Page 7 of Love Medley (Med Wreck Romance #1)

Chapter six

Lucy

I t's another day, another shift. But for the first time in a long while, I realize I’m not just pasting a smile on my face and going through the motions. I actually want to be here.

And maybe that’s partially due to the cute nurse I met yesterday.

Jake Whitlock.

I flush at the memory of our meeting. I was such an idiot. Did I really say that I must have noticed him from afar? How many times do I have to blurt out embarrassing things before I shut my mouth like a sensible person?

I’m scrolling through the list of patients currently in the ER, but I’m unable to absorb the words on the computer screen because of my churning thoughts.

Jake is extremely attractive, but I’m not in any state to be interested in anyone new.

My relationship with Weston was a disaster, and I should remember that before making any rash decisions.

But there’s nothing wrong with enjoying the scenery, right?

My mind drifts to the cut of Jake’s jaw, the indent of his dimples, his clear gray eyes, his full lips. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, and toned arms. I need someone to hose me down. This isn’t like me at all.

Still, I find myself wondering if Jake’s here and if I’ll see him at some point.

“Lucy,” Dr. Simons calls out from her computer. “Do you want to see the patient in Room 16?”

Dr. Simons is one of the ER doctors that I’ve been hoping to work with this month. In her fifties, she’s one of the few female doctors her age in a specialty still dominated by men. I’m eager to make a good impression.

“Sure,” I say automatically, and I glance at the one-liner on my computer screen. The patient is in her twenties and probably has a fracture in her right forearm. Pretty straightforward. I’ll take a quick history and do a cursory physical exam, report to Dr. Simons, and order an X-ray.

Rising from my chair, I adjust my pink skirt before walking down the long hallway to the patient’s room. After rapping on the sliding glass door, I enter Room 16 with a smile. “Hi, Tanya?”

A woman is sitting on the bed with what looks like a swelling on her cheek, although if there’s a bruise, it’s been caked over with concealer.

A jacket is draped over her shoulders obscuring my view of her injured arm.

She attempts a smile, but something clenches in my chest when her frightened dark eyes skitter everywhere but my way.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Tanya says in a hoarse voice, like she hasn’t talked in a while.

I’m not sure why, but panic blooms inside of me.

“What brings you here today?” Shoving my trembling hands in my white coat’s pockets, I keep my voice as steady as I can.

“Slipped on my kitchen floor and fell,” Tanya says, not truly meeting my eyes. “I’m such a klutz.”

Other than the large oversized jacket, she has on long pants even in this super hot weather.

When she shifts, part of the jacket falls open and I see the hint of a few green and purple discolorations on both arms. When Tanya notices my stare, she tugs the jacket back closed, involuntarily wincing when she accidentally moves her wounded arm.

Alarm bells ring in my mind. “Did you fall on anything?”

“Nope. Just the floor. I was lucky.”

The false note on the word “lucky” tips the scales. All of the red flags combined convinces me this woman is being abused. That’s why I’m feeling a wave of nausea.

She reminds me of myself.

I sit down heavily in a chair before I can lose my footing.

“Do you...” I clear my throat. “Do you feel safe at home?”

Tanya’s face immediately reddens, and her eyes dart around the room as if she is expecting someone to jump out at her. “What are you talking about?”

“We just always have to ask for injuries like this.”

My mind flashes back to a second-year lecture on abuse—bruises in different stages of healing, a mechanism of injury that doesn’t make sense, a frightened affect. Tanya checks every box. A dull roar rises in my ears.

It’s strange, learning these markers of abuse in class but never once applying them to myself. After all, Weston never hit me. But now, the parallels are sharp and inescapable.

In another timeline, I could have been Tanya.

If I hadn’t called Amelia, if I had remained in a relationship with Weston…

if, if, if. It’s still hard to believe Weston might have hit me that night, but I’m beginning to realize he truly could have.

It was only luck that prevented me from having the remaining hallmarks of abuse.

I was so fortunate to get out when I did.

Unlike Tanya.

“Well, I’m leavin’ if you’re gonna ask me things like that. I’m fine,” she mutters.

Tanya isn’t meeting my eyes, her body stiff with tension. I’m experiencing déjà vu because I’ve responded to Weston’s anger in a similar manner. I’ve hidden my torment under smiles, not revealing anything.

And if Weston had hit me? Scarily, I’m unsure I’d have told anyone then either .

For once, I pause and actually consider what I’m going to say—and debate if I even want to say anything at all.

