Page 20 of Saving Love (Pulse Medical #2)

BETTE

B ette’s feet moved on autopilot, her steps carrying her back to the rehab center while her mind twisted itself into a hundred tight knots.

It had been only a few short hours since she’d found out Emily had gotten approved for surgery.

She should’ve known it was coming. Emily’s shoulder had improved every day, yet a part of her—one she didn’t like to examine too closely—had always imagined that moment going differently.

She’d pictured being the one to share the news, watching Emily’s lovely face brighten like the sun with relief.

Maybe they’d even have celebrated with a drink, letting things feel simple for once.

But no. Things had been fractured, and frankly, it was all Bette’s fault.

She’d fucked up. She’d pushed Emily away and for what? For being scared of giving too much of herself? For the possibility of heartbreak? Not that those feelings weren’t valid. They were. Bette had to protect herself. She knew how easily things could go wrong––how easily a heart could be shattered.

With a hard exhale, Bette pushed open the doors of the rehab center, breathing in the scent of eucalyptus from the essential oil diffuser Maggie had set up at the front desk.

“Oh, good, you’re back,” Maggie said, tucking the phone she’d just been staring at, most likely doom-scrolling, into the top drawer. “You’ve got a surprise visitor.”

Bette squished her brows. “Who?” she asked.

“Doctor Emily Sharp.”

Bette froze mid-step. “Seriously?” she asked, her heart lurching in her chest. “Doctor Sharp is waiting in my office?”

“Yup.” Maggie nodded. “She came in like fifteen minutes ago and I told her you were out on rounds, but she insisted she’d wait for you. I told her she can do that in your office.”

Bette was utterly bewildered. She hadn’t expected to see the surgeon again so soon, especially not today. “Um…” she ran her fingers briskly through her hair. Her stomach flipped around like a bouncing ball. “Alright… I’ll go see what she wants.”

“She was smiling,” Maggie added before Bette crossed the room. Her young face was pulled in a way that said she was both confused and a little disturbed. “Like in a kind of crazy way. Too much teeth. You might want to approach with caution, Bets.”

“Noted,” Bette said dryly, her mind already racing with what that might mean.

Was Emily nervous about her surgery? Was that why she was here—for Bette to check out her shoulder?

Tell her everything was fine. Or was there something else going on?

Something Bette wasn’t sure she was ready to deal with?

Or more so, maybe she didn’t want to acknowledge that tiny spark of hope that had filled her stomach when Maggie mentioned Emily was looking for her.

But hope was often squashed.

Not wanting to drag it out any further, Bette made her way to her office, walking much slower than her usual sprinting pace.

If she could, she would turn around right now, find an excuse to avoid whatever discussion was coming her way, and keep things professional, distant.

But how could she remain distant when Emily Sharp was sitting in her office.

By the time Bette reached her office, her heart was thundering in her ears. She reached for the doorknob, hesitated for a fraction, and then swung the door open.

Emily was standing in front of Bette’s desk as if she’d been pacing but froze the second the door opened. Her posture was all wrong—too stiff, too forced like she was somehow trying to convince herself that she shouldn’t jump out the window.

“Doctor Sharp,” Bette said, her voice coming out a little raspier than she meant. But hell, her whole body felt tight, like her ribs were too small to contain her lungs. “What can I?—”

“Can we cut the whole Doctor Sharp bullshit?” Emily interrupted, stepping forward.

Bette was caught off guard. She hadn’t expected that response. But then again, what had she expected? “Alright. Emily, then,” she forced the words after a deep inhale, “What’s going on?”

“I need you to listen for the next minute, like really listen,” Emily said, her voice firm but just a little too fast, like she’d rehearsed this already. “Because I’ve been thinking about this a lot and I just need to say it.”

Bette stayed rooted to the doorway, her hand still on the handle, unsure if she should be getting ready to make a break for it. Whatever Emily had to say was bound to rock the very foundation beneath Bette’s feet; she was sure of it.

“I like you, Bette,” Emily said, her voice steady but her hands gave her nerves away, they were fidgeting at her sides. “And I’ve been trying to ignore it, to accept that you might not feel the same way, and I know it’s complicated and messy and probably?—”

“Hey, Bette, you’re eleven o’clock is here,” Steven’s voice interrupted as he popped his head into the doorway next to her. She hadn’t even heard his footsteps. “Should I tell her to wait in reception or find a plinth?”

