Page 7 of The Wrong Husband (The Davenports #6)
“And even if it does, I think they’d still reallocate us to other roles within the hospital?”
“Maybe, they’ll redeploy us somewhere else. But where? Urology? Surgical ward? I can’t go back onto nights. I’m the one who gets Mum sorted in the evenings, before she goes to bed. If I lose this schedule, I can’t be there for her…and if I lose this job altogether, the mortgage doesn’t get paid.”
Her voice cracks, and she presses the back of her hand to her mouth like she can push the emotion back inside.
Someone calls out my name.
“Go on.” She blows out a breath. “I didn’t mean to unload on you.”
“Anytime. I’ll bring you a cuppa in a bit.” I move on, but Sunita’s teary face lingers in my mind.
As I head toward the assessment area, my fellow ER doctor, John nods in my direction. I’ve seen him put patients at ease with his calm voice and gentle manner. Today though, he appears stressed in a way I’ve never seen before.
"Rough night?"
He nods, then yawns wide enough for his jaw to crack. "Friday nights are always full on. Not to mention, the lack of doctors on call. The layoffs are taking a toll on us.”
The hospital has always had funding problems. But things took a turn for the worse when they let go of support staff last month.
"I have two mortgages and three kids to put through college. If they shut down this ER, I’m going to be pissed." He yawns again.
When two of my colleagues bring up the issue within minutes of each other, I know things must be serious.
"Surely, they can’t do that.” I stuff my hand into the pocket of my scrubs.
He scoffs. “The management has no idea what it’s like to be on the front lines." He shakes his head to clear it.
"There’s an online fundraiser to raise money, which I contributed to.” I shuffle my feet. “Hopefully that will help?”
“I’m afraid it’s a drop in the bucket.” A look of resignation settles on his features. “Besides it’s not only about the money.”
“What do you mean?”
His lips turn down. “Without someone advocating for us at the top-most echelons of the system we may not have a chance.”
He walks away, leaving my thoughts racing in my head.
If this place shuts down, I’ll be heartbroken.
It’s been more of a home to me than my own.
I’ve spent so much time here, in many ways, I’ve come to know the people I work with better than my own family.
And while I could find work at another hospital…
I feel a certain emotional connection to this one, given the number of hours I’ve spent here.
Surely, the higher-ups will come up with a plan to save it. This is the only ER in the borough, and it provides vital services.
I compose myself and head back to where patients have been triaged, ready for examination. I’m about to pull aside the curtain to the first cubicle when a nurse appears at my elbow.
“You’re needed in another bay, Dr. Hamilton.”
I must have been about to walk into the wrong one—it happens more often than I’d like to admit.
She leads me down the row to the last cubicle, pulls the curtain aside, and I step in. The rings scrape along the rail as she closes it behind me.
“I’m Dr. Hamilton.” I walk forward. “What brings you here today?”
The man seated on the clinical table tips up his chin and looks straight at me.
There’s something familiar about him. Where have I seen him before?
Blue eyes so pale, they seem to reflect my image. It feels like I’m drowning in his eyes. Like he’s drowning in mine. His hair is cut so short, there’s less than half an inch on top of his head.
I can see the brown of his scalp which, for some reason, I find appealing.
He has an intelligent forehead, currently bisected by a cut on his temple with blood trickling down.
His eyelashes are thick enough to elicit envy among beauty influencers.
High cheekbones, sharp enough to double up as scalpels.
Straight nose, stern upper lip. He’s all planes and angles.
All austere. His features are stern enough that they could be labeled as mean, but for that sensuous lower lip.
One which is currently cut. And which only adds to his appeal.
I should be thinking of how to fix his wounds, but I can’t seem to get past the shape of that mouth.
Its pillow-like puffiness—accentuated by the cut—hints at forbidden pleasures.
And long steamy nights. And wicked things he could be capable of.
Things which could bring me a lot of gratification. And pleasure . So much pleasure.
I swallow. And then, there’s that chin, with a hint of a dip in the middle, which only adds to his appeal. Those beautiful cords of his throat lead to the neckline of the T-shirt he’s wearing.
A scarred leather jacket hugs the breadth of his shoulders. So massive, they block out the room behind him. The sleeves outline the powerful muscles of his biceps. Biceps which threatened to burst the seams of his jacket’s sleeves when he swung himself up the tree.
Before I can stop myself, the words burst out, “You’re the one who rescued the cat outside the hospital.”