Her mouth opens, then closes again.
“No,” she says quietly.
I feel that split second when the world tilts and tries to rearrange itself into something that makes sense.
She squints at me, her head tipping slightly. “You’re…”
I wait.
“…the doctor. Oh. No. Absolutely not.”
It takes me another long second to place her before it finally clicks.
Hot yoga girl.
The recognition hits me like a bucket of cold water.
Fuck. Is she one of the crazy ones? Did she follow me home?
“You!” she hisses.
I glance behind me, just in case there’s another me standing there. “Me?”
“What are you doing here?” she demands.
I frown. “I live here. What areyoudoing here?”
She glares.
What the hell could I have done to deserve a look like that?
“Did you follow me home?”
“Follow you?” She lets out a jagged, hysterical laugh. “In my wildest, most morphine-addled dreams, Doctor, I didn’t think I’d findyoubehind this door. I came up here to find the person who replaced Mr. Rogers. Mr. Rogers was elderly! He shuffled!”
I have no idea who Mr. Rogers is, but that’s not my concern right now.
“Are you alright? You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I am not all right! I am in pain!” She gestures wildly at herself, her face flushing a deep, brilliant crimson that has nothing to do with her back injury and everything to do with the fact that she’s wearing a bathrobe in front of the guy who saw her in spandex yesterday. “Is there a gold medal you’re training for?”
“I—what?”
“You’re running,” she snaps. “In my bedroom.”
I look past her, down the hall, then back at her. “I’m running inmyapartment.”
“Yes,” she says slowly, as if she’s explaining something to a child. “And it sounds like you’re sprinting through my spine.”
She shifts but winces, still clearly in a lot of pain.
“You shouldn’t be up and around.”
“No,” she fires back. “I should be sleeping, but you’re reenacting the Hunger Games.”
“That’s not—”
“You replaced Mr. Rogers,” she says, cutting me off.
