Page 54 of Accidental Doctor Daddy

Since the kiss.

The memory of her mouth, soft and hungry against mine, haunted me. Every curve of her body was etched into my head, a temptation I couldn’t shake. This morning, when I woke up hard as a rock, the only thing on my mind was her.

Her lips. Her body under mine. The way she gasped my name like she wanted more.

I took care of it with my fist, fast and rough, biting back her name. Not my proudest moment, but it got the job done.

When I got to the hospital, I told myself that my release would help me focus. That maybe I could finally clear the fog from my head.

“Dr. Mortoli, incoming!” one of the triage nurses shouted. “Male, mid-forties, GSW to the abdomen, BP dropping. ETA two minutes.”

In a practiced motion, I grabbed gloves, a gown, and protective eyewear, because blood can shoot out from anywhere with a gunshot wound. My adrenaline surged. This was the part of the job that used to calm me—a high-stakes puzzle with a life on the line.

Back when I was a young doctor with a very young family, I both hated and loved coming to work. Sure, I felt needed at home, but it was nothing like the emergency department. When Leo accidentally spilled juice, there was no urge to rush and clean it or to get upset over it. I never reacted the way Jodie thought I should, and it took a long time for her to understand why.

My perspective was different from hers. Rushing was saved for burn victims, not juice. Being upset over the juice seemed silly compared to tending a kid with a dog bite. For a long time, she took it personally, feeling like she was the only parent in the house.

Looking back on it now, in some ways, she was.

The doors slammed open as EMTs rushed in, pushing a gurney. “Forty-three-year-old male, single gunshot wound to the lower left quadrant,” one of them barked. “BP’s eighty over fifty, pulse one-forty, in and out of consciousness!”

The patient’s skin was waxy, eyes unfocused, pain etched into every line of his face. The problem was, he wasn’t screaming. Not good. I pushed everything else from my mind.Focus.

“Bay four,” I ordered, voice clipped.

We wheeled the gurney past two other trauma bays that were already full—someone who had been in a bar fight in one, a multi-vehicle collision victim in another. Lights blinked overhead, fluorescent and harsh, reflecting the tension thrumming through every hallway.

I stepped up to the head of the gurney. “Sir, can you hear me?”

A gurgled moan was the only response. His eyes rolled back. Great.

“The bullet’s probably lodged near the bowel,” I muttered. “We need an immediate scan, or?—”

“Scan will take too long,” a voice cut in.

I glanced to my right and saw the last person I wanted to see. Dr. Seth Bowan. He was already snapping on gloves, jaw set in that smug determination I’d come to hate. “We open him up here,” Seth insisted. “He’s crashing.”

I gritted my teeth. “We need imaging, Bowan. We’re not going in blind.”

A nurse wiped sweat from the patient’s brow, eyes darting between us. The tension was thick enough to choke on.Time is of the essence.

Seth turned on me, fire in his eyes. “He’s going to bleed out if we waste precious minutes. I’m calling it.”

“You’re not in charge here,” I snapped back, but my protest rang hollow. The patient’s vitals were plunging dangerously low, monitors blaring shrill warnings. There was no time for bullshit.

Before I could argue further, Seth grabbed a scalpel from the tray. “Prep for an emergency laparotomy,” he barked to the nurse. Then he looked at me, challenge gleaming in his gaze.

My hands curled into fists.Dammit.If we stood here debating, the patient would die. “Fine,” I ground out. “But we do this my way.”

“No,” Seth growled, “we do it the right way. Stand aside.”

He moved in, and I tried to hold back the urge to shove him aside. This was an ED, not an OR, meaning we lacked the usual setup and the space to move. We had some surgical tools and a chance to patch up a catastrophic bleed, but it was hardly ideal. We needed speed, coordination, a steady hand, and solid leadership.

The patient let out a wet groan that turned to a choke. I positioned the suction, ignoring the storm of anger in my chest. I barked, “Nurse, get me more suction. He’s aspirating.”

Fluids gushed onto the sterile drapes, and I felt my stomach roil. That almost never happened anymore. If Seth screwed up…

He made the incision with practiced efficiency, but I could see the tension in his posture. Blood immediately welled up, thick and dark.

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