Page 79 of Meant for Mayhem

But I didn’t touch myself again. Not because I didn’t want to—I wanted to so badly it hurt—but because giving in felt like crossing a line we couldn’t uncross.

Instead, I looked up at the ceiling, wedding ring still heavy on my finger, and wondered how we’d ever go back to pretending this attraction between us didn’t exist.

I snuck out of the penthouse the next morning, too embarrassed to even make eye contact with Mikko after last night. He had the day off except for a team meeting later today, and I’d be home from my in-person clinicals before then.

A day in the office couldn’t have come at a better time—the perfect distraction from whatever was happening with my home life. All that positivity went down the drain the moment I walked into the office and Rebecca handed me a chart for the assisted living facility next door.

“There’s a Parkinson’s patient who might be a great fit for you. Want to go meet him?”

I bit back my answer because no, I didn’t want to do this, but what choice did I have?

“Sure,” I said instead. “Let’s go.”

The assisted living community looked more like a boutique hotel than a nursing home. Stone fireplaces anchored the lobby, oversized windows flooded everything with sunlight, and fresh flowers sat on nearly every table. Everything smelled like fresh-baked cinnamon rolls, the scent warm enough to almost disguise the antiseptic tinge lingering beneath it.

“A quick warning.” Rebecca tucked the chart under her arm, walking down the hall toward the resident rooms. “Mr. Mercer is a little on the grumpy side.”

“I don’t scare easily.”

She chuckled, then stopped outside room 303. “That’s what I figured.”

The door was slightly cracked, but she knocked before entering, announcing our arrival. I listened to her brief introduction while I looked around the room. The apartment was spotless, not so much because its occupant was a neat freak, but because it was kind of empty. A beige couch, a brown table with two chairs, and a simple bed in the other room that looked more like a long-term hotel room than a home. The only thing that had any personality was the brown leather recliner angled toward the TV with a Denver Yetis throw blanket over the back. And of course, the man who sat in it.

Walt Mercer had a deep scowl on his face while he watched ESPN on the TV, not even bothering to look at Rebecca while she talked. From what I knew about Parkinson’s, relaxing face muscles gave a lot of patients this look, but something about Walt’s non-response made me wonder if he was always like this.

“This is my colleague, Shannon. She’s in her clinical fellowship year, so I’ll be stepping in to observe from time to time, but she’ll be the one making her weekly rounds to see you.”

This time, Walt finally looked at me, his eyes squinted. “Are you goth?”

Rebecca’s face turned bright pink. “Mr. Mercer, you can’t ask that.”

“Well, is she? What’s with all the black? And you’ve got more hardware in your face than a Home Depot.”

She opened her mouth to defend me, but I held out a hand.

“It’s fine,” I said, barely holding in my chuckle. “And no, I’m not goth. I like to scare away people before they get a chance to know me first. See who passes the test before I decide if I can trust them.”

Walt let out a little grunt, then turned back to the TV.

Rebecca turned to me, her expression hesitant, but I held out my hand for the chart. She gave it over, then whispered, “Call me if you need help,” before leaving the room.

I walked over to the kitchen table and sat down in one of the empty chairs. “Tell me about yourself.”

“No.”

“Okay.” I shrugged, not afraid to wait him out.

When he didn’t say anything else, I pointed at this morning’s newspaper still sitting on the table, open to the crossword puzzle. Shaky writing filled in some squares, but Walt’s tremors had made this a difficult task.

“Mind if I finish your crossword?”

His scowl deepened. “I like the crossword.”

“Awesome. Want to work on it together?”

Walt grabbed the remote from the arm of his recliner, his hand shaking hard enough that it took him two tries to find the volume button. Once the television was finally quiet enough to hold a conversation over, he dropped the remote back onto the cushion with an annoyed grunt.

I tried not to stare, but it was hard to look away. The tremor didn’t catch my attention as much as everything surrounding it. Every movement seemed delayed, like his body needed an extra second to remember how to cooperate.