“Patient,” I corrected, signing the chart a nurse thrust in front of me without breaking stride. Yes, in these halls, that’s exactly what Tessa had to be. Not the woman whose lips I’d memorized from across rooms for years, fighting the urge to taste them.
“Of course. I was wondering about any history of strep throat?”
I shot her a sideways glance, letting ice creep into my voice. “If it’s not in her file?—”
“Childhood records,” she pressed. “Even untreated cases. There are new studies showing long-term effects that could explain?—”
I stopped abruptly, causing her to stumble. “What are you asking for?”
Her body stiffened at my tone. I wasn’t trying to be an asshole today; evidently, it was seeping out of me like an oozing wound, thanks to last night.
“I need a complete childhood medical history, specifically focused on strep throat incidents, treated or untreated.”
I resumed walking, my tone clipped. “You’ll have it by end of day.”
Two hours and three emergency consults later, Dr. William Parker materialized at my elbow as I reviewed lab results. Each case a welcome distraction from thoughts of Tessa, from wondering what she was doing right now. Had she moved out? Would she be gone by the time I returned? And if so, would she ever talk to me again?
“Sir—”
“Dr. Morrison,” I snapped, not looking up.
“Dr. Morrison,” he amended, clearing his throat. “Has the patient had any history of STDs?”
The lab results crinkled in my tightening grip. “Excuse me?”
“Given your personal relationship with the patient, I understand this is uncomfortable, but?—”
“The point. Get to it.” Ice dripped from every word.
“We need to rule out any STDs that went untreated for six weeks or longer.”
“If she did, it’d be in her records.”
I thought no one could upset me more than that whole STD thing, but it was the last intern who turned my world upside down. Rhet. The perpetual thorn in my side who was, infuriatingly, sometimes right.
“Dr. Morrison.” He fell into step beside me near the ICU.
“Working on that confident-doctor walk?” I asked. “Still looking a bit lost puppy.”
His cheeks reddened, but he pressed on. “The patient’s records?—”
“You have everything I have.”
“Not a psychological evaluation.”
“She was diagnosed with situational depression. Next?”
“Has anyone screened for factitious disorder?”
My nose found the tip of his in an instant, and I glared down at him. “Munchausen? You’re suggesting she’s doing this to herself?”
He glanced around the hallway, perhaps calculating the odds I’d slam him against the wall. Answer: high.
“You asked for help,” he muttered.
“So, you decided to be an ass about it?”
“With symptoms this scattered, we have to consider?—”
