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 pathuntil 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 walkedpast 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.”
7
BETTE
Bette hadn’t thought much of it at first. Reschedules happened all the time. Patients got busy, life happened, that was just the nature of the job.
But Emily rescheduling their session on Monday bugged her unnecessarily. That call had come out of nowhere and Emily’s voice had sounded tight, like she was holding something back, rushing through the call as if she couldn’t get off the phone fast enough.
It made little sense. Especially after their civil encounter in Mr. Oakley’s room. Bette had replayed that moment in her head more times than necessary––the collision, the brief exchange, the somewhat professional courtesy. There’d been a little bit of tension, sure, but definitely not enough to overthink things.
Everything had been fine.
The only explanation Bette could come up with was that it had to do with what happened on Saturday. They hadn’t just bumped into each other along the beach pathway, they’d also almost gone for coffee. A harmless, civil cup of coffee that would’ve ended in both of them going their own ways once their cups were empty, but still. The thought of that almost coffeehad made something tighten in Bette’s chest. A little knot she couldn’t untangle no matter how hard she tried.
It was stupid. Completely stupid. Nothing had happened. Nothing would happen. But that didn’t stop Bette from replaying the way Emily had stammered over her words, gaze switching between that coffee cup and Bette’s face, those faint glistening beads of sweat on her collarbone, and the way she had looked no more ready to leave after her beeper had gone off than Bette did.
Leaning back in her chair, Bette rubbed at her temples. A headache was simmering. Her brain was aching from all the thinking. She couldn’t get over how the call on Monday had sounded so much more than just a reschedule.
But then again, why did she even care?
