Bedside Manner (Hard to Handle #2)

Chapter 1

Mia

The automatic doors part with a soft whoosh, welcoming me into the bright atrium. I pause just inside, taking a deep breath of that familiar hospital scent—antiseptic with notes of burnt coffee and something floral trying desperately to mask it all. Home. A new one, but still.

Sierra Mercy isn't the biggest hospital I've ever been in, but it's certainly the most elegant.

Sunlight pours through the glass, casting long golden rectangles across the polished floor.

The reception desk curves in a sleek half-moon of brushed steel and white quartz.

Even the chairs in the waiting area look like they were designed by someone who actually sat in one once—an anomaly in hospital architecture.

I scan the lobby, cataloging details the way Dad taught me to examine an engine.

Systematically, looking for what works and what doesn't. The digital directory blinks with department listings.

The coffee kiosk already has a line despite the early hour.

A security guard nods at a passing nurse. A janitor pushes a mop across—

My eyes stop on a figure at the far end of the lobby.

Middle-aged man, maybe fifty-five, sitting forward in his chair, one hand pressed against his chest. His face has that gray undertone that makes my internal alarms blare. He reaches for a water bottle with a trembling hand and misses twice before grasping it.

I don't realize I'm moving toward him until I'm halfway across the lobby.

The man stands unsteadily, takes two steps, and his knees buckle. His hand claws at his left shoulder, then his neck.

"Sir?" I call out, picking up speed. "Sir, are you alright?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, his eyes roll upward as his legs give out completely.

I sprint the remaining distance and reach him just as he crumples. I catch his upper body before his head can crack against the tile, easing him down with as much control as my five-foot-ten frame can manage against his deadweight.

"I need help over here!" I shout, my voice carrying that authoritative edge they teach you in emergency medicine rotations. Then, lower, to the man: "Sir, can you hear me?"

No response. His skin is clammy, lips tinged blue. I press my fingers to his carotid—nothing.

"Cardiac arrest," I mutter, already shifting into position. I tilt his head back, clear his airway, and start compressions. One, two, three—the familiar rhythm takes over. The world narrows to just this: my hands on his chest, the count in my head, the absolute certainty of what needs to be done.

"Ma'am, you can't do that." A voice filters through my concentration. A nurse in light blue scrubs appears in my peripheral vision. "Security!"

I don't stop. "I'm a doctor," I say between compressions. "This man is in cardiac arrest. Call a code and get a crash cart here now."

"You can't just—"

"Twenty-nine, thirty." I pause, tilt his head again, deliver two rescue breaths, then resume compressions. "I'm Dr. Mia Phillips, incoming diagnostics fellow. I start today. This man needs immediate intervention or he won't make it to your ER."

Another face appears—a security guard who looks a bit uncertain. The nurse turns to him. "She just ran up and started—"

"Look at him," I interrupt, not breaking rhythm. "Cyanosis, diaphoresis, he was clutching his left arm before collapsing. Classic MI. No pulse, no respiration. Are you going to stand there debating hospital policy while he dies, or are you going to get me a fucking defibrillator?"

Something in my voice—or maybe just the medical terminology—finally gets through. The nurse's expression shifts. She nods at the security guard, who speaks rapidly into his radio.

"Code Blue, main lobby," the nurse calls out, finally moving with purpose. "I'll get the crash cart."

I return my full attention to the man beneath my hands. His face is slack, gray-tinged skin pulled loose around the jaw. Late fifties, I revise my earlier assessment. No medical alert bracelet.

"Come on," I murmur, feeling the resistance of his sternum under my palms. Thirty compressions, two breaths. Repeat. "Stay with me."

People gather around us, their voices a distant murmur beyond the focused tunnel of my attention. Someone tries to pull me away. I shrug them off without looking up.

"I've got this," I say firmly. "Just get me that cart."

Sweat beads along my hairline, threatening to drip into my eyes. I blow upward, trying to dislodge a curl that's escaped my braid. My arms burn, but the alternative isn't an option. Not when I can feel how newly dead he is. Not when there's still a chance.

A memory flashes—Dad in his hospital bed, the machines flat-lining, me frozen in the doorway as the code team rushed in. Too late then. Not too late now.

"Where's that damn cart?" I demand of no one in particular.

