I don’t tell her that yoga is no longer a luxury I can afford. I simply nod.
“Do you have anyone to help?”
“I’ll be fine. Not a big deal at all.” I start to sit up and cringe.
“Let me help you up.”
After giving me instructions and asking if I have a ride, which I lie a little and tell her yes so she doesn’t insist I leave my car behind, she gives me a copy of my instructions and the appointment information for this afternoon.
Crutching through the parking lot, it dawns on me that I have a double shift on Sunday at The Oasis. When I told Shirley, my manager, I had taken a full-time position and would still like to keep a couple weekend or evening shifts at the restaurant, but I wouldn’t be able to help do lunch shifts during the week, she advised me to keep it under my hat until the summer student staff left for college so my shifts wouldn’t get cut. Now, there is no way in hell I can carry a tray while on crutches.
Anxiety begins to build. I have two weeks until I begin work. With them holding two paychecks, I know I’m a month without a steady income. Add not only an ER visit, but an orthopedic surgeon appointment on top of that, and my credit is about to take another massive hit.
As well as your date nights with wine and booshie ice cream habit.
I exhale anxiety as I do a mental financial inventory.
I may have to forgo my own little version of luxuries, and my credit may take longer to rebuild, but in less than two months, I will have a steady paycheck and a bit of financial stability for the first time.
Freaking Noon
Looking around my classroom, camera in hand, I’m happy with the progress. Even creepy Ken can’t stop me from saving every bit of magical inspiration I can from this classroom’s walls where, for seven hours a day, I will be a full-time magic wand wielding wisdom wizard.
Halfway there, I think as I scoot myself across the floor, holding the back of a chair, with my knee on the seat and my good foot pushing me across the room, where another box waits to be filled.
When I glance up at the clock, I gasp, and then … I crash into the box.
It’s definitely a Monday.
4:15 PM
When I crutch into my appointment fifteen minutes late, I am the only person, aside from the receptionist, in the office’s waiting room.
She looks up and smiles then picks up the phone and announces, “Dr. Stewart, your four o’clock has arrived.”
“Well, that’s just braw that her majesty decided to show up. By all means, let’s not keep her waitin’; show her in.”
“Of course, Dr. Stewart.” She hangs up and stumbles to her feet, waving me toward the door.
Before opening it, she whispers a shaky, “I’m sorry.”
Eyes wide, heartbeat accelerating, I feel as though I’m being sent to the principal’s office. Yet, I also feel something quite on the contrary.
My ears are tingling. I’m almost sure this … Dr. Stewart … has a wee bit of a Scottish brogue, but I’m unsure. Also … why the tingles?
That’s never happened.
I glance over at her and force a reassuring smile.
“He’s a bit of a stickler about keeping on schedule,” she explains quietly as she opens the door.
“I could reschedule.”
“You have a fractured ankle, a battered arse, and from what I gather, a schedule more important than yer health or anyone in the Continental United States, Ms. Bloom.”
Looking at the back of a tall, broad-shouldered, trim-waisted man in very professional attire, not a white lab coat or scrubs, who definitely has a Scottish accent, I am extra tingly and mortifyingly turned on.
The curse of Jamie, I think to myself.
“Exam room six,” he snaps as he passes, not even looking back at me, and I follow him.
“Dr. Stewart,” the shaky voice of his receptionist comes from behind me.
He stops, and I’m mid-swing on my crutches and inches from crashing into him, so I swerve.
In a pile on the floor, I look up, horribly embarrassed, into the green eyes of the angry god— I mean, doctor.
Eyes narrowing further, he looks from me to his receptionist.
“I’m terribly sorry,” she apologizes, “but room six is—”
He doesn’t wait for her to continue, cutting her off. “Nine then.” Without a second glance to me, he hisses, “Help Ms. Bloom up.” He then spins on his heels and storms to the end of the hall, disappearing behind the door.
“I’m so sorry,” she says as she reaches underneath my arms to help me up.
“What a dick,” I whisper as I fix my dress.
She gasps as she hands me my crutches.
“I’ve dealt with children with more maturity and better manners than that man.” I throw my thumb over my shoulder in the direction of his door. “If he were one of mine, he’d be —”
“Room nine, Ms. Bloom.”
I glance back and see him step out of a room, crossing the hall with a tablet in hand into what I surmise is an exam room.
“You should report him to HR—”
“Oh, no, Ms. Bloom,” she whispers. “He’s a wonderful man and an even better doctor. Follow me please.”
“Comparing him to who, Dr. Evil?”
She gasps again.
“Should I expect a little mini … him … to be standing in the exam room?”
“Oh, no,” she whispers.
“It’s whom, Ms. Bloom,” comes from exam room number nine. Then he mutters, “Eighteen minutes.”
Annoyed, I make my way to the exam room, where his broad body fills the doorway, back to me.
“Eighteen and thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two—”
“That’s enough, Ms. Bloom.” He steps forward and aside.
“To think you were referred to me by a friend,” I mutter as I move past him.
“To whom do I owe the debt of gratitude?”
I huff as I lean the crutches against the stark white wall, hop onto the table, and turn. Then, crossing my arms over my chest, I look up at him. “Tell me, Dr. Stewart, am I gonna live?”
Still Monday
Lizzie
I watch as Dr. Stewart looks down at his tablet, not answering my question but giving me enough time to truly look him over.
He’s tall, really … really tall, and broad, really … really broad. Bulging shoulders, broad chest, thick thighs … Dear God, why am I looking at his thighs?
I quickly glance up into glorious green eyes and an arching eyebrow and realize I’ve been caught.
Busted.
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!!! in shouty caps and all three exclamation points screams in my head.
He looks back down at his tablet, and his thick, wavy, dark brown hair with copper hues falls slightly, covering his eyes. His jaw is chiseled and lightly dusted with facial hair, his lips full and —
I need to get off. This is ridiculous!
“Ms. Bloom, I’d like ye to put on the gown.” He points toward the exam table. “Open in the back.” He turns toward the door. “I’ll be back in a moment.”