“Joss? You okay?”
“Yeah.” I shake myself and decide to lie. “I can’t remember who it was.”
He curses under his breath. “I’m sorry.” He throws the covers off his legs. “You need a nightcap?”
I force my face into a sassy expression and throw up a stop gesture. “Don’t be extra. I’m fine.”
And yet, I don’t want to leave.
“Then get back to bed, angel duck. We have a workout tomorrow.”
Three seconds of silence pass while I dillydally in the doorway, looking for any excuse not to walk away. “Did you see the protein powder I bought you for tomorrow?”
“You mean the birthday cake flavored one in the pink packaging that will help meoptimize my curvy figure.”
I smother my laugh behind my hand. I am diabolical.
“You think I won’t use that? Twenty-five grams per scoop and it’s probably delicious.”
“I hope the powder is pink.”
He hums and points at the door. “Sleep well, cupcake. No more nightmares.”
I turn to leave.
“Oh, Joss?”
“Yeah?”
“There’s a rubber snake in your toilet. Thought it would be funny, but you’ve had enough scares tonight.”
The OR physician lounge usually has snacks, the most notable being a daily basket of fruit, mainly comprised of mealy apples. The hospital supplies us with two oranges.
Two.
I’m willing to remove other people’s fingers to snag one of these oranges in the morning. Especially when that morning is a Monday. A Monday following a Sunday in which Asher decided leg day needed to include four zillion crunches since his abs aren’t perfectly sculpted. I reminded him a thousand times that he’s hot, and I was just teasing him on Saturday about the softness. The man has zero softness unless one counts the mushy, romantic insides. Alas, he wouldn’t let us leave until my entire abdomen was burning and fatigued.
My body feels like he beat it with a stick. It will only be worse tomorrow... because I’m in my thirties now, and for some reason, my body has learned to draw out its punishments.
All I want is a frickin’ orange, and on this particular Monday, I reach the basket of fruit in time to watch Cassie Hersl take the only remaining orange for herself.
My feet skid to a stop, hackles rising.
She meets my eyes without smiling. She never smiles. “Good morning.”
I eye the fruit in her hand. “Morning. Nice weekend?”
Pleasantries with this woman breach the contract I have with myself to avoid assholes, but sometimes evil attacks and I must parry.
“Mmm.” She lifts one shoulder an inch. “I heard you had another get-together at Asher’s.”
“I didn’t. Asher did. It’shishouse.”
With another skeptical hum, she moves toward the couch, where two older general surgeons stare unblinkingly at the TV. It is a truth universally acknowledged that if a group of old, white doctors congregates in one place, they must turn the TV to Fox News.
As soon as they leave, I’m changing it to HGTV and hiding the remote. That’ll show ’em.
Cassie settles into the couch and glances back at me. “Hope it was fun.”
