“I’m a doctor!” I shout, dashing inside to save the day. I envision performing a tracheotomy with a ballpoint pen or stitching up mortal wounds with craft string.
I’m disappointed to find that a guest was cutting limes for drinks when they nicked their finger. Another person saw the blood and passed out. I try to wrap my head around both things, but my vision is a bit fuzzy and I can’t remember what day it is.
“Okay. Can someone repeat that to me? Slower this time?”
Lucas sidles past me. “Hey Mary Anne, let’s get that finger cleaned up so I can see if you need stiches.”
Just like that, he takes control. Confident. Strong. Relatively sober. Mary Anne stares up at Lucas like he’s just proposed coitus. He guides her to the kitchen sink and runs water over her finger. She winces—it’s either pain or an orgasm.
“Thank god he’s here, right?”
I hear someone whisper those words behind me and I want to barf.
“Just another second,” Lucas promises, tilting her hand to get a better view of the damage. “It looks like more blood than it really is. You’ll be fine.”
“That’s close to the joint. You probably want stitches, Mary Anne.”
That is my advice. I’m a healthcare professional so she has to take it.
Lucas disagrees. “A Band-Aid and some antibiotic cream ought to do the trick.”
I throw up my hands. Mary Anne would probably take Lucas’ advice even if he suggested amputation at the elbow. Where is that other patient? The head case?
She’s lying on the couch, nursing her head with an ice pack. I pick up her feet and sit down.
“How ya feelin’?”
“Aren’t you a doctor?”
I grin. “Bingo.”
“Well I think I have a concussion or something.”
I’ve been trained for this scenario. Head traumas were routine during my rotation in emergency medicine—though if I’m being honest, I treated those cases with significantly less alcohol in my system. I tell that to my patient.
“Great,” she says, sarcastically. “You’re wasted. I want Lucas.”
I roll my eyes. “Nonsense. Now follow my finger.”
She does.
“How many do you see?” I ask.
“Just the one?” she offers skeptically.
I boop her on the nose with the same finger. “You got it!”
A shadow falls over me and my patient’s eyes widen. “Lucas! Finally. I was hoping to get a, uh…second opinion on my head. I fainted when I saw Mary Anne’s cut.”
He waves off her concern. “It’s probably just a little bump. Get somebody to drive you home. If you feel confused or have a headache that won’t go away, you might want to go see a doctor.”
She frowns, clearly disappointed that she won’t be getting her own mini exam courtesy of Lucas the Mucus.
I stand, annoyed that everyone considers him the medical authority. “No, go ahead, Lucas. She wants you to touch her. Feel her up.”
“I hit my head!” she insists. Oh, now she’s being coy.
“Daisy, can I speak with you for a second?”
Lucas tries to steer me out of the living room and away from the other party guests, but I’m not having it. At least, I try to jerk away from him, but he seems to have superhuman strength, and in the end, he very easily guides me where he wants—out onto the front porch.
“Are you okay?” he asks, hands on my shoulders, head dipped down so he can meet my eyes.
I grin. “Bien.”
“Daisy, drop the act. Nobody’s around. You need food and water, and time to sober up.”
I see right through his guise. “Am I the third patient now? You’ve seen the head case and the finger cut, now you need to check on poor drunk Daisy.”
He lets go of my shoulders and yanks his hands through his hair. “I can take you home if you want me to.”
I laugh like he’s just proposed a date. “No thank you.”
His eyes narrow and I’m reminded of Mr. Tall NiceAss. Suddenly I have the urge to lean forward and tell Lucas that even though he’s still in his work clothes and his hair is all mussed up thanks to his hands, he is shockingly handsome for a nemesis.
I really think I’ll tell him. My mouth is open and my casted hand is pressed to his chest so I can lean in and whisper the words, but the front door is yanked open and Madeleine is there. I pull back and wobble on my feet.
“I’ve been looking for you guys everywhere!” she says, oblivious. “Lucas, Mary Anne is asking about you, and Daisy! C’mon, I’m making a Chick-fil-A run.”
She drags me down the path to her car and I look back at Lucas, watching us leave. He looks strangely sad standing beneath the porch light all alone. I have half a mind to shout back at him and remind him about the fair in the morning, but then I remember that I didn’t want him there…didn’t, as in now I do, but that’s inaccurate. I don’t want him there. My hatred for him is alive and well.
It has to be.
Chapter Fifteen