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“Let’s see what Google has to say about it.”
She types quickly with her thumbs before a smile spreads across her face. “It says right here that calling someone by their last name can be an assertive and edgy way of flirting.”
“The key words there are can be,” I say.
It would be one thing if he were flirty with me in other ways. Then maybe the last name would be part of it. But I know it’s not. It’s a familiarity between us—that’s all.
The door to room six opens and Graham walks out. He immediately grabs his notebook out of his pocket and looks at it, mouthing words to himself.
“Price,” he says again as he passes by, and Joelle snorts out a laugh. Luckily, he was too engrossed in his poetry writing to notice.
“See?” Joelle says. “He’s flirting.” She sing-songs that last bit, and I just shake my head at her and turn back to my computer.
“EVIE, I NEED A WORD that rhymes with spoke,” I say as she comes inside the nurses’ station.
She stops and stares at me like I have two heads.
I’m trying to figure out this one line from my poem. I need it to be good because I have to beat Graham’s, and I’ve seen how much work he’s put into his. I’m worried the one I wrote won’t be good enough.
Evie puts her hands on her hips. “I don’t do rhymes,” she says and then walks over to room three and knocks on the door before entering.
Honestly, this tracks. I’m at the point of desperation if I’m asking Evie for help.
I look back down at my paper. I’m running out of time—we’re supposed to read them to Morgan over Zoom sometime around nine, when Evie takes her break. But only if Graham is able to take a break then too. That’s in twenty short minutes.
Graham walks by the nurses’ station just then, stopping on the other side from where I’m sitting. I hurry and turn over the piece of paper so he can’t see my work.
“Are you ready, Price?” he asks, giving me the grin of a man who thinks he’s going to win this thing.
“Yes, I am,” I say, returning my own winning look. It’s a lie, though. I’m not ready, but give me twenty uninterrupted minutes, and I can be. Except I’m at work, so that will be impossible. Crap.
“Lucy,” Evie says, walking out of room three in a huff. “You’re needed in there. The daughter is uncomfortable, and Mom is requesting more pillows and blankets.”
Translation: Someone needs comfort and Evie finds this annoying. My poem will have to wait. I pick up the paper, fold it, and then place it in my pocket.
I walk out of the nurses’ station, passing Graham as I head for room three.
“Nervous?” he says, falling into step with me, that stupid cocky grin on his face.
Fine, it only makes him hotter, and I don’t like it.
I make a scoffing noise. “No, but you should be, you dull scalpel.”
“Nice one,” he says.
“Thanks.” I give him my best smug look.
I knock on the door of room three, and Graham turns and walks the other way, but not before looking over his shoulder at me and giving me a knowing smirk.
“I wasn’t looking at your butt,” I say.
“Sure,” he replies.
I was. I was looking at his butt. We may be just friends, but I’m not blind. The man has a nice one.
After helping the patient, who really did just need some extra blankets and pillows, I head back to the nurses’ station, pulling the paper with my poem on it out of my pocket as I sit down.
Reading through it once more, it’s not that bad. In fact, it’s pretty good. I’ve got this. I busy myself doing some charting while I wait to kick Graham’s poetry-writing butt.