I hate talking about Weston. There’s a reason I change subjects when my friends bring him up.

But somehow seeing this broken woman in front of me, I’m desperate to connect with her.

I can’t help her if she doesn’t talk to me.

The stakes are high, and I don’t want to scare her off. I’m not even sure if it’s kosher to talk about one’s own experience when talking to patients. Isn’t that breaking some kind of code?

“My ex didn’t hit me, but I think he would have,” I say, finally. “I had to call a friend while he was threatening to break down my bathroom door.”

“Yeah right.” Tanya laughs caustically, but her body tilts just the slightest bit towards me. “You’re a doctor. Stuff like that doesn’t happen to people like you.”

“You’d be surprised. I was lucky. But only because I asked for help.”

I’m surprised by how invested I already am. I’ve cared about patients before, of course—but this is different. Tanya’s situation feels personal in a way I wasn’t expecting.

Tanya is silent, and I can tell she is deciding whether to stay or run.

I’m grasping for anything to tip the scales towards the former.

“Let’s do this. Can I at least take a quick look at your arm? You’ll probably need an X-ray to see if anything’s broken. We don’t have to talk anymore, but your injury needs to be evaluated no matter how you got it. ”

I’m honestly not sure how I’m still in this room. My heart is pounding a million times per minute.

Tanya finally nods, acquiescing, letting the jacket drop to the bed in a heap.

I stifle a gasp when I see just how many bruises she’s been hiding, but I make a big effort to not react to them.

Instead, I focus on her arm, palpating it gently.

She hisses softly, but doesn’t pull away.

There’s a small bulge where there shouldn’t be.

She might need surgery, but I’ll postpone that discussion until I talk to Dr. Simons.

“Okay, I need to talk to the head doctor,” I say, releasing her arm. “I’ll tell her what we discussed.”

As Tanya’s eyes flare in terror, I hold my hands up in a placating gesture. “Again, you don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to. Let’s at least see what we’re dealing with here.”

“Fine.” Tanya’s tone is sullen, her body language closed off once again. “But no more questions about my relationship. That has nothing to do with my arm.”

Which tells me it has everything to do with her arm.

As I exit the room, my pent-up feelings of panic surge forward, like a pressure valve has been released. There isn’t enough air in the room to expand my chest; I’m dizzy and unmoored.

Without warning, familiar gray eyes smile at me.

Oh no. It’s Jake Whitlock.

Why here? Why now? If meeting Tanya showed me anything, it’s that I’m nowhere near ready for a relationship—no matter how intriguing this man is. Even though Weston and I have broken up, the baggage still remains .

“Hey, Lucy...” Jake freezes when he sees my face. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

The reality of Tanya’s injuries combined with Jake’s sudden arrival is too much, and I dash out of the ER.

In seconds, I’m at the ambulance entrance, bent over and gasping. It’s blazing hot outside, but I’m shivering, and my teeth are chattering. Panting, I attempt to calm my heartbeat, but I’m unable to regulate my breathing.

Jake’s gray eyes peer down at me in concern. “Let’s go sit down on that curb, okay?”

Jittery, like a skittish cat, I scrabble for his hand, following him blindly. Jake eases me to sitting with minimal effort even though I’m sagging heavily against him.

“Take some deep breaths,” Jake says calmly. “In for four beats through your nose, hold it for seven and then exhale out of your mouth for eight, okay? I’ll do it with you.”

Following Jake’s lead, I inhale shakily and let out a shuddering breath. Miraculously, my head stops spinning with each subsequent inhalation. After following Jake’s breathing patterns for a minute or two, my heart slows to a reasonable rate.

“Now,” Jake says, his voice resonant and calm. “Tell me three things that you see.”

“Huh?” I can barely focus on what he is saying.

“Just go with it. Tell me three things you see.”

Glancing around, I grasp for an answer. “Um, I see a stop sign. And a potted plant. And a parked ambulance.”

“Good. Now tell me three things that you smell. ”

“Um. I smell…”

In fact, what I smell is Jake. His intoxicating scent of clean, laundered scrubs and musk, a mix of earthy tones that dilates my pupils. His aroma is undeniably male and spicy, but also soothing and relaxing. How can one person make me feel so many things at once?

“Hopefully I don’t stink,” Jake says with a grin.

“No, no,” I protest feebly. Little does Jake know that he’s closer to the mark than he realizes. “But I do smell what is probably your laundry detergent. Stinky garbage. And...fries?”

“Great. Now, three things you hear.”