Page 63 of Sinful in Scrubs

I looked up and saw Kevin Thompson.

“What are you doing here?” I snapped.

“I’m the ex with belongings here, and you are just the chump she was seeing to get back at me with.”

I growled. “I am not a chump. Where’s Emma?

Kevin laughed again, as if this were all a good joke. “Oh, I have it on good authority that she has left the building, as it were. She’s moved to L.A.”

Kevin stepped up to where I stood with the leasing agent. “This is everything. I doubt this chump has anything here.”

“Good. It’s about time. You took long enough,” she said.

Kevin added the box in his arms to the stack in the hallway.

“You sure you don’t have anything in there?” She looked at me warily.

“Nothing,” I admitted.

“Can we get moving?” She indicated with a wave of her hand that she wanted us out of the apartment.

I stepped out first, followed by Kevin with another box. The woman stepped out last and locked the door behind her.

“What have you done to Emma?” I confronted Kevin.

“You should be thanking me,” he said, “for getting Emma out of our hair. That woman had delusions of grandeur, thinking that one day, she would be running an emergency department.”

“Delusions of grandeur? Is that what you thought this was all about?” I asked. “Emma should be running an emergency department. She’s brilliant, level-headed, and exactly the kind of person you want in an emergency.”

“She was an interfering know-it-all, trying to tell us all what to do. Trust me, it is better this way.”

“She was far from interfering.” I clenched my fists.

Kevin sneered. “She was out to ruin my career, and you should be thanking me for getting rid of her before she managed to ruin yours.”

“Never speak of Emma that way again,” I growled. “And if I find out you have so much as bad-mouthed her, I will find you, and it will be more than just your face shoved into the floor.”

“That’s a stupid threat,” Kevin spat. “You aren’t some tough guy from an action movie. You don’t know who you’re messing with,” he said.

I glowered at him. “I don’t care.” I just wanted him to walk away.

“I’m on the review board at your hospital.”

“Do I look like I care?”

I closed my eyes and shook my head, trying to quell the anger surging through my chest. No, I wasn’t some tough guy from the movies. Threats were stupid, anyway. Why not just take action?

I had spent years as a combat surgeon, which meant I had trained with soldiers and fighting experts. I knew how to fight. Not only could I defend myself, but I knew how to take down an enemy. And right now, every cell in my body screamed that the man in front of me was my enemy.

Kevin snorted. “You think you’re tough? Some kind of Karate expert?” He scoffed. “You don’t want to fight me.” Kevin curled his fists in a standard boxing stance.

“Step away. You wouldn’t like the results if you tried that,” I muttered.

There was a reason martial arts experts were portrayed that way in movies—because true fighters didn’t want to engage unless absolutely necessary. And I was trained to take no quarter. I was trained to put a man down.

Kevin started to pounce on the balls of his feet like a boxer, his fists in position by his chin.

“Really?” I asked, unimpressed.

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