Page 2 of Sweet Heart

I prop myself up on the gurney without waiting for instruction, my legs dangling over its side. The woman slides behind a computer and taps at some keys. The screen flickers to life, and she enters some information, giving me ample time to study her. Her black hair is pulled back in a tight chignon, her jawline is impeccably sharp, and her tanned skin has a golden glow to it. That makes her look radiant. And the way her suit wraps around her body as if it were made just for her… well, maybe it was.

“Name?”

“Huh?” I blink, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks as she turns toward me.

“What’s your name?”

“Mary.” I smile sheepishly at her. “What about yours?”

“A last name, Mary?”

She raises an eyebrow and looks anything but amused. I feel lost for a moment. Why would she ask for my name if she isn’t interested in it? Then the realization cuts through the thick sludge of my awareness, making me want to facepalm. The intake form. Fucking idiot.

“Oh, yes, uhm. Marilouise Francisca Adrianna van Achthoven.”

The doctor—she is a doctor, right?—stares at me for a moment.

“Not from around here, then?” she deadpans before she turns back to the computer.

“I, no, yes, I mean, no.”

She glances slightly over her shoulder, and I feel myself shrink. I bite my lip and lower my gaze.

“I moved to Virginia several years ago. I’m originally from Belgium. What about you?”

“I moved here from Cuba when I was twelve.” she replies curtly. “Can you spell it.”

“What? Cuba?”

“Your last name.”

“Oh…”

She types along as I spell it out, and when she presses Enter, I see my file come up. She glances at it briefly, gives a curt nod, and pulls a pair of purple gloves out of the box next to her. She snaps them on as she turns around on her stool.

“Not your first time, is it?”

“No, ma’am,” I reply instantly, provoked by her authoritative tone.

Her eyebrows shoot up and her jaw clenches, but she doesn’t speak. Instead, she stands up and grabs something out of the cabinet. She rummages around for a moment before turning back to me, her dark eyes glinting. Is she enjoying this? She stalks close enough for me to finally be able to read her name tag. Catherine Durand, MD – Trauma Surgery.

“Then you know how this goes. Finger.”

She stretches her hand out in front of me. Her face is a frozen mask, but still… I could swear that I see the corner of her mouth tug up ever so slightly.

“Geesh, you could buy me dinner first,” I murmur, but place my hand in hers regardless.

She doesn’t reply, nor does she prepare me for the lancet that suddenly pierces my fingertip. I flinch, and now she definitely smirks. A drop of blood falls onto the test strip, and she sets the glucose meter aside as it counts down from five. She cleans my fingertip before she checks the reading.

“Dios mío,” she whispers and whips her head back toward me, her gaze cutting sharply. “You shouldn’t even be sitting up right now.”

My hands wrap around the edge of the gurney as I grin sheepishly at her and raise my shoulders slightly. Would I really be here if I could still walk around like a normal person? But instead of returning my smile, her eyes flash at me.

Her movements become quick and deliberate as she opens one of the cabinets and takes out a tube. I wince, aware of what’s coming. Should have brought a snack, you idiot.

“Open up.”

Her gaze drops to my mouth, and I see her nostrils flare slightly. She grabs my chin and bores her eyes into mine.