Page 71 of Challenge
I’m a rock.
I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror and looking back at me is a blank canvas. Nothing to connect to. Nothing to interpret. Absolutely zero symbolism in the curves of my face. If I was to say a pun about myself, I’d say, “‘Much ado about nothing.’”
This…is me.
As the days pass by back at work, the same four words continue on repeat in my mind.
I’m charting.
“I’m falling for you.”
I’m setting a bone.
“I’m falling for you.”
I’m eating lunch.
“I’m falling for you.”
I’m having a conversation with Prichard.
“I’m falling for you.”
Speak of the devil. I feel my mobile vibrate in my pocket while walking out of the post-op room where I was checking on a patient, whom I did a shoulder replacement on earlier this morning.
I answer my mobile and adjust the iPad chart in my hand. “Hello, this is Dr. Porter.”
“Indie…Prichard here. I just realised that I’m going to be in the OR for the next four hours with a double knee replacement.”
“Okay,” I reply, hearing the buzz of the OR behind him and realising he’s probably operating as we speak.
“That Harris footballer is coming in today for another MRI. I want to make sure his graft is looking perfect, so I’d like you to be the one to take him to radiology. Not an intern. Got it?”
My chest feels tight. “The radiologist will be doing the scan, so I don’t know why it matters who takes Mr. Harris to the room.”
“Indie,” he warns. “Harris is a VIP and I want you on it. We’re representing the hospital here. I shouldn’t have to explain myself.”
His tone is final, and I know I’ve already argued more than I ever would have regarding any other patient. “No problem, Dr. Prichard.”
“Cheers.”
He hangs up and leaves my stomach swirling. I knew Camden was coming in today because I can read a schedule. But my hope of avoiding him until his surgery was just thwarted by the man who’s supposed to be my mentor.
It’s been ten days since I screwed Camden Harris on that chair in my flat. That stupid, stupid chair. My stupid, stupid brain.
I thought I could fuck away the feeling. I only had intercourse a handful of times and I suddenly thought I could use it as a dagger through the heart? What’s wrong with me?
I’m not ready to see him. I can’t even cope with everything that was said between us that morning in my flat or the night before in my bed. Now I’m being forced to pull my big girl knickers on and face the man who touched me in a way no one ever has.
Bloody hell.
I hate sex!
And of course we had every kind of sex imaginable. Oral, slow, kinky, hard, tender. Earth-shattering. Then he had to add personal sentiments on top of that. Why? The words he spewed at me were so intense, my chest could hardly stand it.
What did he expect to happen? Did he think I’d drop everything and start up a relationship with him? My patient? Relationships for me are difficult enough when sex isn’t involved. I can barely keep up with Belle’s mood swings. Plus he’s so clearly on another level. It would be an utter disaster.
I’m not a footballer’s girlfriend. I’m a planner with goals. I make a course for myself and focus on the steps I need to get me there. I checked the Penis Number One box! This is why I never should have tolerated him pretending to be a number two.
