I rolled my eyes. And this time it was definitely aimed at my two friends. “Twelve. I’m not tracking it or anything.”
“Twelve, seriously?” Billie asked, her eyes huge. “That’s a lot.”
“Okay, thank you, math whiz,” I answered. “Yes, you should definitely go to accounting school.”
“Ooh, will The Fine Prince be lucky number thirteen?” Gina asked.
“In what universe is thirteen lucky?” I asked my overly optimistic friend. “And no he won’t. Yeah, he’s stupid hot and has an English accent, but he’s totally stuck up. He barely ever looks at me, even when we’re face to face, talking about a patient. From what I’ve seen, he only flirts with White girls. So even if I wanted to date him—which I wouldn’t, given the aforementioned lack of diversity in his flirt game—he probably wouldn’t be into dating me.”
“He has an English accent?” Billie and Gina ask in unison.
Apparently, that was all they heard.
“And he only likes White girls. Did you not hear that part?”
“Perhaps not, but I did,” a voice said behind me. A voice with an extremely sexy English accent.
I froze, my entire body flooding with shocked embarrassment.
“Oh, no! Is that him?” Billie whispered, covering her face with both hands. “Did he hear everything you just said?”
“Hold the phone up so that we can see if he deserves that nickname,” Gina demanded, her voice also hushed.
“I’m going to have to call you back,” I answered before killing the FaceTime call.
Remembering all my pageant training, I crooked of my head and pasted on a dazzling smile before turning around. “Hey, Dr. Prince. How are you?”
“I’ve been better,” he answered, not returning my smile. His expression was serious and tight as he lifted his arm. “I came upon this ancient relic while checking on Dr. Rhajeen’s patient in bed two. It requires translation.”
I almost laughed when he held up a clipboard with a paper chart. But I tamped down amusement to inform him, “I can’t read Dr. Rhajeen’s handwriting either.”
“Yet, you let him chart on paper, which he’s apparently saved from last decade.”
I shrugged, some of my embarrassment at being caught talking about him fading away. Maybe he’d only heard that last line and had no clue I was talking about him. “Not my fault he refuses to use the electronic system.”
“Many of the other RNs make separate electronic charts for him in order to make the lives of the doctors who have the shift after him easier.”
I raised my eyebrows and pulled back my neck to say, “No, they do that to make your life easier. Your life only.”
He frowned down at the charts. “That can’t be right.”
I shrugged. “Don’t believe me, ask the other docs on your shift.”
“I will,” he answered. “But perhaps it would behoove you to show us the same kindness as the other nurses.”
“And perhaps it would behoove you to tell the chief it’s time to put Dr. Rhajeen out to pasture as opposed to expecting us nurses to cover his ass,” I shot back.
His sharp jaw worked in a way that told me he was gritting his teeth. Then he said, “Fine, I’ll take that under consideration. In the meanwhile, would you be so kind as to help me with this chart.”
Back when my mom was still alive I would have at least tried to act like I was a somewhat gracious person. But now…
“Man, I just got off my shift and this is the first chance I’ve had to eat all day,” I answered. I walked over to the refrigerator to retrieve the Chinese food I brought for lunch. “So if you want me to look at that chart for you, you’ll need to wait. Or I’m sure any of the nurses currently on shift would be happy to help you translate. They’re such huge fans.”
He stared at me for a tense, irritated beat. Then he asked, “Are you always this prickly? No wonder you’ve had twelve relationships go wrong in as many months.”
So he was listening in! I almost let him see me sweat. But acting bothered wasn’t a thing I like to do. Especially in front of men who were so fine nurses acted a fool whenever he signed on for his shift.
“Are you always this entitled?” I plopped the carton in the microwave, then punched the minute button three times to start it up. “And how long were you listening in on my conversation anyway?”
“Long enough,” he answered. He picked at a corner of the paper chart. “It sounds like your stripper friend has trouble brewing with that new boyfriend of hers.”
“Right?!” I asked, turning away from the microwave to face him. “He’s sketchy as a big dog, but Gina won’t listen to me.”
Dr. Prince set the charts aside on the breakroom table. “I’ve a sister like that. She’s always falling for suspect men. She went through a string of artists who never managed to produce enough work for a show. And now she’s going out with an aspiring yoga guru.”