Page 8 of Doctor Enemy

No photographs on the desk, nothing but my diplomas, and a single cherry blossom oil painting on the wall—a gift from a hospital-run Secret Santa I just didn’t have the heart to throw out… But hey, the families of my patients always seem to like it well enough.

My desk is, however, constantly filled up with papers.

Reports from my different cases, things that I need to file and go over. Forms that need my signature before a patient’s medication dosage can be changed. Some of them are just notes to myself, reminders about what family member I’m supposed to call for which patient.

I swallow hard. We still haven’t been able to get a hold of Sawyer Green’s family.

“Come on, Kurt,” I tell myself. “You need to buckle down and focus.”

The mini pep talk doesn’t help matters any. If I think about it too long, the unfortunately familiar sound of a flatlined heart monitor creeps back into existence.

The side of my pen drums against the top sheet of papers that I’m working through signing.

My brows are pinched down as I concentrate, carefully recounting the events of the night from the moment that Sawyer was brought in on a stretcher to the moment that I called his Time of Death.

I’ve only just started to write the next sentence when my office door slams open so hard that it hits the wall and bounces. The nib of the pen skids over the paper, leaving a thick, dark line in its wake. “Are you kidding me!”

“What the hell is this?” Lori demands.

She looks fit to be tied, her cheeks flushed with anger and her green eyes glistening with unshed tears. She hasn’t changed into her regular clothes yet, so I guess that she’s still on the clock.

“What the hell is this?That’s what you’re going to open with?” I hold up the paper, shaking it at her and showing her what she’s caused. “I should be the one asking you that! When a door is closed, you’re supposed toknock. Not try to knock it off the fucking hinges.”

Especially when that door happens to be my office.

It may not be ultra-personalized, but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t incredibly private. I happen to like my affairs exactly as they should be. Private.

When a patient dies, I like to handle the grief on my own, away from prying eyes.

Lori storms inside the small room.

She slams her hands down on the front of the desk and leans across it, so closely that we’re breathing the same air.

There are tears in her eyes, turning them glossy and bright. “What are you doing, taking all the papers?”

For some reason, it’s hard to ignore the fact that we’re close enough to kiss.

“Why,” I ask, drawing the word out, “would youwantthem?”

It’s baffling to me.

No one likes to do paperwork for patients, and they certainly don’t like to do paperwork for patients that flat line.

There are a lot of T’s to cross and I’s to dot. Especially in a case like Sawyer’s, where the law is involved. His friend could end up with a manslaughter charge, depending on how things go.

As a resident, I know that Lori has only lost a few patients. We aren’t close enough for me to know the exact number, but I can tell from her reaction to Sawyer’s death that it’s single digits.

Me? I’ve seen a lot of people end up in a black bag. It never hurts less, but you learn ways to deal with the pain.

Like staying in your office and getting some time away from everyone else to clear your head.

And you find ways to help other people deal with it, too.

Like handling the paperwork.

Clearly, neither of those things are going to be on the table the way I had been planning initially. She’s upset, hurt, and angry. And she’s looking for someone, or something, to take all of those ugly feelings out on.

“Because I was part of the team taking care of him,” says Lori. Leaning forward like this causes the front of her scrubs to gap. Even with things so heated, it’s impossible not to notice the pale pink satin bra peeking out at me. “It’s not up to you whether I help with the paperwork!”

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