Private Partners (Doctors in Training 2)

Having him here wasn’t going to be a problem at all, she thought, feeling the muscles in her shoulders relax. As long as they continued to avoid drawing attention to themselves, she added silently, with one more little ripple of nerves.

“Okay,” Liam said an hour later, “tell me again how many serotypes are in each serogroup of shigella.”

“Group A, S. dysenteriae, twelve serotypes. Group B, S. flexneri, six serotypes. Group C, S. boydii, sixteen serotypes. Group D, S. sonnei, one serotype.”

“Try again on Group C, S. boydii. How many serotypes?”

He watched the muscles tighten around her mouth as she sensed that her previous answer had been incorrect. “Sixteen?” she repeated, less confidently this time.

He shook his head. “No, it’s eighteen.”

“Damn.” She brought her fist down on the tabletop in frustr

ation, the thump making her third cup of coffee slosh perilously close to the rim of the large cup. “I always get that wrong. Why can’t I remember? Eighteen. It’s eighteen serotypes of serogroup C.”

“You’re getting too tense. Just relax.”

“Relax? I’ve got to remember all of this for next Friday’s test.” She made a choppy motion toward the thick stack of paper in front of her. “That doesn’t even count the four days of lectures this coming week—at least 480 more slides—that will also be covered on the test. Since I have no idea what questions will be asked from each lecture, I have to learn everything, just in case, and I can’t even remember how many serotypes are in freaking serogroup C of this one bacteria! How am I supposed to pass the exam when I don’t even know that?”

Her voice grew a bit louder and shriller with each word. Liam stood and reached out to take her coffee cup. He set it on the counter out of her reach. “I think it’s time to switch to decaf. Or herbal tea. How about a nice cup of chamomile?”

“Don’t tell me what to drink.” She buried her face in her hands and drew a deep, shuddering breath.

He kept his voice soothing when he returned to the table and glanced at the next practice question. “How can S. sonnei be differentiated from the other serogroups?”

Without lifting her face from her hands, she answered in a muffled voice, “By positive b-D-galactosidase and ornithine decarboxylase biochemical reactions.”

“That’s right. See, you know this material, Annie. One little slip doesn’t mean you’ll fail the test.”

“It isn’t just one little slip! It’s one of the easiest things I should know. How can I remember everything else if I can’t remember that?”

“Annie.” His tone was a bit firmer now. “How many serotypes are in serogroup C of shigella?”

“Eighteen.”

“Right. And serogroup B?”

“Six.”

“You’ve got it, babe. You’ll do fine.”

She groaned into her palms.

Liam walked around the table and placed his hands on her shoulders, feeling the knotted tension there. He began to rub slowly against the taut muscles, pressing his thumbs into her skin until she gave another little moan, this one of pleasure. With satisfaction, he felt her shoulders relax beneath his ministrations.

“That feels good,” she murmured, arching like a purring cat into his palms.

He pressed a little harder against one stubborn knot, eliciting a sound that was half aah, half ouch. “How often do you panic like that?”

Sighing ruefully, she admitted, “At least once a day.”

“That can’t be good for you.”

“I’m dealing with it.”

“I’ve been doing a little research on stress in medical students.”

She looked over her shoulder with a lifted eyebrow. “You have? Since when?”