Page 5 of Doc Showmance
Countdown to her comprehending in five, four, three, two…
Her eyes narrowed. “By special, you better mean you attempting to outdo my medicine or trying to have a more complicated case than me. If you plan to try anythingspecialon me, I’ll rip off your nuts and feed them to the next vicious Malinois I see.”
I bit back a laugh that, if released, might prompt her to attack. Us faking interest in each other might be the most fun I’ve had in years.
3
Amber
Ian shot me his patented sexy grin with an edge of smirk before he sauntered away. Every angle of his body projected the fact he thought he’d won that encounter. Because he had information I didn’t.
The moment I decided I’d pursue him to get in another, even better, last word and find out exactly what the show planned for us, Susan handed me the next patient’s chart. I glanced down at the single sheet of paper, which in today’s digital age consisted of a bunch of scribbles documenting a weight, a temperature, a mishmash of diet information, and a list of vaccinations.
“You need to take a lunch break.” My voice came out shakier than expected. “Can you swap out with someone else for a while?”
“I grabbed my sandwich while you were looking at microscope slides of Magic Mike’s dog’s diarrhea.” The glow in Susan’s gaze said her job was to keepmegoing. Not the other way around. She tapped the piece of paper I held. “This is Mac, eight-year-old basset hound with a distended abdomen. White gums. Kovac alert.”
Great. Likely bleeding abdominal mass.
I redid my ponytail. Messing with my hair was a nervous habit. The wall clock read one thirty. I could be in and out of surgery with the patient rounded off to the overnight staff by five p.m.
Hold on. What?Kovac alert. Shit.
I scrutinized the hallway, worried Dr. David Kovac and his camera crew might crash into the room during my exam. Whenever I rechecked one of his previous emergency cases that wasn’t improving, the pet was often a mismanaged mess.
Dr. Kovac had no business seeing dog and cat patients. No comment on the exotic animals he cared for since I knew nothing about their medicine. Usually, he kept to the non-canine and non-feline species. People came from far and wide since he was willing to see the exotic animal emergencies who couldn’t pay out the nose to go to the specialty hospitals. Veterinarians willing to treat exotic animal emergencies, not just normal day cases, were as rare as Keanu Reeves nailing a British accent. I refused to see reptiles, birds, or small furry creatures unless someone twisted my arm.
“Dr. Kovac diagnosed Cushing’s in this dog a week ago.” Susan waved at the computer where the dog’s chart had been pulled up.
“Tell me he did some testing. Please. Let this be the one time he did more than wave a magic wand and pull a diagnosis out of his ass.” I slapped a hand over my mouth. “Did I say that out loud?”
Susan snickered. “Congrats. You were caught on candid camera.” She nodded to her left, where Martin stood with his handheld camera, smirking.
Damn it. I despised the sneaky weasel with his sixth sense to be in the right place at one of my very wrong moments.
“I’m sorry.” I said it loud for the camera. “It’s starvation talking.” I scrolled Mac’s chart on the computer screen. Classic Kovac records:Pot-belly. Cushing’s.No lab testing. No examination specifics. I should be thrilled Kovac typed this much. He didn’t like computers and documented little in his notes.
Many people who’d watched Dr. Kovac on TV thought he pooped golden eggs and could diagnose anything. The sixty-something Bulgarian could charm the pants off a honey badger and had the luck of a man who’d touched a leprechaun. People equated his old school approach with cheap but caring. Yet, his medicine was borderline quackery.
With a deep breath, I tried to think positive. Kovac wasn’t that bad. Maybe the dog had classic Cushing’s signs—drank a lot, urinated a small pond each time he peed, panted for no apparent reason, and chronic skin issues. Then, even I might think the dog probably had Cushing syndrome. Sure, I’d have done some testing before putting him on drugs, but maybe the client had financial constraints? Feeling better about the situation, I walked toward the exam room.
“I’ll be back in a minute, Susan.” As I stepped into the exam room I glanced down at the name. Wade Decker.
Aw, crap.
The door clicked shut behind me. One look up and, yep, we’d met. At ten p.m. about two months ago at my refrigerator. He’d been my sister’s one-night stand in search of a drink, and I’d gotten in late from work. Joley wasn’t my biological sister, but my foster sister. Even so, foster siblings with the shit we survived were family for life.
“Hi, Wade. How can I help you today?” I hoped my cheeks weren’t as red as they felt; the camera audience would misinterpret it as me crushing on him. Which I wasn’t. He was attractive, but not my type. Too bicyclist physique. I liked my men a little thicker. It’s nice to have something to hold onto and not worry I’d break him in the bedroom. The awkwardness between us was because when we’d met at the refrigerator at my house, he’d been buck naked.
“Dr. Hardin?” He straightened his lithe body from the slouch in the overstuffed leather chair with a puzzled look. He didn’t recognize me.
His brown eyes widened.
Now he remembered.
“You’re Joley’s sister, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
