Dr. Attending (Midtown Memorial #4)

31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

Caroline

“ O kay, now don’t move,” Morgan says as she pinches together the unforgiving fabric at the top of my Halloween costume. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

I chuckle to myself, bracing myself for her to yank the zipper up.With my exam behind me, I figured that I would stop by Morgan and Walker’s house early to help them set up for the Halloween party. Walker was still at work, but Morgan and I have been running around the house all afternoon, hanging decorations and snacking on candy that she’s going to leave out for the trick-or-treaters.

We finally took a break to get dressed since people are supposed to get here in an hour or so, and now that I’m standing here, I’m slightly terrified of what I agreed to because it feels like I’ve willingly crawled into a vacuum made of PVC.

“Not harboring any sadistic tendencies, Morg?” I tease, sucking in my stomach to help her win her battle with the zipper. “That shocks me.”

“Not my style.” Morgan snaps the back of my costume, making a prickle of pain dance against my skin. “But maybe I could get into it for you, Madame.”

Her eyes widen as she spins me around, taking in my final look. “Holy fuck.”

“What?” I ask, feeling my nose wrinkle in embarrassment because my friend is genuinely gawking at me like I’m some sort of rare species at the zoo. “Did I put it on wrong or something?”

Morgan’s lips twist into a smirk that’s borderline evil.

“Oh . . . it’s wrong alright.”

I sigh as I brush past her, walking toward the full-length mirror in the corner of her bedroom so that I can assess the damage for myself.

When she insisted on buying my Halloween costume, I figured she would choose the skimpiest, most over-the-top set that she could find on the internet. Something that I would inevitably have to change out of the second I put it on.

But this is different.

The black lingerie could pass as a one-piece swimsuit, if it wasn’t for the shiny material . . . and zippers strategically placed along the crotch and nipples. The tight fabric hugs my body in ways that not even my expensive shapewear could achieve, holding me in and boosting everything up to make me feel sexy and powerful.

“Wow,” I whisper to myself as I spin around, taking in the surprising amount of lift that the outfit gives my ass, despite the cheeky coverage.

“I know right? And only forty bucks too,” Morgan says as she comes up beside me. “Walker wouldn’t let me buy the high-end set because he keeps trying to teach me how to be ‘ fiscally responsible .’ But it should do the trick.”

I glance at her in the mirror and laugh. “He’s probably right.”

“No, I’m the one who’s right,” she counters with a triumphant wink, adjusting the tie on her Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader costume. “I told you that you were going to love it, didn’t I?”

“You did,” I admit.

“You know who’s going to love it more?”

Morgan’s brows wag with amusement, kind of like a teenager teasing her friend about their first crush.

I feel my cheeks heat because in some ways, my relationship—or whatever this thing is with Weston—does bring me back to high school. It’s new and exciting, but it’s also terrifying and real.

“You know he isn’t coming tonight, right?” I ask as casually as I can as I sink to the floor to put on the final piece of my outfit.

“So?” Morgan shrugs. “Just Uber over there once you’re nice and drunk. Climb up on his cock, and I promise you . . . he’ll be calling you Madame Mommy in no time.”

I wince as I reach for the thigh-high black stilettos that she bought me.

“Morg,” I groan, focusing on the zipper.

She drops down in front of me to pull on her white boots. “What?”

When I don’t answer, she scoffs. “God, you Winters kids and your pent-up emotions. Just fucking say what you want to say. It really isn’t that hard.”

I glance up at her and bite the inside of my lip, hesitating even though I’ve been meaning to talk to her about this all day.

Like I suspected, Morgan’s pregnancy test came back positive. At first, she was completely stunned. So stunned, in fact, that she stared at the result for a solid minute without saying a word. But then her shock transformed into excitement and she began rapidly firing questions at me.

“Do I need to take a multivitamin?”

“Can I still use my favorite dry shampoo?”

“What flavor do you think my baby is going to be?”

By the time she finished grilling me, it honestly felt like I had taken my board exam all over again. I didn’t leave her house until nine and barely had two minutes with Weston before I passed out.

But even though our conversation exhausted me, I spent the entire morning thinking about it—thinking about how different she’s so different from the person I first met who swore she would never fall for a doctor, and thinking about how she’s probably the only person who can relate to what I’ve been struggling with.

“How did you know?”

Morgan tugs on her cowboy boot with a grin. “Know that I’m an icon? I was born this way, baby.”

When I don’t respond, her teasing smile falters. “Know what?”

“That you were ready.”

She purses her lips as she reaches for her other boot. “For marriage or a baby?”

“Both, I guess.”

