Page 2 of Paging Dr. Hart
Where is it? Where is it?
Ah.It’s there in my handwriting.
T3b.
The handsome stranger is right.
Crap. There goes my award.
Heat rushes up my neck to splash across my cheeks. Humiliation gives way to fury. I’m mad at myself for making the error, but I’m also angry athim. Why would he correct me in front of everyone? Who even does that? I should have known. No man can be that pretty without also being cruel. Every eye is trained on me, waiting to see how I’ll respond.
I swallow around the boulder in my throat. “It is T3b. I must have typed it wrong. I apologize.”
“No problem,” he says graciously.
Now, I hate him. First for pointing out my mistake and second for acting like it’s not a big deal.
To me, it’s averybig deal indeed.
2
After the disaster of my lecture, I make a beeline for the coffee cart in the hospital lobby where I order my favorite drink, an extra-large, iced vanilla latte. Some people eat cookies or ice cream when they’re stressed. Not me. My comfort binge is coffee. Once the cup is in my hands, I swallow a long sip, the ice cubes clinking against each other as they rearrange themselves. I close my eyes to savor the sweet, syrupy taste. A satisfied hum escapes my lips.
That’s better.
“Hey, Tiffany, great job this morning,” says a light feminine voice. It’s Melanie, one of my fellow radiology residents. She has kind blue eyes, set in a pretty heart-shaped face. She gets in line at the coffee cart, with only one person in front of her.
“Yeah, right.” Bitterness seeps into my voice. “I screwed up the tumor staging.”
“I didn’t think it was so bad,” Melanie says over her shoulder as she reaches the barista and gives her order—an iced vanilla latte, just like mine.
“Really?” I raise a skeptical brow.
Silver coins clink as she drops her change into the tip jar. “I doubt anyone even noticed.” She gathers napkins and a straw before coming over to me.
“I don’t know.…” I trail off, doubtful. “Hey. Who was that guy, anyway?”
“What guy?” She smiles a wide, genuine grin at the barista when he hands her the drink and then shifts that same smile over to me.
“The one sitting next to Washburn.” Together, we turn and walk out of the lobby.
“Oh, you mean the hot one?” Melanie takes a delicate sip.
“The annoying one,” I correct, my eyebrows slashing downward. “Besides, don’t you have a boyfriend?”
“I do have a boyfriend who I love.” She places extra emphasis on that word.Love.“I also have eyeballs, and they noticed that dude is super good-looking.”
I say “hmph” in a noncommittal tone, not wanting to agree but knowing she’s right.
Melanie’s pager goes off, saving me from the rest of the conversation. She glances down at it and then back up at me. “Gotta run. They need me over in MRI.”
“Okay, see you later.” I turn away, but Melanie’s hand is on my arm, stopping me.
“Hey, don’t worry about the lecture. You did fine. By lunch, no one’s going to remember about the tumor staging.” She squeezes gently. Usually, I don’t like people touching me, but I tolerate her.
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” I mean it. Even though we only spend time together in the hospital, she’s the closest thing I have to a friend.
She waves good-bye, spins around, and heads in the opposite direction.
