Page 1 of Clinically Awkward

CHAPTER ONE

Quinton

If there was a hell specifically designed for medical professionals, it would look exactly like our Monday morning staff meetings at Clinically Approved. Every week, without fail, these gatherings managed to test the limits of our patience, professionalism, and sense of humor. No matter how many times I tried to prepare myself for the ordeal, the fluorescent lights and endless agenda always felt like a uniquely tailored punishment for people who should know better than to show up willingly.

I had been attending these weekly torture sessions for three years now, and in that time, I had watched two of my colleagues fall spectacularly into what I could only describe as the marriage trap. First, there was Gabriel, our pediatrician, who’d gone from single dad to married man faster than you could say “I do.” His transformation happened so swiftly that it left the rest of us blinking in surprise as we tried to keep up with the changes in his life. Then there was Julien, our fearless leader and resident control freak, who managed to accidentally marry a Wiccan in Vegas and now found himself the exhausted father of triplets. Somehow, the man who organized every meeting down to the minute was now juggling a household that thrived on chaos.

Me? I learned from their mistakes. With every wedding invite and birth announcement, I became more convinced that single was the way to go. I took careful notes and made mental checklists of what not to do, watching from the sidelines as my friends stumbled into love and family life with the kind of enthusiasm I reserved for a good cup of coffee.

I was staying single if it killed me. That was the plan—simple, effective, bulletproof. Or at least, I hoped it was. I had no intention of letting my life spiral into the kind of chaos that seemed to trail behind my colleagues like an overexcited puppy.

Which, judging by the way this meeting was going, it just might. Sometimes, survival felt like an accomplishment in itself—and on Mondays, at Clinically Approved, it was nothing short of a miracle.

“Gentlemen,” Julien said from his position at the head of the conference table, his tablet glowing in front of him like some kind of technological security blanket. “If we could please focus on the schedule for this week⁠—”

“I’m going to die,” Fitz announced, his British accent somehow making the declaration sound both dramatic and pathetic. He had his head down on the table, one arm stretched out like he was reaching for salvation. Or possibly a bucket. “This is it. This is how I go. Death by tequila and poor life choices.”

“You say that every Monday,” Nathan pointed out helpfully. He was leaning back in his chair, looking far too pleased with Fitz’s suffering. “At some point, it loses its impact.”

“This time I mean it.” Fitz lifted his head just enough to glare at Nathan with bloodshot eyes. “I can feel my liver shutting down. It’s sending me goodbye texts.”

“Your liver doesn’t have your phone number,” I said, unable to resist. “You never call it back.”

Gabriel snorted into his coffee. “Quinton’s got a point. You two haven’t been on speaking terms since medical school.”

“My liver and I have an understanding,” Fitz said, lowering his head back to the table with a groan. “I abuse it, and it makes me suffer every Monday morning. It’s a very functional relationship.”

“More functional than most of your actual relationships,” Hayden observed dryly from his corner of the table. At forty-eight, he was the oldest doctor at Clinically Approved, and he had the weary, seen-it-all expression of a man who’d watched too many younger colleagues make too many stupid decisions. “Speaking of which, who was the lucky lady this time?”

Fitz barely lifted his head, his voice muffled against the table. “Brunette,” he muttered, though there was little conviction in his words. “Or possibly a redhead. The lighting was very dim.” The uncertainty in his tone was met with a chorus of exasperated sighs from around the table.

Julien, already close to his limit, pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Jesus Christ,” he mumbled, trying to regain control of the meeting. “Can we please⁠—”

Nathan leaned forward, unable to resist another jab. “Did she have a name?” he asked with a wide grin. “Or did you skip that part entirely?”

Fitz let out a noise that hovered between a laugh and a groan. “Started with a C. Or maybe a K. Could’ve been a Q.” Clearly, his memory was as hazy as the lighting had been.

I raised an eyebrow, skepticism written all over my face. “A Q? What kind of female name starts with Q?”

“Quinn,” Gabriel suggested helpfully, trying to keep a straight face.

“Queenie,” Nathan chimed in, his grin growing wider.

Hayden, never missing a chance to escalate the absurdity, offered, “Quetzalcoatl. The Aztec feathered serpent god.”

Without bothering to lift his head, Fitz managed to extend a single finger in Hayden’s direction, a silent but eloquent response to the teasing.

Julien, now visibly strained, attempted once more to steer the meeting back to its intended purpose. His voice took on a clipped, controlled edge that suggested he was close to his breaking point. “Gentlemen,” he said firmly, “the schedule⁠—”

But before he could finish, Nathan perked up, a mischievous light in his eyes. “Wait,” he said, sitting up straighter. “Fitz, did you happen to make any phone calls last night? After the bar?” The anticipation in the room was palpable; everyone could sense that the real entertainment was just beginning.

The room fell into a perfect, almost reverent silence. Fitz’s entire body stiffened, as if bracing for impact.

“No,” he replied, but the pitch of his voice betrayed him, rising a noticeable half octave.

Nathan, undeterred, pulled out his phone and scrolled through his messages with exaggerated nonchalance. “Because Winnie sent me a very interesting text this morning,” he announced.

Fitz groaned, clearly dreading what was coming.