I shoot Carter a look. I understand the need to shake some sense into the kid, but Isaiah’s parents are probably going to give him all the come-to-Jesus lectures he could ever want and more.

“I know I fucked up,” Isaiah says.

“Language,” I say, even though I don’t really mean it, not when he spoke softly enough that his voice won’t carry outside this room. I feel awkward standing here while they’re having this conversation.

Carter grunts. “This boy’s poor vocabulary is the least of my worries right now.”

“Does that mean you’re going to quit threatening to wash my mouth out with soap?” Isaiah asks. His words are edged with a sulk even as he fights back the ghost of a smile—as if he wants to be annoyed but, deep down, he likes that Carter gives him a hard time.

“Don’t count on it.” Carter pushes out of his chair. “Promise me you’ll be nice to the nurses. Teagan here is a good friend of mine.”

Isaiah’s lips curve into a broad smile. “Oh, yeah? Why haven’t you introduced her to me before?” His grin turns cocky, and he slowly looks me over from head to toe with those sleepy brown eyes. “Are you single? Because my girlfriend broke up with me, and you look like the best cure for my loneliness. I could use a little exotic flavor in my life.”

I fold my arms and fix him with a glare. “First of all, that’s offensive. I’m a woman, not some wild animal. Second of all, child, you wouldn’t know what to do with me.”

He hums. “But how can I learn if you don’t let me try?”

“Dream on, kid,” Carter growls. “She’s mine.”

An irrational thrill races through me at those words. I busy myself updating his chart in the laptop, hoping the screen hides my pink cheeks. I guess I need to get used to this if we’re going to pretend to be together.

Isaiah scoffs. “How on earth did your ugly mug manage to land someone like her? Are you a secret millionaire or something?”

I laugh at that. “That’s also offensive, my friend. Who made you think women are after money?”

“Girls don’t wanna have to pay for their own shit.” Isaiah shrugs. “A man should be able to spoil his woman.”

“You little punk. You think you can get away with anything just because your dad died!”

Carter and I whip around to the door at the exact same moment and see a blonde walking into Isaiah’s room.

“Excuse me, can I help you?” I ask, but I’m thinking about what she said. His dad is dead, and his mother shows up in his hospital room practically foaming at the mouth. Poor kid.

Carter clears his throat. “This is Shasta Murphy, Isaiah’s mother.”

Shasta looks about thirty pounds underweight. Her pale face is covered with acne, and her hair is greasy and stringy. I met enough addicts back when I worked ER to know one when I see one. I would pin Shasta’s drug of choice as meth.