Page 3 of Saving Love (Pulse Medical #2)

BETTE

B ette stood in the quiet rehab center, arms folded over her chest, foot tapping impatiently on the linoleum floors. She checked the clock on the wall again—though she’d already done it twice in the past five minutes. Doctor Emily Sharp was late. Not by much, but enough to annoy her.

She’d dealt with late patients before. Some came all the way across the bridge and others had families to cater to, errands to run that ultimately meant they got caught up in traffic or a last-minute crisis with the kids.

Life, Bette knew, was rarely neat and predictable.

She understood that. But Emily’s lateness…

Well, it felt different. There was a certain air of entitlement that Bette didn’t like.

She’d experienced it yesterday during their first encounter.

It was as though Emily believed the world should revolve around her busy schedule.

And frankly, Bette wasn’t having any of it today.

The clock struck 8:10 a.m., and Bette checked the schedule again, as though it might offer some consolation.

It didn’t. It just made her more aware of how late Emily was, and how she would’ve preferred to start her day without the added irritation of waiting on someone who thought they were too important to be on time.

“Five minutes and we cancel?” Maggie asked, pushing the glasses that always migrated down, back up her nose. She was sitting at the reception desk, glancing up at the clock. “That’s the policy, right? If a patient’s fifteen minutes late.”

“Usually,” Bette replied. “But Doctor Sharp works here and her future career depends on whether or not we can get her shoulder functioning optimally again. I don’t think the chief of surgery will appreciate if we stand in the way of that.”

Maggie wrinkled her nose and sighed. “Damn politics.”

“It’s the way of life,” Bette added, also sighing.

Some people got special treatment and others didn’t.

It was just how life worked sometimes. Reba had once said that life was all about playing a game––knowing when to push and when to back off, and according to her, Bette didn’t play the game very well.

She wasn’t pushing enough. And backing off had become second nature for her, a reflex she couldn’t seem to shake.

But Reba had always been the opposite, not just in the way she saw life but in how she lived it.

She was a free-spirited artist to her core, and she had an unapologetic boldness about her—the reason Bette had been attracted to her in the first place—always charging forward where Bette would’ve held back.

“Well, sometimes the way of life sucks,” Maggie said, showing her young age. “I mean, why should we have to bend over backward because she’s got some fancy title? If she wants her shoulder fixed, she could at least act like it.”

“She’s in pain, Maggie,” Bette said somewhat amused. But the twenty-two-year-old had a point. “People act out when they’re in pain.”

“Yeah, well, there’s acting out and there’s acting like a jerk,” Maggie muttered. “You’d think surgeons would have better bedside manners. My mom always says a fancy degree doesn’t mean a lick of common sense.”

“Surgeons aren’t exactly known for their humility,” Bette smirked.

“Clearly,” Maggie said, rolling her eyes. “You’re too nice Bette––”

The door to the rehab center suddenly swung open cutting her off.

Emily Sharp walked in.

She was wearing her dark blue scrubs, though Bette knew there was no chance she’d be stepping into an operating room anytime soon.

Her auburn hair, which had fallen loosely over her shoulders yesterday, was now tied back into a ponytail, leaving her face fully visible.

Somehow, it made those green eyes stand out even more, along with those lips––full and perfect as though they’d wandered off a magazine cover.

Yesterday, when they’d first met, Bette hadn’t expected Emily to be that…young. She couldn’t be older than in her early thirties. So successful already and yet she looked like she’d just recently walked out of med school.

Emily caught Bette’s eye and tossed a half-ass apology her way. “Sorry, got caught up in something.”

Bette resisted the urge to say something snarky. “That’s fine,” she said evenly, trying to keep her exasperation from creeping into her voice. “It just means we’ve got a shorter session.”

Emily shrugged, unbothered. “That’s not a problem.”

If there was ever a time to huff, now would be it.

But Bette had to remain professional. It would be uncharacteristic of her not to be.

One of the reasons she’d gotten this job was because of her ability to keep things calm, even when patients––especially ones like Emily––made it difficult.

Her previous employer had given her a glowing recommendation for that very reason. Bette was the calm in the storm.

“Whatever works for you,” Bette said, leading Emily to a plinth at the opposite end of the rehab center and closing the curtain behind them.

While she set up the space, she watched Emily out of the corner of her eye.

The surgeon climbed onto the plinth, legs dangling off while her arms instinctively folded over her chest––the wince that had flashed across her face hadn’t gone unnoticed––as if she was determined to create some invisible barrier between them.

“Let’s take a look at that shoulder,” Bette said, turning to face her.

“Fine,” Emily said, dropping her arms to her lap. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Bette said nothing. She’d heard it all before; patients who were irritated and defensive were usually in pain.

She understood that better than most. Just as she knew she shouldn’t mirror their annoyance.

The session wasn’t about Emily’s attitude; it was about her healing and getting her back to the OR.

Bette picked up the chart, glancing at the details of Emily’s injuries.

