“Tessa, when we walk out, go in different directions. Sorry we didn’t get to..”
“Finish?” She offered, her fuck me eyes still boring into my soul.
“Yeah.”
“Maybe another time.”
I opened the door to see a young female doctor I didn’t recognize waiting impatiently.
“Room’s all yours,” I said as Tessa slipped out. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her ass as she bounced away.
The doctor clucked her tongue, “You know the policy, Dr. Sholly.”
“
Yeah, I sure as hell do. I also heard you say you were skipping checking on a patient’s recovery to get some sleep. So we’re even, right?”
She rolled her eyes but pushed past me into the on-call room. Let her wonder what happened in there. I still was.
CHAPTER 8
Tessa
“You’re very lucky, you know that?” I said, as I finished applying the last of the bandages for man in front of me. He was an elderly gentleman who’d been brought in by his daughter for the burns he’d sustained on his hand from a mishap while cooking breakfast.
“Clumsy is more like it,” his daughter said, though not unkindly. “I’ve told you time and time again, Dad, if you’re hungry, just let me know! I’ll fix you something to eat. You know you aren’t supposed to bother with the stove.”
The man grumbled under his breath. “I’m not six feet under yet. And I still know how to cook. Besides, you were sleeping. Why would I wake you?”
His daughter sighed. “You see what I have to deal with?” she said to me, shaking her head. “Okay, Dad—”
“Besides, it was just an accident. The damned skillet was heavier than I remember it being.”
I chuckled. “Yes, those skillets can be tricky sometimes,” I said.
“You see! She gets it!” He wagged a finger at his daughter. “Did you switch skillets around on me while I wasn’t looking?”
“Dad, I was sleeping. Remember?”
“Oh…that’s right.”
“Well, Mr. Weaver, just be a bit more careful next time, all right?” I said.
“All right, beautiful.” He winked. “Maybe next time, I’ll cook breakfast for you.”
All I could do was laugh as his daughter rolled her eyes. “And that’s the one thing that will never change about the old man. Always such a flirt,” she said.
“I need a toilet,” Mr. Weaver said abruptly.
“It’s right down the hall,” I said. “Make a left.”
“Hang on, Dad,” his daughter said.
“I don’t have time to hang on,” he said, hurriedly shuffling out of the room.
“Your dad is sweet,” I said. “People his age—they just like to feel helpful, that’s all. So maybe have him cook with you and give him small tasks to do. Make him feel like he’s contributing sometimes.”
“You know, that’s a great idea,” she said. “Thank you—”