Perfectly Adequate - Page 11
Cool. Julie never says cool. And she never calls me silly. She speaks to me on a need-to basis, scowling at me like a tumor protruding from her neck, giving her a perpetual frown.
CHAPTER FOUR
On-call Room
Dorothy
“Just the person I was looking for.”
I cringe at Dr. Warren’s deep, confident voice. “Hi.” I continue pushing Lizzie Williamson toward radiology.
“Do you have an answer for me?” he asks.
“No, but I have a few questions.”
“Such as?” He creeps up beside me so his arm brushes mine.
“Why dinner and not just the on-call room?”
He chokes on a laugh. “Um …”
“I asked Jana, Evie, and Kari where you took them for dinner. They said you don’t do dinner. Yet you specifically said dinner to me. And you don’t fit my list, other than good genes.”
“I’ll take good genes as a compliment.”
“Why? You didn’t have anything to do with it.”
He chortles. “This list … tell me more about it.”
I shrug, pressing the button at the elevator and smiling at Lizzie. “Traits. Qualifications. Minimum requirements. I don’t like getting into awkward situations.” The doors open, and I push Lizzie’s wheelchair onto it.
Dr. Warren gives her a curt smile as he follows me. He says nothing more until I drop Lizzie off for a CT scan. “What do you mean by awkward situations?” He corners me … literally in a corner outside of radiology.
He smells kinda good, kinda bad. Coffee good. Strong-hair-product bad.
“In the on-call room, you don’t have to say much … I imagine.” Heat rushes up my neck as I stare at his green scrub-clad chest. “But dinner requires conversation, which is not my specialty. So if you don’t have a lot of material planned in terms of conversation, then dinner could be awkward.”
I don’t have to look up to know he’s grinning. Dr. Warren bleeds confidence, and it drips all over me like sticky honey that I need to wash off. Wavy black hair. Dimples. It’s almost too much. “Would dinner be less awkward if our first date were in the on-call room?”
“That makes no sense.” I look to my right at the nurse headed our way. “That would give us one topic to discuss—sex. And if you don’t live up to the expectations, I’m not going to be able to pretend that you did. And I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I’m not great at lying.”
Warren barks a laugh. “Dorothy, I can guarantee that won’t be an issue on my part. As for you, I have no idea, but I’m willing to give it a go.”
My head jerks up to meet his mischievous, hazel eyes. “I’m very well-read on the subject. Probably more so than you.”
“Well-read?” Dr. Warren laughs more. He laughs at me.
It seems highly unlikely that I will join him for dinner or meet him in the on-call room. Although, the latter stands a better chance because I’m pretty competitive. And at this point, I want to show him I’m nothing to laugh at in bed.
He leans closer, sharing his coffee breath on a whisper, “Dorothy … are you a virgin? A well-read virgin?”
I stumble backward, hitting the wall. “No. I’m not a virgin!”
Warren’s eyes widen as he looks around the hallway at the few bystanders silenced from my answer that may have been a bit louder than necessary. Does he really believe I’m a virgin at thirty?
An unsettling amusement ghosts across his face as one side of his mouth curls into a smile, showing off one dimple. “When you take lunch, page me. We’ll see who does it better.” He pivots, strutting toward the elevator.
“I only have thirty minutes for lunch.”
“Then find me quickly.” He keeps strutting.
“But I have to eat my soup and carrots.”
“Bring them with you.” His shoulders shake, and I know he’s laughing at me … again.
* * *
Over the next five hours, I pass by different on-call rooms, and my skin begins to itch. I have to be allergic to Warren. Or he gave me something. He did breathe on me, and he’s around sick kids all day long. It’s disgusting how many doctors don’t follow proper protocol to prevent cross-contamination. I bet those on-call rooms are breeding grounds for every infection known to man.
Just what I need, some fatal infection that causes bleeding from all of my orifices. I inspect my skin for bruising—indicative of internal bleeding.
Since it’s a sunny day, I take my lunch outside instead of paging Dr. Warren. I prefer clean bedrooms … and half-deflated blowup mattresses, but that’s a story for another day. Planting my butt beneath a maple tree, I slip in my earbuds and re-listen to a podcast on flesh-eating infections. Just in case …
“Canned, no-chicken soup?”
Plucking my earbuds from my ears, I glance up at Dr. Hawkins and his god-like aura as he squats in front of me, sipping something from a YETI mug. He’s hot. My mind reaches for something better, a better word than hot because I like words—words like synecdoche and scaturient. But I have to call it like I see it. And the more I see it/him, it’s hard to not fixate on his hotness.
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