I lift her up in my arms and carry her over to the now stopped table, setting her down on top of her paperwork. Right now, she’s more important than whether her patient files get a bit wrinkled.

Kneeling down, I carefully examine her ankle.

She leans forward, putting her hand on my shoulder to stop me. “It’s fine, no big deal . . . ah!”

I accidentally hit a tender spot as I rotate her ankle, and her pain is a sharp jab to my gut too. Before I can apologize, the door swings open behind me and a familiar voice shouts, “What in the hell are you two doing? No, wait, don’t tell me! I don’t want to know. Get your own dinner, Zoey Walker.”

I look over my shoulder to see a frowning Alver covering his eyes with his hand. He virtually runs back through the door before either Zoey or I can explain the seemingly compromising position he caught us in.

I laugh, still on my knees in front of Zoey, and she swats at my shoulder. “It’s not funny! In minutes, the entire gossip grapevine is going to hear the story of how Alver caught me having oral sex on a morgue table, screaming out in ecstasy. And the worst part is, people will actually believe that.”

“Some of that sounds pretty damn good if you ask me. Maybe not the morgue table part. That’s not on my bucket list, but I could probably—definitely—be talked into it if it’s on yours?”

She shakes her head, the truth setting in and killing her humor. At least she seems to have forgotten about her ankle, thankfully.

“You want to get out of here?” I ask.

Chapter 10

Zoey

Why did I bring him to my house? This is the worst idea ever. One second, he’s asking if I want to get away from the spiraling threat of gossip and the next, I’m riding in his car as I give him directions.

“I could’ve driven myself home,” I argue, stating the same thing for the fourth time.

Just as repetitive, he says, “No need to injure yourself further.” Expanding on his shut down, he adds, “Fall injuries account for twelve percent of emergency room visits each year.”

“Is that true? Do you really know that off the top of your head?”

In answer, he throws me a charming smile. I’m not sure if he’s saying ‘of course I know that’ or ‘I made that shit up’, but somehow, both possibilities make me reluctantly smile back at him.

The truth is, I know exactly why I agreed to this. He’s gaining ground with his silly arguments that maybe my bad luck isn’t all my fault. It’s a relieving thought, one I’ve considered, wished, and hoped for.