Page 8 of Saving Love (Pulse Medical #2)

“UGH!” She moaned, flopping back onto her bed, and burying her face in her hands. She’d slept in a bit too late—although she hadn’t exactly been sleeping—and now on top of the mortification she felt, everything was also rushed and chaotic. With a groan, she hauled herself off to the shower.

By the time Emily arrived at the surgical ward, she was practically sprinting between patients. Doctor Meissner was off at a seminar today, leaving her to cover all his post-ops. It wasn’t exactly punishment, but it sure felt like one, as though she’d somehow landed herself in the dog box.

She grabbed the top file of Dr. Meissner’s patient pile and scanned through the chart, getting the gist of what was going on with Mr. Jonathan Oakley, a middle-aged man recovering from hip surgery.

When she stepped into his room, Emily found him propped up in bed, looking about as comfortable as someone who’d just had their hip swapped out, could be.

“Morning, Mister Oakley,” she said, stepping up to check his IV and make sure everything was running smoothly. “How are we feeling today?”

“Oh, you know,” he grumbled, resting his head back against the fluffed-up pillow. “Like I’ve been hit by a truck and rolled over a few more times for good measure.”

Emily nodded. “Understandable. A hip replacement is not a walk in the park.”

“It isn’t,” Mr. Oakley grunted, and then his bushy brows dipped low. “Is Doctor Meissner not checking up on me? I thought he was my doctor.”

“He is your doctor,” Emily assured, expecting such a question.

“But he’s at a seminar today, remember.” She knew well enough that Dr. Meissner had informed all his patients that he wouldn’t be in today.

But pain meds often make people forget small details like that.

“He’ll be back tomorrow to check in on you.

In the meantime, I’m going to make sure everything’s on track with your recovery. How’s the pain?”

“A solid eight,” he grunted, frowning deeply, looking exactly as you’d expect a man to look one day post-op—in pain and unhappy about it. “It’s fine if I stay completely still. Only hurts when I move.” He lifted his knee a few inches to demonstrate and winced.

“Well, good news,” she began, hoping he’d find her funny, “You’re scheduled for physical therapy today. They’re going to assist you with getting up and moving, as well as show you a few exercises you need to start doing.”

Her mind, of course, drifted right to Bette’s face, to the way her blue scrubs hugged her ass, and the way she had filled up Emily’s mind during that dream. But she quickly shoved those thoughts down and focused on Mr. Oakley’s unimpressed frown instead.

“Sadists,” he said, pulling a face. “Every single one of you.”

Emily stifled a grin. “I can tweak your pain meds if you need it. Best to speak up before the PT gets hold of you.”

He sighed, long and dramatic, before shaking his head. “I’ll hold off. Need my head if they’re going to put me through hell.”

Emily chuckled. “Smart man.” She made a note in his file and added, “Alright, Mister Oakley. I’ll check in on you later. Try not to run off in the meantime.”

The patient snorted but said nothing except shake his head.

Men like him were as stubborn as mules. The kind who’d grit their teeth through anything if it meant maintaining some semblance of independence.

Her father was one of them. When he broke his elbow last year winter falling off a ladder, he spent weeks avoiding her—the orthopedic surgeon—because he was too damn proud to admit he needed help.

Mr. Oakley and her dad were cut from the same cloth.

Men , Emily thought, stepping out of the room––only to immediately collide with something solid rounding the corner.

“Shit!” Emily yelped, throwing out her hand to steady herself, the chart nearly slipping from her grip. For a second, her heart leaped in her chest as her brain put the pieces together. But once it did, her pulse didn’t ease like she expected it to. On the contrary, it sped up.

Bette was standing right in front of her, and from the surprised look on her face, it seemed she hadn’t expected to run into Emily either.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you,” Emily said, pressing her hand to her chest as if that would somehow calm the unexpected rush of adrenaline. She’d hoped for some more time

to clear her head, to erase that dream her brain had fabricated before she had to face Bette.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

“No problem,” Bette said, coolly, clearly not as affected by the déjà vu as Emily. “I was actually just coming to check in on Mister Oakley. One day post-op total hip replacement. I got a referral to get him up and moving.”

“Oh…um, yes, perfect! I just informed him that he’d be seeing a physical therapist today.” Emily stepped forward, lowering her voice. “He’s a bit cranky though. If you don’t have thick skin already, might want to brace yourself.”

“Noted.” Bette’s lips twitched like she was suppressing a smile. “But don’t worry, I’m pretty good with cranky patients. It’s not my favorite part of the job, but I’ve dealt with a few that could give Ron Swanson a run for his money.”

Emily forced out a laugh that was far too loud, far too awkward.

Even one of the OR nurses in full scrubs jogging past them gave her a quizzical look.

“Great!” she said, her voice far too high pitched for her liking.

She cleared her throat, shifting the chart in her hands like it was a shield she could keep up between them. “He’s all yours.”

“Thank you,” Bette replied, her voice smooth as she stepped forward.

Unfortunately, Emily had the same idea, at the same exact moment. They moved in tandem, right into each other’s path until they nearly collided. Barely a breath of space was left between them.

Emily’s breath caught in her throat, and her heart stuttered. For a split second, she was close enough to catch the faintest hint of Bette’s shampoo, see the way her lashes flicked in surprise, count the freckles across her face.

It was at that moment that Emily’s brain decided to remind her of exactly what she’d conjured up in her head this morning––Bette’s hands, Bette’s mouth, the way Fiction Bette had slipped her fingers into Emily’s core.

Emily’s face went up in flames. There was no doubt in her mind that her cheeks were turning red. No doubt at all.

“Are you okay, Doctor Sharp?” Bette asked, raising a brow and stepping off to the side, out of Emily’s personal space. “You seem a little flustered.”

Instinctively, Emily fanned her face. “I’m fine,” she said quickly.

“Just a little hot in here.” It was most certainly not hot.

The air conditioning was blasting in the ward.

She stepped back––too quickly, miscalculating the distance and smacked right into the supply cart behind her.

A roll of gauze tumbled off, hitting the floor with a soft thud.

“You sure?” Bette asked, looking genuinely concerned. “Because if you’re not feeling well, you need to let me know before our session later this morning.”

Emily bent down to grab the gauze, relieved for the few short seconds where she could avoid Bette’s penetrative stare. But when she stood up again, Bette was still looking at her. Calm. Amused. Definitely too perceptive.

“Yes. I’m perfectly fine,” Emily lied. “Rounds to finish. Charts to update. You know how it goes.” She forced a smile that she hoped was convincing.

Not that Bette looked completely convinced. “Alright then. I’ll see you later.” At least she didn’t press. Instead, she walked past Emily—no collisions this time—into Mr. Oakley’s room and shut the door behind her.

Emily exhaled, feeling all shaky. Once her legs had the strength to move, she made a beeline for the nearest water dispenser, filled a cup and took a sip, though it did nothing to cool the fire in her cheeks.

It all became crystal clear. Emily could not—would not—survive their session later.

Are Bette’s hands touching her bare skin? Nope. Her body would short-circuit. She’d spontaneously combust. There’d be nothing left of her but a pile of ashes.

“It’s decided then,” Emily muttered, nodding to herself. “I’m just going to have to reschedule.”