Page 9 of Doctored Vows

“Not if I can help it.” When my brows furrow, she explains, “When Mr. Bolderack heard you were leaving, he filled in the rest of your shifts with a person from the temp agency.” My heart falters for only a second. “You’ll still be paid as if you worked. You just don’t need to show up.”

This can’t be my life. How did it switch from chaotic to surreal in a matter of hours?

Although I’m dying to sleep in, just like my patients will always come first, so will my morals. “I should still come in. It won’t feel right to be paid and not work.”

When Alla twists her lips, I assume she is considering my objection. I learn otherwise when she says, “If you show up, I’ll tell Boris you said yes to his umpteenth request for a date.”

My mouth slackens as my eyes widen. “You would never be so cruel.”

Boris is lovely, but the name his mother chose for him matches his face.

He’s a human bulldog.

Realizing she has me at her mercy, Alla says, “Enjoy the time off.” She wheels a cart full of waste down the corridor. “And try to get some sun on those legs while you’re at it. They’re whiter than a hospital sheet and will look as red as the ones we collect from the OR if you don’t prepare them for the sun bonanza they’ll get hit with next month.”

Giddiness flutters low in my stomach while I recall the three-day getaway I have planned with one of my oldest friends, but it doesn’t alter the facts. “I’m not planning to spend the time sprawled on a pool lounge.”

“Why not?” Alla asks, clearly disgusted.

“It’s a hen party, not a vacation.”

She cocks a brow. “A destination hen party. That screams margaritas by the pool and heatstroke that will put your head more in a tizzy than any orgasm you’ve ever had.”

A groan rumbles in my chest when I fail to recall how giddy an orgasm should make me.

It’s been so long that the memories are as dusty as the cobwebs between my legs.

I take a mental note to learn how to school my expressions better when Alla says, “Or perhaps you should work on whatever is going on with you right now.” She leans in and takes a big whiff of my shirt. “Is that desperation I’m smelling?”

Yes, yes it is.

Since I can’t say that, I return her hip bump before mouthing my thanks for a reason to leave guilt-free. I’ll run from controversy before I will ever encourage it.

“I love you, girl, and don’t act like you’re about to become a stranger. Whenever you dump a clunky chest clamp on the OR floor and leave it there, you’ll think of me.”

“I will.” I laugh, aware she is joking. After working with the department responsible for cleaning up a surgeon’s mess, I will never leave any theater in disarray. “But if you think you’re getting out of Donut Holes Thursdays, you’re sadly mistaken.”

Her smile competes with the OR light haloing her head. “I’ll see you then.”

“You will. Bye.”

I wiggle my fingers in farewell. Alla uses her whole arm.

My steps are extra spirited as I walk toward the locker rooms all intern doctors use. Even with HosSterile having their own lockers for their staff to use, I keep my belongings in my hospital-issued locker. It saves taking up a space someone else may need.

When a severe bout of tiredness overwhelms me, I increase my speed. My apartment block is only a ten-minute walk from the hospital, so if I keep my focus on my bed and not a hope for a re-run of the event that’s kept my pulse rampant for hours, I may achieve eight hours tonight instead of the four to five I usually get.

“Where are you?” I murmur when my dig through my locker fails to find the envelope Dr. Sidorov placed my offer in. I took it with me to the ER since my chat with Dr. Sidorov made me late for my shift, but I swear I left with it once my shift was over. I stuffed it under my arm before I…

My breath catches halfway to my lungs when I recall the last place I saw it.

I left it in Mrs. Ivanov’s room.

When I close my locker door more abruptly than required, I apologize to the intern working the graveyard shift for startling him before making my way to the surgical ward. I’m not angry I need to visit Mrs. Ivanov again. I’ve been chomping at the bit to get an update on her condition all evening. I’m annoyed that excitement was the first emotion to blister through me—excitement that has nothing to do with the speed of Mrs. Ivanov’s recovery.

My patient’s health should be in the forefront of my mind, not my wailing libido.

“You didn’t happen to pick up an envelope from Room 12A earlier tonight, did you?” I ask the nurse on duty at the desk. “It was white with a Myasnikov Private seal on the top corner.”

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