I sat hunched at my dining table, frowning at the equation in front of me like it had personally insulted me.
“What’s the problem?” Jackson asked from across the table, momentarily glancing up from his laptop.
He was the perfect picture of effortless brilliance. His dark-rimmed glasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, his white linen shirt slightly open at the collar, and his grey cashmere sweater hugged his toned torso like it was tailor-made to distract women trying to study. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong forearms that made even his typing look sexy.
“Shunt equations,” I grumbled.
“What about them?”
“Is Cc’O₂ capillary oxygen content?”
“Yes.”
“And how do you calculate it again?”
“Hemoglobin multiplied by oxygen saturation, plus the dissolved oxygen—so that’s your
