Page 62 of Love Overdose: St. Louis

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elijah

5:42 P.M.

Friday

The reservation was for seven.

My last patient had been discharged thirty minutes ago; my notes were complete, and for once, the hospital had released me with enough time to go home, shower, change, and arrive at Frankie’s before she expected me. I closed the chart on my computer and leaned back into my chair. A message from her waited on my phone.

I hope you’re hungry.

I smiled.

I made reservations for dinner remember?

The three dots appeared immediately.

I know. I meant afterward.

Heat tightened my gut.

Five days had passed since I left Frankie standing behind the glass pane of her front door. Since then, we’d sent morning messages, had conversations between appointments, and made late-night phone calls after Malik went to sleep.

I learned that Frankie sang while cooking and never used a recipe unless she was baking. She slept with all the lights out. A single string of light could disrupt her sleep, and she would toss and turn throughout the night fighting insomnia. She hated folding laundry, loved old sitcoms, and believed anyone who willingly drank black coffee had unresolved issues.

She learned that I kept my refrigerator organized, owned more watches than any man needed, and sometimes sat in my car for ten minutes after a difficult shift because silence settled my soul after a long day. We hadn’t spent another night together, but she had occupied every day since the first one. My thumbs moved over the screen.

You should eat before tonight becomes physical labor.

Her answer came with a laughing emoji.

Dr. Valentine, are you promising me a workout?

I’m promising to finish what we started Sunday morning.

Which time?

My dick hardened beneath my scrubs. I had taken her on my bed and again in the shower. The memory followed me into operating rooms, meetings, and every quiet moment I’d had all week.

Both.

Then I’ll have a snack.

A knock sounded against my open door. Dr. Patel stood in the hallway with a tablet clutched against her chest. Her expression erased every thought I had about leaving.

“What happened?”

“Mr. Dawson’s pressure is climbing again.”

I stood and reached for the tablet. “How high is it?”

“One ninety-four over one twelve. He’s vomiting, increasingly confused, and his left pupil is sluggish.”

Mr. Dawson was transferred from the intensive care unit that morning after making steady progress following surgery for a ruptured aneurysm. His scans were stable. His neurological examinations were improving.

“What time did the change begin?”