I spent all day Sunday working on patient care plans while she peppered me with questions about Chase. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was over Adam and on to Chase, but she and Adam went out Saturday night, so apparently she’s just that invested in my love life.
Or lack thereof.
Whatever. Even if I weren’t the sole reason Chase had to withdraw for the semester, I don’t have time for a boyfriend. Or a situationship. Or even a hookup. Classes start in two weeks and my already packed schedule is only going to get more frantic with study groups wedged into every free moment of the day.
Go to nursing school, they said. It’ll be fun, they said.
Pushing all thoughts of Chase aside, I answer a few patient calls, refilling water pitchers and fielding basic requests the nursing staff is too busy to handle. Nurse Rogers has me practice flushing IVs as she administers new medications and I give silent thanks she doesn’t ask me to start one. I know I have to learn it eventually, but the last time I tried, it was a disaster.
To be honest, I kind of want to avoid it as long as possible.
If that makes me a coward, so be it.
“Nurse Payne, I need a fall risk assessment,” Nurse Rogers calls out as I pass the desk.
“On it,” I say, more than happy to sit my butt down for a few minutes and do paperwork.
I take a seat at the desk and pull up the patient chart, carefully reviewing the patient’s history and current medications, before I head down the hall to do a live assessment. Once I’ve completed the Morse Fall Scale and determined the patient is a moderate risk, I write up a brief care plan. I’m feeling confident as I hand it over to Nurse Rogers, but the high is short-lived.
“We’re out of sheets and two of the CNA’s called out,” she says, barely glancing at the work I’ve done. “I need you to run down to the laundry and get fresh linens.”
So much for impressing her with my killer assessment.
And this is why Mondays take a little more coffee and a lot more mascara.
I trudge down to the laundry and get a cart of fresh linens, chalking the assignment up to paying my dues. After all, better bedsheets than bedpans, right?
I’m waiting for the elevator—just me and my ancient linen cart—when a wheelchair rolls up beside me.
“You know, if you keep avoiding me, I’m going to get a complex.”
I slowly turn to find Chase in the wheelchair next to me, looking sexy as sin, the thin fabric of the hospital gown straining over his pecs. There’s an older woman—a volunteer—in a navy polo shirt and bright pink lipstick escorting him.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, willing the elevator to hurry the hell up. Sharing an elevator with Chase is the exact opposite of keeping my distance. And, honestly, we both know his ego is in no danger of developing a complex.
I may not know him well, but any guy who climbs a drainpipe in a short-ass toga isn’t hurting for confidence.
“You haven’t been by my room once today,” he says, carrying on the conversation, like this is the most normal thing in the world. Because apparently it’s not awkward at all to have a geriatric volunteer listening to our every word. “Not even to say hello. Ergo, you must be avoiding me.”
I snort and roll my eyes. “Ergo?”
He shrugs. “Ravenclaws aren’t the only ones who can use big words.”
“Not sure ‘ergo’ qualifies as a big word,” I say, before I can stop myself. Why are we even talking about this? It’s…absurd.
“Spoken like a true Ravenclaw.”
“Whatever.” I toss my braid over my shoulder. “I’m surprised Nurse Rogers let you leave the floor.”
He grins and looks over his shoulder. “Only because the lovely Rosemary helped me convince her. Truth be told, I think Nurse Rogers has a soft spot for me.”
“Of course she does, dear,” Rosemary says, patting his shoulder. “How could she not?”
How indeed.
“And you are?” Rosemary asks, looking me over. It takes all my self-control not to smooth down my flyaways under her scrutiny.
Perfect hair is not a requirement for being a capable nurse.
