I gave her just enough empathy to soothe away her panic, then just enough rah-rah to help her know she would in fact live through the ordeal. When her husband arrived and took over for me escorting her on the laps around the nurses’ station, Charge Sarge called me over to the front desk. As I walked toward her, I saw a man standing just a few steps from the desk. He was by far the most handsome man in the world. Well, excluding George Clooney, of course. He wore a white lab coat over a pink button-down shirt, blue Dockers, and a giraffe necktie. His dark hair waved over his forehead, not quite styled—free and easy. His end-of-summer tan was deep and bronze. And he was tall and broad. If I were a cat, I’d be purring. And probably head-butting his shin. And making a fool of myself, and that’d be the end of that. Good thing I wasn’t a cat. He was looking in my direction. In fact, it almost appeared like the Greek God was watching me, studying me, like he’d been listening to the conversation I’d been having with my emotional patient.
