Fixer.
Caregiver.
Reckless neighbor.
Mom returns from her blood draw, just one question in her eyes as she looks at me.
You’re not leaving?
I shake my head and nod toward Dr. Johnson’s office.
Thirty minutes later, my mother joins me again inthe hallway. She looks fragile, her rose-colored lipstick slightly smudged from rubbing her lips together. She does that when she’s anxious.
The second she spots me, her entire body transforms, and the tension drains from her face. She doesn’t just smile. She breathes again.
“You stayed,” she whispers.
“I told you I would, Mom.” I squeeze her arm against my side. “I’m right here.”
She leans her head against my shoulder. “I was worried for a second that the doors… you know.”
“I know,” I murmur, guiding her toward the exit. “But I’m here. Let’s go.”
Thirty-Two
We’re rounding the corner out of the psychiatry department, my mind still half-stuck on dosage adjustments, when I walk straight into a wall of muscle.
Oof.
Two big hands clamp onto my upper arms before my face can meet the floor.
“Careful—”
That voice.
Those hands.
I look up.
My heart does a frantic thud against my ribs. Beckett is in his blues with a stethoscope slung around his neck, looking entirely too professional for a man who knows what I sound like at two in the morning.
My eyes widen. “Hi.”
He lets go of my arms, and a knowing smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Madison.”
“What… what are you doing here?” I stammer and immediately regret it.
What kind of stupid question is that?
His brows furrow in confusion, but a glimmer of teasing plays in his dark eyes.
“I work here,” he says slowly. “Doctor? Remember? Big building, lots of sick people.”
I let out a forced, high-pitched laugh that sounds nothing like me. “Right. Of course. Hospital. You. Doctoring.”
God, what is wrong with me? I’m a professional communicator. I negotiate with sharks for a living, yet I’m standing here sounding like I’m learning a new language.
His mouth twitches. “Are you having a stroke?”
