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Men like me don’t allow women to give them lip.
Some insane part of me stops just before I pull open the curtain, wanting to confirm the source of her boldness.
“How long have you been working here?” I ask without turning.
“Three years.”
“Why emergency medicine?”
She hesitates for a fraction of a second. “I love being a doctor. The ER revolves around crisis management and decisive action, so you get to save more lives.”
“Any family?”
The air goes cold.
“None of your business.”
Bingo. Found her sore spot.
I nod once, filing that answer away and reaching for the curtain. Before I can, she strikes back.
“Why are you working for Enzo Ricci and the mafia? Need to prove yourself after the scandal?”
The derision behind the question is unmistakable.
“Careful, Dottoressa. I can enjoy a tête-à-tête with you, but don’t start to believe that you truly know me.”
She drifts closer, invading my space. Her hard emerald green eyes and uneven breathing do little to mask her frustration.
“And you know nothing about me. Let’s keep it that way. Now get back on the bed and let me finish my job.”
I don’t move away from her. Instead, I lean down, closing the distance between us until my breath grazes her cheek. The rest of her words die in her throat. Her gaze circles my face, and when it drops to my mouth, she stills, her lips parting on a breath she can’t quite exhale.
I remain rooted to the same spot for two seconds, maybe three. I’m near enough to count her eyelashes and sense the heat radiating off her skin. Then I pull back and quietly return to the bed.
As she unwinds and redoes the bandage, I assess her like a threat. She bites her lower lip as she concentrates on the wound, her fingers pressing deep divots into the roll of gauze. Fear and grief sit heavy in every line of her body.
“Did you lose someone important?”
She freezes mid-wrap. “Excuse me?”
“You work like someone who’s trying to save a ghost.”
A blank mask slams down across her features, but not before I catch the flash of hurt in her eyes.
“Complete your course of antibiotics.” She strips off her gloves. “And don’t come back.” Without waiting for a response, she spins and leaves.
The sharp spasm that runs through me has nothing to do with the injury twisting under my ribs as I follow her into the hall.
“That’s it? No hospitality? No courtesy for your patient?”
She whirls to face me. “You want hospitality? Stop exacerbating your stab wound. Stop showing up here. Your violence is a lifestyle choice. I’ve treated you because it’s my duty.”
I take a step closer, watching her pupils flare. She doesn’t back away.
“It is a lifestyle choice.” I shrug, my fingers trailing along the edge of the counter where her instruments sit in a neat, sterile row. “One I’m good at.”
“Being proficient at terrible things doesn’t make you admirable.”
