Page 15 of Bad Medicine

“Well,” I said, skimming through the results of Mrs. Johnston’s lab work. “According to this, she’ll be out of here right away.”

“And not a moment too soon,” Elizabeth muttered, turning back to her computer screen.

I was still scanning the lab results, making sure I had all the information before I came face to face with Mildred again, when I heard a strange sound coming from behind the curtain surrounding her bed: laughter.

Actually, there was a low rumbling baritone, followed by Mildred’s papery chuckle.

“Oh, doctor,” she said, and I could almost picture her pale cheeks blushing. “You shameless flirt, you.”

Frowning again, I moved closer to the curtain, wondering which attending physician was with my patient, and why I wasn’t notified if someone had already delivered the lab results to her. Looking under the edge of the bland pastel blue curtain, I could see a man’s legs, wrapped in denim, one foot on the floor, the other dangling beside it, like he was sitting half on the patient bed with her.

But it was the shoes on those feet that really caught my eye, because instead of a shiny pair of Italian leather loafers or even a cozy pair of running shoes, those dangling feet were encased in a pair of dusty black motorcycle boots.

What the hell was going on? Sitting on the patient’s bed? Hadn’t we all attended that Code of Conduct seminar last month, laying down strict guidelines about appropriate and inappropriate ways to interact with our patients?

Tucking the patient chart folder under my arm, I grabbed the curtain and swung it back dramatically, prepared to give whoever was behind it a piece of my mind, but froze when I saw the scene it had hidden.

Because right there, curled up on my patient’s bed like some cut-rate Lothario, was the new bane of my existence, Rock.

He was smiling, his dark stubble making his strong jaw look even more enticing, as he held one of Mildred’s hands in his own. She blinked up at him, her own smile bright and giddy, as she patted her pale silver curls and continued to giggle at whatever it was Rock was saying.

When the curtain moved, they both turned to look at me and while Mildred’s smile dimmed at my interruption, Rock’s nearly doubled in size, his deep blue eyes lighting up.

I tried to pretend that didn’t make me feel just a little happy.

Then I noticed that he was wearing a white lab coat and any happiness I may or may not have been feeling died a quick and painful death.

“Doc!” Rock greeted, standing from the bed but not releasing Mildred’s hand. “We were just talking about you, weren’t we, Milly?”

At the nickname, Mildred tittered again.

“Can I have a word with you?” I asked through gritted teeth, gesturing to the far side of the ER.

“Sure thing, Doc. I was just telling Milly here how lucky she was to have you as her doctor.” Rock patted the old woman’s hand tenderly, and I stared, astonished, as she appeared to melt before my eyes. “She fully agreed with me, saying that you were the kindest, most competent physician she had ever encountered in her short thirty-five years on earth. Isn’t that right, you gorgeous spring chicken?”

“Oh, you,” Mildred gushed, and I scowled. I knew for a fact that woman was well into her seventies and pretty much hated my guts.

Turning my glare back on to Rock, I gave him my best,I’m trying to figure out how to murder you and get away with itsmile, and said, “Now.”

“I’ll be back in a few, Milly,” he said, tossing her a wink that I absolutely didnotfind sexy, before following me across the room and out into the hallway.

Once I had us somewhere I thought we were unlikely to be overheard—around the corner from the nurses’ station—I spun on him, ready to unleash my anger.

“What thehelldo you think you’re doing?”

Rock tossed me a lazy smirk, one side of his mouth tipping up in a way that I would have said was sinful if I was affected by that sort of thing.

Taking a step toward me, he opened his mouth to respond, but froze, his smirk falling into a frown.

“Why do you keep doing that?”

I blinked. “Doing what?”

“Wrinkling your nose at me?”

“I hadn’t realized I was doing anything with my nose,” I answered, but now that he had mentioned it, he might have been right.

“You are, and you’ve done it every time I get near you.” Placing one arm on the wall over my head, somehow managing to look like a daytime soap star and an Abercrombie model at the same time, he asked again. “So tell me why you do it.”