Page 27 of Sweet Heart

00:54 a.m. – Katherina

Sí.

00:54 a.m. – Katherina

Goodnight, Maria.

A soft squeak escapes me as my teeth sink even deeper into my hand. It is the second time she has called me Maria. I don’t even know if she does it on purpose or doesn’t even notice that she does it, but a bolt of lightning courses through my body, straight down to my core. Dear lord… she is trouble. I release my hand and bite my lip instead as I type out the response. And I know exactly what to say to make her feel the same way.

00:55 a.m. – Mary Mary

Goodnight, Doctora.

I put my phone away and slide further under my covers, my hand gliding over my stomach and between my legs. I feel the heat before I even touch myself, and the wetness instantly coats my fingers when I do. My lips part as I find my rhythm, and I let my thoughts drift to what the doctor might be doing right now.

Gosh, if Cat only knew the way my body responds to her.

***

It is still way too early, but even the gray morning sky can’t erase the smile plastered on my face. I tug my jacket a little closer around me, grab the two coffees from the counter, and walk the last remaining block to the hospital. Last night, Cat mentioned how the break room coffee usually tastes like ash and carpet, so this morning, I just knew I had to save her from that horror.

The doors slide open, and I step into a now-almost-familiar ER, the smell of antiseptic wafting toward me. For once, it is quiet, and I am not sure if that’s a good sign or ominous.

I decide not to overthink it and walk toward one of the chairs. I am about to put the coffees down when I hear a chipper voice behind me.

“Ah, la rubia! Mary, is it?”

I turn around to see a gorgeous woman with dark curls and a warm smile coming toward me.

“I’m Carmen,” she offers as she glances over her shoulder. “You here for Cat?”

I can only nod and stare at her. She grins back, wide.

“Bueno. Follow me, guapa.”

Chapter 10

Cat

“Don’t forget to keep an eye on the blood pressure,” I instruct the resident. “Roberts?”

“Ninety-five over sixty,” the anesthesiologist replies without looking up.

“Suction.”

My command is clipped, but the OR runs smoothly. The nurse to my right slides in the tube, keeping the field clear. Each and every one of them knows my preferences and how I work. They adapt.

That’s the thing I admire most about nurses. The way they work changes to match the style of the surgeon they assist. I could never. To me, there is only one way of doing things, and I don’t care if others like it or not. This is my OR.

“There it is,” Summer says as the tear becomes visible.

It’s only a small laceration, but on a spleen, that is enough for significant blood loss. She takes the cautery and applies it, her eyes flicking up to mine for a brief confirmation. I nod.

“Good,” I murmur as the bleeding slows under the steady heat.

When the patient’s blood pressure stabilizes, I step back and look at the resident.

“Place interrupted sutures. Reinforce it. Whitman will help you decide if a hemostatic agent is necessary.” I look at the scrub nurse, who hums in agreement.