While our situation isn’t identical to Morgan’s, there are definitely similarities. I distinctly remember her saying multiple times that she was never going to get married because it wasn’t in her DNA—kind of how it feels every time I think about being a mom.

Spending time with Carter has definitely become more comfortable, I still have that innate hesitation every time I see him. Like I’m terrified of doing something wrong, or upsetting him somehow. And I don’t know if that’s ever going to get easier. If I can be what he needs.

Morgan abruptly gets to her feet and crosses the room. She returns with a snow globe and crouches back down in front of me with a determined glint in her eye.

“Have you ever seen one of these?”

I laugh because the question feels like it’s out of left field. “I’m the one who put it on your nightstand, idiot.”

Morgan got a little overzealous while we were setting up for Halloween and made us take out a few Christmas decorations. She said that she wanted to wake up tomorrow morning in the holiday spirit, so we sprinkled a few festive touches around their bedroom as a start.

“Do you know how they work?” she asks, jiggling the glass ball a little too aggressively. “When you shake them, all you can see is a white haze. But once all of the snow settles, you finally get the full picture.”

I watch all the tiny white flecks settle at the bottom of the globe, revealing a detailed sculpture of the Atlanta skyline, complete with Midtown Memorial Hospital.

“Okay . . . ” I say, wondering what this has to do with my original question.

Morgan meets my gaze, her expression softer now. “I was tired of standing alone in the snow.”

“What?”

“You asked how I knew I was ready,” she says, holding the snow globe out for me to take.

“I got to the point where all of the snow in my life had settled, and I had a choice to make. I could either shake things up again and step back into the blizzard where I was comfortable. Or I could open my eyes, and let myself finally see what was right in front of me.”

Morgan laughs as she stares at the Christmas decoration in my hands. “Don’t get me wrong, I thought really, really hard about choosing option one. But every time I got close, it felt like something was holding me back.”

“Sex?” I tease because that’s always the answer for her.

Her eyes flick to mine as a wistful expression crosses her face.

“Love,” she says, her tone earnest. “You’re never truly ready to go against your instincts. But when you find love, you become ready. When you find love, it’s enough.”

I feel my pulse slow to a crawl because her metaphor surprisingly makes everything click into place.

I can either keep coming up with reasons to shake the snow globe. Or, I can finally listen to what Cassidy, and my heart, have been telling me—that this is love.

Because love overshadows fear and hesitation. It blankets confidence over our deepest insecurities and scares away our loudest ghosts. It erases the lies we tell ourselves and rewrites them with a story more beautiful than we ever imagined.

Love heals us.

Just like Weston has healed me.

“Morgan,” a deep voice calls from the kitchen, pulling me out of my head.

“Speaking of love . . .” Morgan winks, reaching out to help me off the floor. “Let’s go remind Walkie-talkie how much he loves me.”

Walker offers me a curt nod as we enter the room before his eyes narrow on his wife. “What did I tell you about sushi?”

“Hmmm,” she muses,twisting a strand of caramel-colored hair around her finger like she’s racking her brain. “I believe you told me not to eat it because of the risk of salmonella.”

Walker’s jaw ticks like he’s fighting to keep his composure. “So, do you want to tell me why there are empty takeout containers on the counter?”

I almost jump in to take the blame, but Morgan waives me off without missing a beat. “Do you want to tell me why you haven’t commented on how good we both look in our costumes?”

“Morgan.”

“Walkie-boo-boo,” she sings, entirely unphased by his harsh tone.

I clear my throat, shifting awkwardly on my feet.

“Uh . . . so what are you wearing tonight?” I ask, desperate to redirect the conversation, even though I know this back-and-forth is just their version of foreplay.

Morgan rolls her emerald-green eyes in exasperation. “He’s supposed to be my cheer coach, but right now he looks like my worst nightmare—a grumpy surgeon.”

Walker’s dark gaze flickers in warning. “Keep it up, little devil,” he warns, his tone dropping low.

She ignores his threat and leans in to whisper, “He only agreed to the costume if he could carry around a riding crop and spank me if I got my routine wrong.”

I feel my cheeks flush as I reach for my phone on the kitchen island, searching for a way to tune out their banter. But the second I open a text from Weston, a wave of realization washes over me—I’m tired of shaking the snow globe.

“Caroline . . . Caroline . . . earth to—” Morgan’s voice jolts me back to reality.

“Sorry,” I mutter, reaching for my purse. “Um. I need to go.”

“Wait. Wait. Wait,” she calls after me, darting out of the room before returning seconds later with something clutched in her hand. “You need this.”

She holds out a plastic yellow stethoscope that she definitely stole from the hospital because it’s not great quality.

I arch a brow at her, but she threads it around my neck anyway.

“To complete the look.”