Bette tightened her hand on the doorknob. She wasn’t sure if she welcomed the interruption or despised it. All she knew, was that she couldn’t keep her patient waiting. Mrs. Humphrey didn’t tolerate tardiness. “Tell her I’ll be right there,” Bette said.

“Will do.” Steven retreated just as quickly as he’d appeared.

Bette exhaled, slowly, wondering if she could somehow ease that tension in her chest, and turned her gaze back to Emily. The surgeon hadn’t moved, but her expression had shifted. Everything about her shouted vulnerable.

And Bette didn’t want to see her like that. “How about you come over for dinner tonight? Just a platonic dinner at my place.” The words were out before she could yank them back in. But then again, did she even want to? “I’ve got a patient to see now. Can we talk about it tonight?”

“Tonight,” Emily said, nodding. “Alright. Just send me your address.”

Bette stood in her small, cozy kitchen staring down at the pan. She’d decided on making lemon garlic chicken and roasted vegetables; a meal she could pass off as effortlessly thrown together even though she’d stress-chopped the carrots into far too small cubes.

The chicken sizzled in the skillet, but Bette was barely paying it any attention. Her mind was racing, replaying that moment when she’d invited Emily over for dinner.

What the hell had she been thinking? She could’ve suggested coffee, drinks at a bar, or literally anything else that didn’t involve her house, her personal space.

Maybe it wasn’t too late to fake an emergency. Bette glanced at the phone on the counter. She could text Emily and claim food poisoning or an allergic reaction. She could say a sinkhole had swallowed her kitchen.

“Get a grip,” she muttered, flipping the chicken in the pan. It was a little more golden than intended, but not burned. “Emily had the guts to tell you how she felt, the least you can do is make her dinner.”

But the mere idea of Emily sitting across from her at the table, looking at her with those lovely sharp eyes, made her stomach twist into a thousand knots.

The doorbell rang.

Bette froze, the stainless-steel spatula hovering mid-air. Her heart climbed straight out of her throat as she watched Emily’s silhouette through the frosted glass of the front door.

Before Emily could ring the doorbell again, Bette set down the spatula and rushed across the kitchen to open it for her. There was no running now. No back door to escape.

“Hey,” Emily said, her lips curling into what Bette assumed was a smile but looked just as hesitant as Bette felt. Her eyes scanned the inside space—the living room, the brick fireplace, and worn leather couches Bette had thrifted when she first moved in. “Your place is very cozy. It suits you.”

“Thanks,” Bette said, closing the door behind her. She felt awkward standing at the threshold, so she moved toward the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink? Wine?”

Emily walked to the round table and sat down in one of the chairs, crossing her legs. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Plain. Simple. Yet somehow still gorgeous. “I’d never turn down wine.”

Bette grabbed two glasses from the cabinet and wondered what the hell they were going to talk about.

Surely they weren’t going to jump right into the conversation from earlier today?

Surely Bette had to be drunk for that. But then what did they talk about?

Their conversations had come so effortlessly before it all went downhill, before that night at the gala.

They’d chatted. Laughed. And chatted some more.

But now, there was too much tension, too much awkwardness.

She uncorked the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and poured them each a glass. “Hope you like white wine.”

“White. Red. Any kind,” Emily said, taking the glass. She glanced at the stovetop. “It smells more fancy than a simple dinner. I was expecting microwaved frozen burritos.”

Bette, who could probably cut the awkward tension in the air with the carrot knife, smiled. “Frozen burritos have their place. But I prefer to serve my guests something homemade.”

“Well, I appreciate it. Especially after today.”

“How did it go?” Bette asked, remembering this morning. “Your first surgery back?”

Emily’s expression flickered like an old lightbulb. She sighed and shrugged. “It was… um, something.”

“Something good? Something bad?”

“Both,” Emily admitted, letting out a breathy, almost exasperated laugh as she set her glass down and crossed her arms. “It was incredible in some ways. You know, being back in the OR, scrubbing in, holding the instruments again. Like riding a bike. Muscle memory kicks in.”

Bette nodded. She didn’t have first-hand experience, but she could imagine the feeling.

“The patient had a massive rotator cuff tear. She couldn’t lift her arm past forty-five degrees. A skiing accident,” Emily said, tapping her finger absent-mindedly against her bicep. “By the end of the surgery, I’d repaired the tear, cleaned up the bursa and the joint looked great.”

“Sounds like a win.”