Page 33 of Dr. Fellow

Nothing.

Which, quite frankly, is rude and tells me that he has no interest in either part of the label “friends with benefits.” And while I am currently on day seventy of my dry streak, I refuse to be the one who texts first. Maybe it’s the southern woman in me, or maybe it’s my Leo zodiac energy, but I don’t consider a man worthy of my time unless he’s actively pursuing me, even if this is just a casual situation.

His loss.

I glance up and notice Walker stepping out of the elevator, his brown eyes trained directly on me. My traitorous body reacts—my heart starts hammering so hard that feels like it might fly through my throat, and I’m pretty sure my palms could out sweat a whore in church.

“Hey, Claire,” I say quickly, hoping she doesn’t notice the change in my tone. “Can you go ask our patient when the last time she ate was? I can’t remember.”

“Yep. Gotta pee anyway.” She puts her notebook down and pops up quickly, completely unaware of my distraction tactic.

I train my eyes on my computer screen, pretending to be engrossed in my work, but I can sense Walker looming over the desk, like he sees right through my charade.

Looking up, I adjust my ponytail casually. “Don’t you have any manners, Chastain? You’re supposed to buy a girl a drink first before you fuck her in the ass with orders.”

His lips don’t even twitch which is a damn shame because I’m funny as hell. “Oh? But I thought ass play was your favorite?”

The deadpan delivery of his response leaves me momentarily speechless, as a flush of heat crawls up my neck and betrays my indifference.

“Among other things,” I reply smugly, leaning back in my chair to maintain a comfortable distance from him because the closer he gets, the more my brain short circuits. “Is there something I can do for you?”

His gaze softens almost imperceptibly. “Do you have a second?”

“Not when I’ve got a mile-long task list thanks to someone.” I give him a pointed look. “You know I’m not doing some of these, right? There’s zero indication for another CBC. She’s not actively bleeding, and I just ran one an hour ago.”

“It’s a standard pre-surgical orderset,” he counters, scrutinizing my face in a way that feels incredibly disarming.

I return my focus to the chart and begin to dictate what I’m typing for him to hear. “All repeat labs ordered at 1430 not drawn. MD aware and verbalized understanding.”

Saving my note, I glance back up at Walker and notice what looks like a flicker of amusement on his hardened face. Maybe? Could be irritation. I genuinely can’t read him at all.

It’s not that I’m purposely trying to be noncompliant to get under his skin, but sometimes I think physicians blindly order tests without checking to see if they’ve already been done or if they’re needed at all. I once had a doctor order a massive dose of insulin for a patient with normal blood sugar and no history of diabetes. Granted, he was a new resident, and the medication was meant for another patient. But if I hadn’t been paying close attention, there could’ve been serious issues.

If I’ve learned anything as a nurse, it’s that you can’t just simply follow every order that comes through, no matter how trivial they may seem. Sure, an additional lab doesn’t sound like a big deal, but if my patient didn’t have a line, it might mean that I’d have to re-stick her and cause unnecessary discomfort. Plus, each additional test costs money, which is an entirely separate soap box I could hop on.

Doctors never think about how their orders impact patients, so nurses are the ones that have to. We have to question anything that doesn’t feel right, and use our power to advocate because while the physicians may be the checks, we’re the balances.

“Well, thank God the MD is aware,” Walker says, a small smile tugging on his annoyingly perfect lips.

As much as I want to act like I’m callous and unbothered by him, I find myself smiling back. “Damn straight he is. Though you just earned yourself negative points, so you’re going to have to try really hard to make up for that.”

“I’ll come up with something,” he promises. His voice is lower than before, intimate almost, and I feel like there’s an innuendo there—or at least the sexually starved part of me does. “I just wanted to check in after the other day. Have you had time to think?”

Heat prickles down my spine because I’ve thought about a lot of things in the past few days. I’ve thought about how good it felt to have his hands on my body. How natural it was between us. How his dominant touch altered my brain chemistry. But I’ve also thought about how he’s impossible to read. And how he makes me feel needy when he’s not around. And how I hate not being confident in where we stand.

“All the time in the world,” I reply sarcastically.

He doesn’t say anything. His patient gaze remains locked on me like he’s waiting for an admission of the dirty details spinning through my head. It’s unnerving how he can just stand there, exuding calm amidst my internal storm, but I’m not going to break unless he does.

He’s going to work for this.

“Have you had time to think?” I ask, throwing his question back at him as I return my focus to the computer screen.

“Yes, Morgan, all of the time in the world.”

Unable to help myself, I hear a laugh escape my lips. “Is there an echo in here?”

He leans in closer, not taking my bait. “What are you doing tonight?”

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