Page 75 of Doctor Hot Mess

“Just get me the exposure kit,” I add, my voice calm but clipped. Inside, my pulse is racing.

The nurse moves quickly, and I step into the hallway, leaning against the wall. My jaw tightens as the gravity of the situation sinks in.

This isn’t supposed to happen. Not to me. Outside the chaos of my personal life, this is where I thrive. Here, I’m steady, controlled, precise.

Are you fucking kidding me?! This is a rookie mistake. I don’t do shit like this—I’ve performed thousands of surgeries. I’m careful, measured, and always in control. That’s the one thing I can count on, no matter what else in my life is out of control.

How did I let this happen? A stupid slip because I wasn’t paying attention the way I should’ve been. It’s not just frustrating—it’s humiliating.

The nurse returns with the kit, and I get to work, disinfecting the site, taking my own blood sample, and filling out the exposure paperwork. By the time it’s over, I feel like I’ve been dragged through a grinder. My hand shakes as I sign the last form, and I shove it into the file before anyone else can notice.

I finish my shift in a daze, my mind looping back to the prick of the needle, the look on the patient’s face, the numbers scrawled on their chart.

Harper’s PoolHouse

6:41 PM

I knockon Harper’s door. A bag from the Vietnamese place down the street balances in one hand while I grab my phone with the other.

The rich scent of pho and spring rolls drifts upward. I've been looking for anything to take my mind off of what happened this morning, and the anticipation of this food is doing a good job.

The hours at the hospital were long, and my mind’s been stuck in a loop since the needle stick, and waiting for the test results is making me restless. Pho and Harper are just what I need.

The real question buzzing in my mind is whether I should tell her.

The incident flashes through my mind again—the needle, the patient’s blood before it was cleaned up, the tiny prick on my hand.

My stomach tightens. Harper doesn’t need to know, I argue with myself. She worked a twelve-hour overnight shift last night. The last thing she needs is to worry about my stupid mistakes.

I’m sure everything is fine, anyway. I'm irritated that I keep dwelling on it.

The door swings open, and there she is, barefoot and smiling, her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. “Hey, you,” she says, stepping aside to let me in. “I hope that bag smells as good as you look,” she says with a laugh. I pull her to me and kiss her in greeting because seeing her immediately puts me at ease.

“It does,” I say, holding it up with a faint smile. “I figured a change from pizza couldn’t hurt.”

She sniffs the air and grins. “You’re right. Good call.”

As I step inside, the warmth of her place wraps around me. "Hmm. Something smells good."

She points to the kitchen counter. "I thought a little candle to set the mood was in order. Mandarin Mint. Never would have put those two together, but I like it."

"Very nice, indeed, Miss Gray. Let's eat! I'm starving, and that mandarin is making my mouth water."

We settle at the kitchen island and start unpacking the food. I catch her looking up at me while she goes about her chores. Her gaze isn’t prying, but it’s observant.

“You okay?” she asks, her tone light but laced with curiosity. If I didn't know any better, it's like she is waiting for me to tell her something she already knows. I try to brush over it.

“Yeah,” I say quickly, too quickly. I grab a set of chopsticks and focus on the container of noodles in front of me.

“You sure?” she presses, her voice softer now.

Her eyes narrow just enough for me to notice, and then she pushes just enough to almost leave me no option but to go there. “Carly stopped by earlier,” she says as we settle on the couch.

I take a bite, chewing slowly. “That so?” I'm still holding my ground, trying not to take the bait.

“Mm-hmm.” She picks at her noodles with her chopsticks, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye. “She mentioned something about a mishap in the OR?”

I set my plate down, keeping my expression neutral. “She’s exaggerating. It wasn’t a big deal.”

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