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I gave her a stern look. “You’ll be lucky if it hasn’t infected your lungs and kidneys. Jesus, kid.”
Her brows slammed together, and she gave me a look that very clearly asked, “Kid?”
I leaned forward again, placing my hands on either side of the table and forcing her to lean away, her expression going taut with wary surprise. “Yeah, kid,” I said, daring her with my scowl to argue. “Because I’m ten years older than you. And because only kids do stupid shit like play pretend. You can’t pretend you’re not sick and hope it goes away. It doesn’t work like that.”
Laurel stopped breathing, and her lips parted again.
I couldn’t help but shift my expression to her mouth. She puffed out a little breath, and I found myself transfixed by those bow-shaped lips. Her lower lip was much fuller than her top, and she looked utterly kissable, even with a raging infection coursing through her. I felt my lips twitch. “You think you can make me a promise?”
Her expression spoke louder than words.Anything.
“Take care of your body,” I said, dragging my eyes down the length of her. Her faded, college T-shirt clung to her curves and draped around her in the most appealing, just-had-sex-and-woke-up kind of disheveled cuteness. “It deserves a lot more.”
And then this irresistible look came across her face, pressing her rosy lips together and causing her eyelashes to flare. Like she couldn’t believe I would give a shit about her wellness.
Oh, I definitely care,I thought with some chagrin.Way too much for having been in your presence for all of an hour in total. And I’m starting to suspect you don’t have anyone at all who does care. And that’s just not acceptable.
But if I was really going to care for her—and someone clearly had to—then I needed to pull my shit together and stop ogling her. As irresistible as her vulnerability was, she needed Dr. Cade. Not Lachlan the horny douchebag.
I curled my stethoscope off the back of my neck, fitted the earpieces to my ears, and sat on the edge of the paper-covered table. Studiously ignoring her fascinated perusal of me, I placed the diaphragm on her chest. “Deep breath in,” I said.
Her breath shuddered in and out nervously. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
Thud, thud, thud… thudthudthudthudthud.Her heart increased in tempo suddenly. I glanced up at her and found her eyes scrunched shut and her lips rolled inward.
Stop,I thought, barely containing a laugh.This woman is so endearing, I’m going to lose my composure completely. Who reacts to a physical exam this way?I moved the diaphragm under her ribs, and she tensed, her heartbeat going haywire.
I was ninety percent positive her fast heartrate had to do with my proximity and not her illness, but I might have to try again later when she was calmer. I was more interested in her lungs, which, as I moved the diaphragm to the other side and then around to her back, sounded clear.Thank God.
She leaned into me a little, and I felt the urge to wrap my arms around her and squeeze her tight.She’s not a stray puppy, Lachlan, I thought.You can’t take her home and give her shelter.
Or… could I?
Thoughts erupted in my brain, firing along neurons, and conjuring up a sudden litany of options. I broke contact, stood away from her, and looped the stethoscope around my neck again. “Your lungs are clear,” I said. She let out a breath of relief.
I washed my hands, my thoughts barreling down a long tunnel with inexorable force. Icouldhelp. I actually could make sure she was taken care of. But only if she needed it.
As I dried my hands, I asked, “Is it just you and Calla?”
She looked a little better. With fluids hydrating her and the antibiotics going to town on the infection, she already looked less peaked. She nodded once with a little smile, “Yeah.”
So, she was alone, then. “Who’s with Calla?” I asked, going to the computer.
I didn’t miss Laurel’s conflicted expression, when she said, as if admitting something undesirable, “She’s with my mom.”
“Is that… okay?” I asked, waking up the monitor and pulling up her digital chart.
“She loves Calla,” Laurel said immediately.
That didn’t answer my question. Which told me all I needed to know about Laurel’s support system: It didn’t exist. I typed notes into the computer, hoping that if I kept all this above board as a free service, CMS wouldn’t jump down our throats and require us to bill Laurel for the visit.
The best way to keep red tape from strangling her for medical care would be to offer it on a personal level. And I had a few ideas about how to make that happen. But I needed to be sure, first.
“I’m going to write you a few prescriptions,” I said, clicking away at her chart, “but do you not have any health insurance at all?”
She shook her head. “I don’t qualify for Medicaid. And I don’t make enough to hit the threshold for the Affordable Care marketplace. My work offers some, but it’s way out of our budget.”
I growled under my breath, typing the names of the prescriptions I’d used a little too forcefully. People like Laurel fell through the cracks all the time—hard-working single parents who made too much to hit the Medicaid qualifications, but who didn’t make enough to afford the astronomical bill for private payer health insurance. It was maddening.
