, Clara, we do recommend that you have the surgery. But I don’t think we’ll be able to guarantee that you will be able to dance again—”

  “Fine,” I say miserably. “I don’t care anymore. I just want to get out of here.”

  Chapter Two

  As I sit in the airport, waiting for my flight, I watch the happy families passing by. Little kids are playing games on their tablets, and others are rushing to catch their planes with their parents, holding hands. The worst are the happy couples, cuddled up together everywhere. I keep thinking about what David said about me. Am I broken and unable to love, like a normal person? I feel so out of touch, like I’m watching a movie and on the outside of everything.

  At least I have my family. Mom and Mary have called me many more times to check up on me, since the hospital. They have filled me in on lots of juicy family gossip that I missed out on, to distract me from the pain. I never realized that everyone kept so much from me, but I guess that’s what happens when you’re the youngest. I can’t wait to be home with them. I am grateful when I see a phone call from my other sister.

  “Hey, Evie,” I answer softly.

  “What happened?” she asks frantically, sounding half-awake. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I just smashed my ankle and needed to quit the production,” I tell her. When I hear her make a noise of surprise, I explain further. “I really wanted to finish every performance of The Nutcracker with the company… but it looks like my understudy is going to take over, just like she wanted. She and the other girls have been trying to get me injured badly enough for this to happen for like two years.”

  “That’s terrible, Clara. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m already on my way home. I’ll see you soon. But what’s going on with you? When I spoke to mom and Mary, they said you were a drunken me
ss. Why are you acting like a sorority girl, Evie?”

  “Ughhhhh,” she responds, sounding vaguely hung over. This makes me smile. “Adam and I slept together, and then he totally ditched me. Classic dude move.”

  “Mom says Adam fell from the sky?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.

  “Yeah, there was a plane crash. And that’s why he ditched me—he couldn’t get on the plane. So, I guess I’m never going to see him again, and I’m an idiot, and that’s that.”

  “What does Adam do?” I ask her, reaching for a newspaper that was on the chair beside me, and leafing through it. I try to skip over the headlines about a certain ballerina’s terrible injury. “What’s his last name? Is it Wintergreen?”

  “Yes. How did you know that?”

  “Because there was a newspaper article about his charity and the plane that disappeared—he was missing for a good sixteen hours before he was able to get his phone out of the plane and text his family that he was safe. It was enough time for the whole country to freak out.”

  “The whole country?” she responds with surprise.

  “Don’t you know who the Wintergreens are, Evie? He’s heir to a massive fortune. They are oil money, and he’s a philanthropist who flies all over the world, doing good deeds for people. He’s like… the greatest catch you could have possibly caught. He’s on all those most-eligible bachelor lists.”

  “So, he’s like really rich,” Eve whispers. “That’s why he didn’t want me to know who he was. And he’s not married or anything? Is he a major playboy?”

  “No! He’s a prince. He’s basically a monk. I really don’t think Adam Wintergreen would screw you over, Evie. He’s the real deal. He’s not the kind to run around breaking women’s hearts.”

  “But he did break mine,” she responds glumly. “And I’m probably never going to see him again. And he doesn’t even have my phone number.”