Of course, she wasn’t actually angry at Tessa. How could she be? It wasn’t Tessa’s fault for thinking there was an emergency. Emily’s moanshadbeen as loud as a banshee.
Still, she had a right to be annoyed, didn’t she?
“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” Tessa grinned, reaching out to poke Emily in the ribs like she’d done countless times before in their friendship. “It’s completely normal. Just like breathing, Em, everyone does it, even if they won’t admit it. It’s basic biology. You know, self-care. Self-love.”
Emily couldn’t help but flinch at the poke, her body jerking just enough to make all of it that more awkward. “I swear, Tessa, if you don't leave right now, I’ll––”
“You’ll what? Moan louder?” Tessa teased, clearly enjoying every second of it. She took another sip of her matcha and cocked an eyebrow. “You’ve got to admit, that’s one hell of a way to start a day.”
Emily finally had enough. “Go do your damn yoga!” She yanked the door closed behind her as quickly as she could manage, hoping the air would snap back time to where she was still in bed, the thought of Bette underneath her, so real she could almost feel the woman’s soft, silky skin, while her moans came out softer and more subtle, not drawing any attention.
But unfortunately, it did not.
She checked the clock. It was just past seven a.m. Her appointment with Bette was at nine. But how could she face the woman in just a few short hours when Bette’s potential naked body was still a vivid image in her mind?
“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 hurtswhen 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. Butonce 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.
