8. Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Walker
I cy roads mean car wrecks.
Car wrecks mean broken bones.
Broken bones are an orthopedic surgeon’s dream.
But when I called to pick up a shift this morning and help with the increased caseload, I got a stern lecture from the chief of surgery. I was so desperate to get out of the house that I even offered to work for free, but that wasn’t as well received as I anticipated because apparently, I’ve already grossly exceeded my reportable hours. He told me that I was on a fine line with the department and if I didn’t sit my ass back down, he would put me on leave for a month.
So, all I’ve done today is pace back and forth while I read my research abstract for the thousandth time, even though I know it like the back of my hand.
I guess this is the point where a normal person would enjoy their time off, maybe watch some television or something. But if there’s anything I hate more than quiet, it’s laziness.
Beau keeps trying to convince me that I should date again, but I blow him off by saying I don’t have any time, even though that’s clearly a blatant lie. I have all the time in the world, I just don’t know how to be a good partner to someone when medicine is all I’ve ever prioritized.
I don’t feel like getting my heart ripped out again when someone ultimately decides I can’t be what they need. So even though I might have time, I don’t see the point in spending it with someone when the relationship is going to end the same way that it did the first time around—in divorce.
As I’m pouring myself a glass of bourbon, my phone pings. I have no idea who could be messaging me at nearly nine in the evening—the only people who text me these days are my lawyer, my coworkers, and robot spammers.
Hey! It’s Morgan. Do you have water?
My blood stirs slightly as I read and re-read the message, making sure that I’m not hallucinating. I don’t have her number saved, but Beau created a group text for everyone going to Las Vegas, so I bet that’s how she got my information.
I should respond with something welcoming, considering I’ve thought about her nonstop for two months, but there’s just something about Morgan that makes me want to get a rise out of her. She’s naturally confident and self-assured, but for some reason, I have the ability to make her flustered. And that shouldn’t excite me, but it does.
Morgan who?
My phone immediately pings.
. . . seriously?
I feel the corners of my lips quirk up for the first time in days as I type a response.
Pretty common name. You need to be more specific.
My eyes remain glued to my phone, wondering what she’s going to reply as three dots appear. I kind of hope she doesn’t back down—I like her fight.
You’re a dick.
My smile widens as I type out a response, vividly recalling the words she said to me at the hospital the first time I saw her after New Year’s Eve.
What was it that you said?
You can take it.
She presses the thumbs down button on my message which actually makes me laugh. Then she adds:
Just because I can doesn’t mean that I will.
My fingers fly over the keyboard faster than the logical part of my brain can keep up.