Page 1 of Swerve
Emory
“Every person has free choice. Free to obey or disobey the Natural Laws. Your choice determines the consequences. Nobody ever did, or ever will, escape the consequences of his choices.”
—Alfred A. Montapert
“DAMN.”
The coffee pot is empty.
I drop my head back, exhale at the ceiling and ask myself whether it’s worth the seven minute wait for a new pot to brew.
“Did I just hear profanity in the breakroom?”
I glance over my shoulder to find Dr. Ian Maverick staring at me with an amused look on his over-the-top good-looking face. And yes, his name really is Maverick.
“Ah, I’m so sorry,” I say, gushing my apology. “I was really looking forward to that cup of coffee.”
“Four more hours on your shift?” he asks, glancing at his watch.
“Yes. My seven a.m. cup has obviously worn off.”
“We better make some more then.”
I watch with some surprise as he picks up the glass carafe, rinses out the old coffee, then lets it fill with fresh water while he puts in a new filter. Once the carafe is full, he pours the water into the machine and sets the pot on its burner.
“You’ve gotta let the experts handle these things,” he says, turning a high-wattage smile on her. “I got through med school on Maxwell House.”
For a moment, I’m caught in the blinding headlights of physical attraction. Dr. Maverick has earned a reputation in psychiatric medicine that reaches beyond Johns Hopkins notoriety. I’ve found it difficult to meet eyes with him when we pass in the hospital hallways. He’s the doctor most whispered about at the nurses’s stations. And he’s not married.
Which by all laws of rational thinking makes no sense. Maybe it’s the long hours that have taken marriage off the table. Or the fact that he spends his days with people whose problems aren’t easily solved. If ever solved.
I stop myself there with a mental shake.Me. Second year psych resident. Nearly bottom of food chain. Him. Department head. Top of food chain.
“I’ll blame my verbal slip up on fatigue,” I say, noting my own breathlessness, “and hope that you’ll forgive the faux pas.”
“Verbal slip up?” he asks, as if he has no idea what I’m talking about.
Is he flirting with me?
Admittedly, my radar is rusty.I’m twenty-seven and haven’t had a boyfriend in three years. Two in total. And neither one lasted beyond six months. Medical school and Mia are all I’ve had time for.
“Mind if I join you for a cup?” Dr. Maverick asks. “I have an eight o’clock meeting so I have a little time to kill.”
“The fact that you made it means it will be drinkable, so how could I mind?”
He pulls two white mugs from the cabinet above the pot, then removes the carafe from the burner to let the coffee pour directly into each mug.
“I’m not a patient man,” he explains, turning a startling grin on me as he hands me the cup.
I forgo the cream and sugar, taking a quick sip from the mug’s rim and burning myself in the process. “Ouch,” I say, putting a finger to my now-throbbing lip.
“You could mainline it,” he says, smiling at me over the rim of his cup.
“If only,” I say.
“When I was in med school, I considered it.”He wavesa hand at two leather chairs by the window. “Come and sit.”
“I should get back.” I’m aware that I’m standing somewhere near a line here, if not altogether crossing it. “I’m on call for the ER.”
