I stab another piece of lettuce. "Blegh."
She takes a massive bite of her turkey sandwich, talking around it in a way that would horrify her mother. "So what did Dr. Frosty do this time? Still giving you the cold shoulder?"
"Cold shoulder would be an improvement," I mutter, pushing my tray away. "It's like he's made it his personal mission to make me look incompetent. This morning? He actually interrupted me during rounds to tell me my differential diagnosis lacked 'rigorous analytical foundation.' Those were his exact words."
Laney winces sympathetically. "Harsh."
"And then—" I lower my voice, leaning closer, "—when we were alone in the supply room getting equipment, I swear to all things holy, I caught him staring at my ass. When I turned around, he was looking at me like..." I trail off, heat creeping up my neck at the memory.
"Like he wanted to bend you over the nearest flat surface?" Laney supplies helpfully.
"Laney," I hiss, glancing around to make sure no one heard. "But... yeah. Basically. And then five minutes later, he's back to being a royal pain in my ass, acting like I'm a first-year med student who can't find a vein."
She studies me over her sandwich. "You know what this means, right?"
"That he's a sadist who enjoys professional torture?"
"That he wants to fuck you but he's fighting it." She points her bread at me for emphasis. "Classic repressed doctor behavior. Happened with Dr. Rodriguez in cardio last year. He was awful to that new nurse for weeks, then they got stuck in an elevator during a power outage, and now they're engaged."
I roll my eyes. "This isn't a medical drama, Laney. He's my boss. My incredibly frustrating, impossibly confusing boss who I should not be thinking about in any context that involves the word fuck."
"And yet, here we are." She grins wickedly. "Tell me you haven't thought about it."
The flush that spreads across my cheeks betrays me before I can formulate a denial. Laney's eyes widen with delight.
"Oh my, you have." She leans closer, lowering her voice to a stage whisper. "Details. Now."
I groan, covering my face with my hands. "There are no details because nothing is happening or will happen. End of story."
"Mmm-hmm." She looks unconvinced. "So that's why you've been walking around like someone stole your puppy for a week? Because nothing is bothering you?"
"Can we please talk about literally anything else?" I beg, stealing a french fry from her plate.
She allows it, but only after giving me a look that promises this conversation isn't over. She chatters about her latest patient, a seventy-year-old man who keeps flirting with her despite his wife of fifty years sitting right next to him. I listen, laughing at the right moments, grateful for the reprieve from my own thoughts.
"So," she says abruptly, setting down her fork. "We're going out tonight."
I blink at the sudden change of topic. "We are?"
"Yes." She nods decisively. "It's our first shared weekend off in ages, and you need to dance with someone who isn't emotionally constipated. We're going to Pulse."
"The club downtown? With the three-hour line and overpriced drinks?" I wrinkle my nose. "Hard pass."
"Nope, not accepting that." She pops the 'p' sound with extra emphasis. "We're going to find a crowded dance floor, get just drunk enough to forget our medical credentials, and grind on hot strangers until your body remembers there are men in this city who can actually express what they want."
I cross my arms over my chest, a physical barrier to her enthusiasm. "I'm not really in a clubbing mood, Laney."
"That's exactly when you need it most." She leans forward, her eyes bright with excitement. "Think about it, music so loud you can't hear your own thoughts, bodies moving in the dark, the sweet oblivion of just existing in the moment. No patients, no Dr. Walker, no hospital politics."
I shift in my seat, the image more tempting than I want to admit. It has been ages since I've gone out, let loose, been just Mia instead of Dr. Phillips.
"Plus," she adds, waggling her brows, "I know the bartender. Free shots."
The corner of my mouth twitches. "Free shots are compelling."
"And my cousin's friend is a bouncer, so no line." She's gaining momentum and absolutely knows my resistance is weakening. "You can wear that green top that makes your eyes pop, I'll do your makeup, we'll dance until our feet hurt and then get disgustingly greasy food at that twenty-four-hour diner you love."
The picture she's painting is admittedly appealing. A night to forget about Sebastian Walker and his mind games. A night to just be young and silly and free.