Apart from the list of injuries she sustained during an accident––most of which had been resolved through surgical intervention––the ones that stood out to Bette, and the reason Emily was here today, was the partial rotator cuff tear and the ACJ sprain.

Nothing too serious. But painful enough that even thirty minutes in the OR could become excruciating.

“How’s your shoulder feeling today?” Bette asked, dropping the file to the bed.

“It hurts,” Emily replied, her voice clipped, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her scrub shirt. “But I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Bette contested. Sometimes she just had to be straightforward about it. “I can tell when someone’s in pain.”

“ Really ?” Emily snapped, her bright green eyes flashing with sharp, biting sarcasm, a look that somehow hardened the woman’s smooth, youthful face––a face Bette found undeniably attractive, but certainly wouldn’t comment on…ever. “How’d you figure that out, Sherlock?”

Bette forced a smile. This wasn’t her fight to win, she reminded herself. She had to keep it professional and keep her emotions in check. “I’ve had years of practice. I can read people in the same way you can read an MRI and know exactly what is wrong.”

“Well, good for you,” Emily muttered under her breath, clearly not ready to acknowledge the level of vulnerability in her tone. An orthopedic surgeon treated patients. Not the other way around. Bette was sure Emily found the change in roles a terribly hard pill to swallow.

“Let’s just see what we’re working with,” Bette said, ready to start the examination. She moved to Emily’s side, hands reaching for the surgeon’s shoulder, guiding her gently into position before starting. “First, I’m going to check your a range of motion. If there’s any pain, stop me.”

Emily tensed, her jaw setting in a way that showed she wasn’t particularly happy about being touched. Still, she didn’t pull away. That was something. Small progress.

Slowly but surely, Bette moved Emily’s arm through its range of motion, her fingers brushing lightly against the muscles in the shoulder. At certain points, Emily’s features tightened, and a sharp hiss of breath escaped her lips, yet she didn’t say a word.

At least Betty knew when not to push too hard. Years of experience told her how to move, and how to test without aggravating their symptoms.

When she moved the arm horizontally across Emily’s body, testing her AC joint, Betty asked, “Does that hurt?”

Emily pressed her lips together until they turned white. That was the answer enough. “What do you think?” she retorted, her walls still up and fighting. “I just don’t get it. It’s been seven weeks since the injury, the pain should be better by now.”

“A shoulder injury like this doesn’t always heal on its own as quickly as you’d like,” Bette explained, though she knew Emily was already very aware of that fact.

“Even if the tear or the sprain isn’t severe, the surrounding muscles can still be irritated, especially when you refuse to address it and keep pushing yourself. ”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Emily snapped, yanking her arm out of Bette’s grip. The surgeon flinched, and Bette assumed the sudden move probably rocketed pain through her shoulder.

But Emily’s defensiveness wasn’t about her injury. Bette had seen it before––the way people guarded themselves when they didn’t want anyone to see the cracks underneath.

But she wasn’t in the business of forcing people to open up.

She didn’t have the energy for that. Not anymore.

Not after her divorce, anyway. She had learned the hard way that some things, like trust, couldn’t be rushed.

And after everything with Reba–– especially after everything with Reba––Bette had put up her walls.

Higher than ever.She just assumed Emily had done the same.

“I know I don’t,” Bette said, stepping back to let the woman breathe. “All I’m saying is that I’m here to help you. But I can’t do that if you don’t take this seriously.”

The surgeon’s gaze hardened. “I am taking this seriously,” she snapped defensively. “I just don’t need a lecture.”

“It’s not a lecture,” Bette replied, her voice remaining calm, though there was more of an edge to it now, a twinge of impatience.

“It’s the reality of the situation. You won’t get better if you keep pretending everything’s fine when it’s not.

You need to be honest with yourself, Emily.

If you want to get back into the OR, you need to put in the work.

That’s why you’re here. That’s what I’m going to help you with. ”

Emily’s lips twisted in a tight line, and for a moment, Bette though she might say something else, might stick out her arm and let her continue with the examination.

Instead, the surgeon leaped off the bed and tore open the curtains with her good arm.

“I’m done here,” she said, coldly. “This isn’t helping.

You’re not going to fix my shoulder by talking about it. ”

Bette watched her storm out.

She didn’t ask her to stay. She didn’t call Emily back when she marched across the treatment area. And she sure as hell didn’t chase after her when she reached the exit.

That was another instinct Bette had––to recognize when to give someone space, when to back off, and when to stay quiet. It appeared, however, that she had taken it too far with Reba.

“Do you think she’ll come back?” Maggie asked, rising from her desk to peek out into the hallway. “Because honestly, good riddance, right? She seems like a hell of a lot more work than you need.”

Bette exhaled sharply, feeling tired all of a sudden. But the day had hardly started. Her schedule was booked up till late. “She’ll come back,” she said, staring at the door. “She just needs some time to figure it out. They always do.”