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But I had heard his heart beat. I heard it pick up as I moved across his body. My fingers lingered on his skin, tracing the lines on the tattoo running up his forearm. He might be a notorious playboy, but I had made his heart race. I smiled before walking into Ms. Parish’s room .
“Good morning. And how is that elbow today?” My seventy-five year old patient needed all my attention, and I had to stop thinking about the Wranglers’ quarterback .
* * *
“D r. Ashworth?”
I was packing up my bag for the day in front of my locker. The shift had gone well. Two smooth surgeries and my patient recovery rate was stellar this week .
I turned to look at the nurse in the doorway. “There’s a delivery here for you at the nurses’ station .”
“Oh?” I wasn’t expecting anything, and the sales reps usually scheduled appointments with me .
The nurse looked excited. “I think
I know who it’s from .”
“All right. I guess I’ll pick it up on my way out. I’m almost done .”
But she stood in the doorway, waiting for me to walk with her. God, I wish I could remember her name. She was the one who always wore the brightest scrubs. The happy kind with rainbows and kittens. Oh right, she was Sonny .
I followed her through the corridor to where the nurses were huddled together. All I could see were tufts of cellophane through the circle. The whispers stopped as soon as I appeared .
“She’s here.” They giggled. “Looks like you have an admirer, Dr. Ashworth .”
They stepped back, and I took a look at the contents through the clear wrapping. “What is this ?”
Sonny piped up. “It’s from Wes Blakefield. He sent you every possible Wranglers memorabilia there is.” She tapped at the basket. “Cups, koozies, a signed football, and it looks like that’s his jersey number .”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” I hovered over the monstrosity of football crap .
“Read the card. Read it,” they urged .
This wasn’t how I wanted to receive a gift. Not with everyone gawking around me. And not from a current patient. This was wrong on so many levels .
Sonny shoved the envelope into my hands. Cautiously, I pulled the card from inside .
T hanks, Doc
WB
T hat was all it said. I pushed the note back inside. I wasn’t going to read it aloud .
“You all can get back to work now.” I tried to shoo them from the basket as I wrestled it into my arms .
“It is from him.” There was a chance half of them were going to faint right there. “Oh my God. Wes Blakefield sent you a gift. You know what that means, right ?”
I looked at them blankly. “It doesn’t mean anything. He’s a patient. Of course I’m going to donate everything in the basket .”
They looked shocked .
I scrambled for an explanation. “It’s against hospital policy. You all know that.” I held the basket tighter to my chest, wondering what in the hell had urged that man to send this to me .
“Good night.” I marched out of the hospital, knowing how ridiculous I looked, trying to keep the cellophane from blowing back into my face .
The next day wasn’t any better. As I was leaving for my shift, another delivery arrived. This time, the quarterback land-slided me with every type of chocolate on the planet. And these weren’t ordinary chocolates. They were imported from France, Switzerland, and Germany. Had I mentioned in conversation at some point that I was a chocoholic? I couldn’t think of a single personal thing I had revealed to him. I was professional toward him, even if he was a flirt and a player. I never encouraged him to send gifts or pursue me, did I ?
I scowled at the fancy boxes tied with exotic silk ribbons. There was another card attached. I read it in the silence of the doctors’ lounge. I crumpled it in my hand. Who was this guy? He thought he could send presents and chocolate and I’d what? Just fall into his arms and beg to get in his bed ?
