“He’s my patient, Heidi.”
“Wasyour patient. Now he’s a boundary issue with a slutty mustache.”
I glare and place my cup down heavily.
“And he’s weirdly polite for someone who looks like he could break you in half.”
“Are you done?”
She grins. “Not even close.”
With a groan, I slide my empty mug toward the center of the table. “You’re the worst.”
“Mm, but,” she pauses, reaching across to squeeze my hand, “you’re the one who named your favorite lavender plant after me.”
This time, I chuckle outwardly and shake my head as I yank my hand out of hers to grab my bag.
“All I’m saying is, he looks at you like he’s interested. Now you’ve fixed his knee… maybe you can fix his attitude, too.”
I know exactly how he looks at me—like he sees the seams, and he’d know exactly which thread to tug to have me unravel for him.
And I hate that part of me wants to find out if he’s right.
“I’m not sleeping with a patient.”
“He’s not your patient.”
“He’s a complication.”
“He’s a complication with very nice forearms.”
“Goodbye,” I say, standing.
Heidi laughs as she rises too, shoving her chair in with one hip. “You love me.”
“I’m re-potting you next.”
She gathers our empty mugs and tosses a napkin into the trash while I slip on my jacket. “There are worse complications than him, yanno.”
I don’t answer because Reid Hutchison would be anincrediblecomplication. He’s a Moreno Clinic patient, and about ten yearsolder than me, and very much obsessed with his own career and rehabilitation.
“Hey,” she says lightly, adjusting her scarf as she watches me. “Try to sleep this week.”
“I’ll think about it.”
She stops to talk to someone near the counter, so I say my goodbyes and step toward the door, brushing past a table where someone’s left a yoga block behind. I grab it and set it on the stack by the door without thinking.
Outside, the air is even colder than before. My phone buzzes in my coat pocket again—a message from one of the nurses at the clinic, asking if I’m free to talk about labs.
I don’t hesitate, texting back that I’ll call her in ten.
But when I go to lock my screen, something else flashes across it—an email from Jenny with a promo post for the upcoming gala. Gold script with a clean white background. A title that readsA Night Of Hope,with a list of confirmed attendees, mostly a medical who’s-who, auction items, and potential sponsors.
It’s polished and professional. It’s hope packaged as PR.
I slide the phone back into my pocket and exhale, breath curling in the cold. I don’t want to read further or reply right now, because none of it matters if I can’t get this kid what he needs.
Slowly, I make my way back to the parking lot to call the nurse from my car.
