One of the benefits of being a doctor is that you can get your friends to write you a prescription whenever you need one without too much hassle. Pippa, my best friend, gave me a script for Valium once when I really needed it, and she didn’t ask a single question. Oliver Massey doesn’t ask me any questions either, as he writes me out a script for antibiotics. He doesn’t need to. I have my own pad out and I’m writing him the same script. We’re both sick as dogs.
“Seemed like such a good idea at the time, huh?” he groans. So far he’s pretended that he didn’t say anything to make our lives really awkward the other night, even though he really did. “My mom used to tell me sitting out in the rain would give me hyperthermia. I never believed her.”
“Stop being so melodramatic. You’ve seen hypothermia. This is not hyperthermia. This is the flu, and it really sucks, but these,” I wave the two pieces of paper bearing our signatures in the air, “are going to fix us right up. You ready?”
He nods gravely. We head down to the pharmacy and collect our medication, grumbling the entire way. I cough and sneeze, while he holds his palm against the side of his head and takes very deep breaths, complaining about the room spinning. I feel like I already went through that stage this morning. He’s still got the congestion and the rattling lungs to look forward to.
“What in god’s name is wrong with you two?” The voice—it takes a while to spin around and see who’s standing behind us—belongs to Rebecca Allison, the Chief of Medicine at St Peter’s Hospital.
“Oh, it’s nothing. We’re fine. We’re good to go,” Oliver says quickly. He only grimaces a little as he stands up straight.
Chief Allison pulls a face—her don’t-try-and-pull-that-shit-with-me face. She darts forward and holds the back of her hand against Oliver’s forehead. There might have been a time when she would have checked me first, but the woman still hasn’t forgiven me for the crazy stuff that went down here recently. Crazy stuff that I was heavily involved in, and nearly got people killed.
She prods Oliver in the chest, apparently not liking what she finds when she tests his temperature. “You are already on my shit list for that stunt you pulled treating your own brother. And now you’re both recklessly endangering the entire medical staff by being here right now. What’s wrong with you?” she hisses.
“It’s really noth—”
“I don’t want to hear it, Romera. Go home. Go to bed. Hell, I don’t care where either of you go so long as you don’t come back until you’re fit and healthy. Get the hell out of my hospital. Now!”
Chapter Ten
Mason
I’m covered in shit and grease and I’m sweating like I’ve just run ten miles when she comes into the shop. Short, with cropped blonde hair that barely grazes her jawline, and stellar blue eyes that are exactly cornflower blue. I feel fucking ridiculous that I even know what color cornflower blue is. Can’t say I’ve ever even thought about that color, but as soon as I look up and see her standing there, it’s the first damn thing that pops into my head. She’s wearing skinny jeans and a huge parka with fur trim around the hood, hands shoved into her pockets, smoke pluming on her breath. Beautiful. Seriously, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. A smile pulls at her mouth when those blue eyes see me watching her as she talks to Mac, and I suddenly have an overwhelming urge to bury my head in the car engine I’m working on and not look up again until she’s gone. No such luck, though.
“Mason, get your ass over here,” Mac calls. I shoot the bastard an evil glare as I wipe my hands on an oily rag, doing as I’m told. He doesn’t even notice that I’m drilling holes into his head as I make my way over to them. “Mason, this young lady has a problem with her car. She’s running late to her…wait, what did you say you were studying again?”
The blonde with the huge coat and the cold-reddened cheeks smiles, flashing perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. Up this close, she looks like a little porcelain doll. Or a pixie. Yeah, that’s more appropriate. She looks like something out of one of the books I read to Millie before she goes to bed. There’s something ethereal about her.
“I’m doing social studies,” the girl says. “I’m in my final year at Seattle University.” Her voice is high and clear, confident, yet with a hint of nerves. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye—direct eye contact seems like a horrific idea—and I can see she’s smiling at me.
“Yeah, that’s right. Social studies, whatever that is,” Mac says gruffly. “She’s gonna leave her car with me while you run her over to her class.”