know the routine better than I do by now. I’ll knock before I come in.”
Picking up his medical file, she left the room and stood outside the door. Scanning his history, she sighed. Three MRIs this year so far. Luckily the magnetic resonance machines didn’t involve X-radiation, otherwise the frequency of these brain and tissue scans could be more detrimental than they were worth.
She didn’t understand why mixed-martial-arts fighters insisted on a career path that made it necessary to have their brains checked for signs of trauma before each fight. The clinic often saw fighters training at Extreme Athletics for their prefight medical clearance, but none as often as Noah. Three fights since January—what was the guy thinking?
She didn’t follow MMA, but even she knew three fights in six months were too frequent to be safe.
A glance toward the reception area revealed it was full. And she had to waste a half an hour of her time and everyone else’s on this scan. She shook her head as she placed Noah’s file on her desk.
Every day she cared for patients with injuries and diseases beyond their control. Patients who would love to be healthy and free of their medical issues.
And then there were guys like Noah—perfectly healthy guys who put their bodies in danger every time they went to work. She’d never understand the sport or the mentality of the men who competed in it.
Tapping once on the door, she let herself back into the room. In most city clinics, a technician performed the scans, but here in Brookhollow, the five nurses on staff had been trained to perform a variety of duties—operating the MRI machine was one of them.
“How do you feel?” she asked Noah. The sedative worked quickly in most cases, but with his body mass, she wanted to be sure of its effect.
“Fantastic.”
“Okay.” She handed him the headphones. “Put these on and relax. Remember to stay as still as possible. If you move, the pictures will blur and this will take longer.” She handed him the communication button. “If you need to talk to me, hit the button.”
When he nodded his understanding, she turned her attention to the controls on the side of the machine. She placed the helmet-shaped scanner over his head and he flashed a wide smile.
“You don’t like me much, do you?”
“I’d like you better if you stayed still.” She readjusted the metal frame over his ears, checking to make sure his head was centered. His last couple of scans had been clear, but anything could have changed since his last fight.
At least the fighting commissioners took proper precautions, she’d give them that much.
“But you don’t approve of what I do.”
“I don’t approve of any activity that routinely requires a brain scan. Now, shh, and stay still.” She hit the button on the side and the table slid into the tubular machine even further. She noticed his grip tighten on the communication button. “You okay?”
“Perfect,” he said, but his voice was strained.
“Okay, I’ll be in the other room, press the button if you need me.”
In the lab, she sat at the computer as the scanner performed the first series of scans. Images appeared on the screen in front of her and, to her experienced relief, nothing seemed to be a cause for concern on immediate viewing. Of course the radiologist and the doctor would review the images in more detail that afternoon.
His communicator beeped and she hit the intercom button. “Noah? Something wrong?”
“No, I wanted to ask you something.”
She waited.
He was silent.
“Go ahead.”
“I was wondering if you’d have dinner with me tonight.”
Seriously? The guy was wearing a hospital gown and booties, had half his body in an MRI machine, and he was asking her out? Clearly the relaxation meds she’d given him were working.
She hesitated. She wasn’t sure of his exact age but she suspected he was at least four or five years younger than she was and, given his chosen career, he wasn’t even on her radar of potential men to date. A fighter who put constant stress on his body and mind was not someone she would consider as a life partner, even though at thirty-five, she thought maybe it was time to start taking relationships seriously.
“I have to work.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“No.”
“Oh, come on. You were totally flirting with me at Bailey and Ethan’s wedding last weekend.”
She cringed. She’d known dancing with him had been a mistake, but when the roster of single men in town was made up of high school boys and the over-fifty divorced crowd, her options had been slim.
It had nothing at all to do with the fact that dressed in a suit and tie, Noah had been the hottest man in the room and his occupation had momentarily escaped her mind.
“I also danced with Mr. Grainger, the seventy-year-old manager of the bait-and-tackle store. Don’t read too much into it.”
“I’d like to think I was the better dancer at least.”
“’Bye, Noah.”
A moment later the intercom beeped again. She hit the intercom. “Maybe I should have specified—unless you’re in pain or experiencing anxiety, you don’t need to hit the button.”
“Wait. I am in pain.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“I’m heartbroken.”
Leaving the room, she walked into the scan area and took the communication device from him.
“Hey, what if I need you?”
“You won’t.”
* * *
OPENING THE DOOR to Victoria and Rachel’s B and B later that afternoon, Lindsay ushered Melissa inside, handing her niece her backpack. Several guests lounged in the sitting area and she waved as she scanned the room for her brother. His truck had been parked in the family’s designated parking space, which she hadn’t been expecting.
“I thought your dad was in Newark this week?” she asked Melissa.
“He got back this morning,” the girl grumbled, obviously not pleased about it, either.
“What is on my daughter’s lips?”
Ah, there he was.
Aunt and niece rolled their eyes in unison. “The shade is called Pretty in Pink,” Lindsay said.
“Tell me you did not have that on at school.” The frown lines on her brother’s