As if summoned by my frustration, I hear the rattle of wheels on tile. Medical staff arrive with practiced efficiency, pushing equipment and calling out to each other in the shorthand of emergency medicine.

I keep counting. Keep pushing. Thirty compressions. Two breaths. I won't be the one who stops too soon.

The medical team arrives with a gurney, and I don't break my rhythm.

The count in my head is all that matters.

When they position the gurney beside us, one of the nurses tries to take over, but I shake my head sharply.

"I've got him. Just get me up there with him.

" Without waiting for permission, I shift my weight to maintain compressions while they transfer his body to the stretcher.

The second he's secure, I swing myself up onto the gurney, straddling him awkwardly but effectively, my hands never leaving his chest.

"Ma'am, you can't…" someone starts.

"It's Doctor," I correct, not looking up. "And yes, I can. He's been down at least three minutes. We need continuous compressions until we get him on the monitors."

The gurney lurches into motion, and I adjust my balance, my thighs tensing to keep steady as we speed through the lobby. People scatter like startled birds, their faces blurring as we pass. Some stare. I don't care. The only face that matters right now is the one beneath me.

Sweat trickles down my spine beneath my silk blouse. I'll be a wrinkled, sweaty mess for my first day, but if this man walks out of here alive, it'll be worth every damp, rumpled second.

"Almost there," the nurse at my side says.

We burst through the ER doors like we're filming a medical drama, minus the dramatic soundtrack. Just the squeak of wheels, the slap of running shoes on linoleum, and my own voice counting under my breath. "Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty." Two more breaths.

The ER is a storm of controlled chaos. It’s organized, efficient, but buzzing with energy. Monitors beep, phones ring, voices call out vitals and orders in a symphonic mesh of urgency and routine. We navigate through it all, aiming for a bay where a team is already waiting.

"What've we got?" a doctor asks, glancing up from a chart.

"Cardiac arrest, down approximately four minutes now," I respond automatically. "No visible medical alert jewelry, no ID yet. Started CPR immediately, no prior interventions."

The doctor's eyebrows lift slightly at my rapid-fire assessment, but he nods and takes command. "Get him on the monitors. Prepare to intubate. Where's that crash cart?"

We reach the bay, and the gurney locks into place with a metallic click. Hands reach in from all sides, attaching leads, inserting IVs, preparing equipment. I keep my position, keep pushing, until someone touches my shoulder.

"We've got him now," the doctor says. "Let us take over."

This time, I nod and slide off the gurney, my legs wobbly from the strain. I step back, catching my breath, as they connect the man to the monitors. A flatline screams across the screen, its high-pitched wail confirming what my hands already knew.

"Charge to two-hundred," the doctor orders, accepting the paddles from a nurse. "Clear."

Everyone steps back. The man's body jerks as the current passes through him. But the monitor continues its ominous tone.

"Again. Three-hundred. Clear."

Another jolt. Nothing.

"Push one epi. Charge to three-sixty."

I watch, my hands clenched at my sides, willing his heart to remember how to beat. Come on, I think. I didn't drag you this far for you to give up now.

"Clear!"

His back arches with the force of the shock. For a moment, nothing changes. Then, like a miracle translated into sound, the monitor shifts from a continuous wail to a series of rapid beeps. A rhythm appears on the screen—irregular, but there.

"We've got a pulse," someone announces.

Relief floods through me, so powerful I take an involuntary step backward right into something solid and warm. I spin around, hands coming up instinctively, and find myself staring directly into the darkest eyes I've ever seen.

Oh.

Oh no.

I know those eyes. I've seen them in medical journal photographs, conference headshots, hospital PR materials. They belong to the same face I've studied across lecture halls and crowded symposiums, hoping for a chance to introduce myself someday.

Dr. Sebastian Walker.

And he does not look impressed.

He towers over me, all six-foot-four of him radiating cold disapproval.

His dark hair is slightly disheveled, like he's run his hand through it in frustration.

His jaw is set in a hard line beneath that perpetual five o'clock shadow.

He's wearing a white coat over a charcoal button-down, no tie.

He looks exactly like his photos, except more.

.. everything. More intense. More intimidating.

More unfairly attractive while glaring at me like I've personally offended him.

"I—" I start, but he cuts me off with a raised eyebrow that somehow speaks volumes.