“So,” Jamie replied, shrugging his shoulders as if he couldn’t understand the problem.
But the problem was right there, in their face.
“Because she’s a surgeon at Oakridge Hospital, so technically she is my colleague.”
Jamie handed her a doughnut and licked a smear of jelly off his fingers. “I still don’t see the problem.”
Bette groaned. She tore off a bite of doughnut and stuffed it into her mouth, chewing aggressively. “The problem is that I do see the problem.” It wasn’t just the fact that Emily was her patient, or a surgeon at the same hospital, or even that Bette was somewhat newly divorced. The problem was that whatever Bette felt for Emily wasn’t just attraction. That would’ve been easy. That, she could’ve rationalized, categorized it neatly into a lapse of judgment, the unfortunate side effect of Emily looking so hot in that dress. But no, there had been something deeper than that. Something warm and terrifying. Something that had uncurled in her chest the moment Emily looked at her like she was worthwanting.
Jamie arched both brows. “Or maybe you’re just looking for one. Whatever it is that you’re doing. Just stop. It’s that easy. Just… Stop.”
Bette swallowed hard, staring at her cousin like he’d just spoken French. “That is hands down the worst advice you’ve ever given me.”
“And yet, I’m usually right,” Jamie said, smirking and stuffing his mouth with another bite of the doughnut.
Bette wished she could say he was wrong. She sighed, sank down into her chair, and rubbed a hand over her face. “I hate you.”
“You love me,” he said, winking. “Now stop sulking and go to work.”
That was the thing about time—no matter how desperately you tried to run from it, tried to push it back, pretend it didn’t exist—it always found you. Always caught up, closing in with the same relentless precision as the second hand on a clock.
Bette had rescheduled Emily’s session for the following day, hoping she could come up with some sort of plan. She needed to handle things differently. She needed to resurrect those walls, those boundaries. She needed to be professional. Distant even.
She stood at the therapy table, rearranging things that didn’t need to be rearranged—aligning the clipboard, straightening the already straight hanging resistance bands, smoothing out a wrinkle in the tissue paper covering the exam table. This whole act was ridiculous. Bette knew it was. This was her job. A job she’d done for nearly twenty years and by now she’d done thousands if not tens of thousands of sessions.
But this wasn’t just any other session.
Because the last time she’d seen Emily Sharp, Bette had her pressed up against a stone wall, making noises that Bette had zero business remembering in such detail.
The door to the rehab center creaked open.
Bette shot her head in its direction, her spine snapping straight. Refusing to glance Maggie’s way, who, just like Jamie, had sniffed out a rat, she quickly reached for the clipboard and jotted down gibberish as Emily stepped in.
The surgeon was wearing a white blouse, black culottes, and heels. Her hair was hanging in waves behind her back, a few stray pieces falling forward, brushing against her cheek. She looked… Well, she looked fucking gorgeous. That was the problem.
When she spotted Bette at the table, she waved.
A wave Bette didn’t reciprocate. Professionals gave curt nods and firm handshakes. They asked about symptoms and were treated accordingly. They did not wave or laugh too loudly or smile too broadly. And they most certainly did not imagine their patient naked.
“Morning,” she said brightly when she reached Bette. “How are you? Were you sick yesterday? I didn’t expect you to reschedule.”
Bette gave a short, formal nod even though it killed her to do it. “Doctor Sharp.”
Something flickered across Emily’s face—surprise, confusion. Her brows lifted just a fraction, lips parted slightly like she wasn’t sure she’d heard right. It was subtle but Bette caught it. And she felt so guilty about it.
But it had to be done.
Emily recovered quickly but not quickly enough. “Are we doing theDoctor Sharpthing now?” she asked, a touch too forced. “What happened to calling me by my first name?”
Bette drew the curtains around the treatment table and gestured to the bed. “I prefer to keep things professional here, if you don’t mind,” she said, the words crisp and impersonal, nothing like the way her mouth had shaped Emily’s name two nights ago.
Emily let out a huff; it wasn’t loud enough to show that she was upset, but it sure as hell implied it. She crossed her arms almost protectively over her chest, something Bette had considered doing, a way to protect her heart. “Right,” Emily said, tilting her head, studying Bette with those lovely green eyes. “Professional. Is this about the other––”
Bette cut in, a little too quickly. “It’s about your shoulder and getting you back into the OR. Doctor Meissner wants you ready and we need to get you ready.”
Emily’s heels clicked against the floor as she stepped closer to the bed. “You know, Bette,” she began, her voice quiet, almost dangerously so, “I didn’t think you’d act this way.”
“I’m not acting in any way, Doctor Sharp,” Bette replied, staring her dead in the eye, hoping to show Emily that she wasn’t backing down with this. Those walls were up. Whatever boundary existed between physical therapist and patient was now as impenetrable as a steel vault. As they should’ve been all along.
