Chapter 2
Caroline Atkins?
“Carol, what are you still doing here?” Rhonda’s voice cuts through the hallway like a buzzsaw wrapped in sarcasm.
She’s leaning against the nurses’ station, arms crossed, half a tuna sandwich in hand like it’s the goddamn scepter of authority.
One of the old guard—queen of St. Elliot’s, battle-hardened and born to intimidate residents and interns alike.
I sigh, toss my gloves in the bin, and yank the tie out of my hair. “Big crash downtown. Drunk asshole T-boned a sedan full of suits. Airbags saved most of ’em, but one poor bastard took a steering wheel to the face and a lamppost to the arm. He’s in MRI now, probably leaking brain juice.”
Rhonda raises a gray brow, unimpressed. “And this is your circus because...?”
I shrug. “Because I’m a sucker for trauma and I hate my own bed. What can I say? The walls of this place whisper sweet nothings to me.”
“Bullshit,” she snorts. “You just don’t trust the night shift to not kill someone.”
“Damn right I don’t,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. My scrubs are sticking to me. I’m 98% sweat and 2% coffee at this point. “Last time I handed over to Patel, a guy with a punctured lung got sent to ultrasound before anyone noticed he was turning blue.”
Rhonda snorts again, finishes her sandwich like it’s a mic drop. “You’re gonna stroke out one day, Carol.”
“Not today,” I say. “Today I’m running on caffeine, spite, and sheer disbelief in everyone else’s competence.”
She chuckles, pats my shoulder with her tuna-scented hand. “Go drink some water before you dry out and blow away, drama queen.”
I smirk. “Love you too, Rhonda.”
I turn back toward radiology just as a monitor starts beeping like it’s screaming bloody murder.
Fucking perfect.
I push open the MRI suite door and the hum of the machine fades behind me, giving way to that sterile stillness that always settles after a scan.
He’s still on the gurney, legs sprawled awkward, sheet barely covering the ripped mess of a torso someone clearly carved out of marble and protein shakes.
His eyes find mine—gray, sharp even though he’s clearly still swimming through the tail end of whatever hell he’s been through.
Blood crusts along his hairline where the gash is, ugly but not too deep. He’s got the beginnings of a bruise blooming on his temple, and a pissed-off expression that tells me he’s not the type to sit still even when he’s half-dead.
“How’s the head?” I ask, looping the vitals monitor back around his arm and checking the connections. My hand brushes his skin—warm, solid, and fuck, yeah, there’s muscle. My fingers don’t linger, but my brain sure as hell does.
“Better?” I offer, cocking a brow.
“Feels like I drank all night,” he mutters, voice gravelly and low, like it hasn’t decided yet if it’s gonna work properly.
I smirk. “Well, you skipped the fun part and went straight to the concussion. Efficient.”
He tries to smile—wincing halfway through it. “Did I at least have a good time?”
I chuckle. “Not unless your idea of a good time includes kissing a steering wheel and bleeding all over my hospital.”
His eyes flick to mine again. Not quite focused, but sharp enough to take stock of me. And maybe I imagine it, but there’s a little smirk tugging at that busted lip now.
“Shit,” he says, “was hoping you were the afterparty.”
I roll my eyes so hard they almost exit my skull. “Wow. Head trauma and pickup lines. You’re lucky you’re hot, or I’d unplug your IV for that.”
“You think I’m hot?” he asks, all mock-innocent.
“I think you need to shut up before you pass out again,” I mutter, grabbing the rails of the gurney and starting to wheel him out.
He groans, not from pain—but with that little edge of amusement. “Damn. Cold.”
“Welcome to St. Elliot’s,” I say, “we keep it sarcastic and slightly flirty to mask the emotional trauma.”
His laugh turns into a cough, and then he winces again. I glance at him. “Easy, Romeo. Save some charm for when your brain isn’t leaking out your ears.”
He settles back, still smiling.
Christ. He really is too fucking cute for someone this broken.