You're not blind.
You want to remind them that you're not a diagnostician for nothing, that it's your job to notice minute little details of life, cracks in the framework of your day. You want to ask her if she knows that her shirt collar doesn't quite hide the red mark on her neck, but then you'd be admitting to watching her.
She still makes your coffee, sorts your mail, and the more you get to know her, the more you realize she's just as able as Stacy to hold a verbal spar. She just hides it better. You wonder if that makes her better than Stacy in yet another way.
Because I'm hitting that, and it's totally hot.
No wonder she'd been so calm. She'd known that little nurse had nothing on her, and she'd enjoyed watching you try to puzzle it out. Probably she, Foreman, and Wilson had had a great laugh about the entire situation.
You remind yourself that you don't care. You don't care what she does during her free time, you don't want to know what her pajamas look like or how her voice sounds in the morning or whether or not she sings in the shower.
You think you've done a fantastic job of not caring. You don't care when she comes into work fifteen minutes late, her cheeks flushed and a mug of hot chocolate clutched in her hands. You don't ask where she's been, you simply nod at her and point to the white board.
Sometimes even a diagnostician misses the most basic clues.
Its three days later and she is still in the office, typing slowly. There is a stack of completed charts on your desk, and you've actually signed the paper she presented you with, so you know she's not working. Your question is met with a frown and she tells you she's waiting for a friend, and she thought she'd get some work done while she waited.
You mumble something and go back to your office to see what's on TV. You don't care, you remind yourself. What she does with her spare time is none of your business.
You let your eyes trace her, though the blinds obstruct your view. You can see tangled auburn curls falling down her back – she's pulled out the bun she wore all day, and you can see the smooth line of her neck. Slim fingers move rapidly over the keyboard and you wonder if she ever stops.
When she gets up and exits the room without grabbing her purse or shutting down the computer, you see your chance.
Her purse is sitting next to the computer, and the zipper is not closed. If you can see without touching anything, it's not snooping.
There is a half-folded letter shoved in the pocket and you pick it up between two fingers. You aren't entirely sure why, but you open it and a knot you will never admit to curls in your stomach.
He calls her Ally Cat. You want to laugh or slap him and then ask her why on earth a 30 year old woman finds that stupid nickname endearing. How does he get women to sleep with him?
Her middle name is Catherine. You've known that since the day you hired her, but you didn't care. You don't care.
"Looking for some lipstick?" her voice is dry; it holds a hardness you're not used to.
You look up at her, standing not ten feet away, her arms crossed.
"You were reading my letters," she says, and you wonder if the tremble in her voice is real or imagined.
You set the paper down and walk to her. Your hand moves before you even process it and suddenly you're cupping her cheek and leaning down to kiss her. She startles and is still for three long seconds before she melts into you, kissing you back.
"You don't want him," you tell her, backing her into the glass table, "No matter what stupid name he calls you."
You move your lips from her mouth to her neck and she whimpers under you, her hands clutching at the tables edge as she lifts herself to sit, her neck arched to give you easier access to the soft skin. She smells like vanilla and strawberries, and you forget to remind yourself that you don't care.
You nip at her neck, your stubble scratching too-soft skin and her hands move to your waist, to your back, skimming over your neck, tangling in your hair before she settles them on your hips, holding you close. You unbutton her purple shirt, shoving the material of her bra off to the side and let your tongue lave over pale pink nipples before you bite down.
It's too frantic, too hurried, you would have preferred to take her home, make her dinner and then take your time, but no one would ever suspect that of you and besides, she's already half naked here on the table, and you might as well work with what you have.
She places both hands flat on the table and pushes herself up so you can yank her pants down, her silvery thong getting tangled in the discarded clothes.
She watches you, chest rising and falling with each panting breath. She looks adorably disheveled, her bra around her waist, her lab coat still on, the purple material of her shirt shoved open. You hook a chair with the handle of your cane and drag it over, pulling on her legs so that she is sitting right at the edge of the table. You drop your cane and grab her ankles, pulling her legs apart and settling her knees over your shoulders.
She moans something when she realizes what you're going to do, and you snap at her to be quiet, does she want to lose her job, before you dive in. She is wet, her inner thighs shaking as you plunge your tongue into her. If this were a romance novel, you'd make a comment about how she tastes like springtime, or honey. But it's not a romance novel, and anyway, all you can taste is Allison, and they don't market that.
She's mumbling something, but you can't quite discern what it is. It's not your name and it's not stop, so you figure it's a green light and you continue, your tongue moving over her folds, your mouth over her clit, sliding two fingers into her heat. She comes instantly, almost too fast, and she shouts something that you do understand.
James
She is flushed, and she meets your eyes hesitantly as she pulls her bra back over her breasts and buttons her shirt.
"I was wrong," she whispers guiltily, sliding off the table and slipping her pants back on.
You are silent, because you don't know what just happened. This was not how things were supposed to go. The love letter in her purse was from Wilson, but she loved you. She was supposed to be yours.
"Wrong?" you finally ask, wiping your hand over your face and watching as she steps into her heels.
"I am over you."